An Unexpected Vir(tu)al Party

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn unlocked the door to the Barrow Downs' ballroom - long had it been since this hospitable hall had seen guests. Though the air in the hallway outside was reasonably fresh, making obvious that there had been a degree of coming and going amongst the Wights, it was musty in the festive area. She sneezed delicately as the dust tickled her nose, glad that no one was nearby to look at her apprehensively, fearing a serious illness.

She opened all of the windows to let in the spring sunshine, then set to dusting and sweeping the hall determinedly. She moved some tables alongside the walls and dragged in several rocking chairs from the geezers' clubroom, draping some of the quilts she had recently sewn over the arm rests and placing cushions on the seats. Some festive garlands and vases of fresh spring flowers added a touch of cheerfulness to the formerly gloomy room.

Then she sat down to write invitations to the dear friends that had once filled these rooms. It would be wonderful to see many of them again! Would the invitations reach them, or had they moved on to other places of which she did not know?

Finally she changed from her everyday garb to a favourite festive dress - red, with a white blouse, and adorned with embroidery. Her hand brushed over the white tree that meandered around the neckline and she smiled, remembering the poem that went with the garment: Seven stars, and seven stones, and one white tree.

Of late her thoughts had been more occupied with the Ring poem, and that reminded her - hurriedly she placed a small table with a washing basin, soap dish, and towels beside the door to the ballroom. Now everything was prepared, and the guests could come. She smiled in anticipation.

[Thinlómien]

Thinlómien peeked in from the door, sniffed and sneezed. "Don't worry, I'm not sick! It's just dusty in here. Or maybe it's me who's dusty, I haven't been here for ages. Excuse me."

Shooting Esty an apologetic glance, she busied herself with washing her hands with the lovely flowery scented soap that had been set up.

"Now, can I help with anything, or is everything done? I suppose we'll wait for a few more visitors to appear before raising a toast?"

She thought she could already hear werewolves howling in the distance. She shuddered, wondering if the hard times would lure them out. Perhaps it would be diverting.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

"Oh my, what a fancy setup," said a voice from the door. "This certainly needs more guests, I hope there will be many of us to raise a toast!"

It was Legate, who had soundlessly ambled in through the neigbourghing corridor. As often, his attire, however aimed for festive occasion, was rather simple, one could easily mistake him for a second aide to the second captain of some backup group of border-guards from Lórien, or something along these lines. But such a misunderstanding was likely to last only until he spoke.

Halfway through washing his hands, Legate had already managed to loudly praise the room's setup, raise his hope that the sunny weather was going to last as it offered also a beautiful view out of the windows, and compliment the present Wights' attire. For good measure, he added a few simple rhymes and riddles that he promptly answered himself, not considering them enough of a challenge to offer for serious contest. When he had finished his washing ritual, he realised that not very much of the soap was left.

"Oh my, I am so sorry," he said apologetically. "But here, careful as I am, I have been, sort of, counting on such a possibility... here's a backup solid block of a pine-scented soap from Mirkwood. Don't ask me how they make it. Or, if you wish, do. I could tell you..."

[Thenamir]

True to form, Thenamir walked into the room in his grimy denim coveralls, toting his tool box and wondering what-in-the-underworld was so broken that his presence was required right away. "Fear! Fire! Foes! Where's the problem?? Thenamir is here to save the day." said he, more of sarcasm than enthusiasm. He moved thru the room of dust with nary a sneeze or a blink as though it was his natural environment...which, of course, it was.

He set his barrow tools down by the door moved towards a familiar face. "Esty! Long time, eh? I see that my Merisu :Merisu: is still fluttering her eyelashes just like I left her. So where's the trouble? And what can I do to help? Maybe I could set up a couple of exhaust fans to blow some of this dust out so you lovely ladies can work without coughs and sneezes."

[Estelyn Telcontar]

"How wonderful to see both of you!" Esty greeted Lommy and Legate. "The soap is a very timely gift - we are using so much of it at the moment. I do hope that some of our guests will bring some food - I have provided something to drink. Please do take a glass and fill it - we can toast now and with later guests as well."

"Thenamir! If you think it is still dusty in here you should have seen it before I cleaned up! Please have something to soothe your dry throat. For once, you don't have to do anything, just enjoy yourself!"

[Inziladun]

Inziladun made his way inside the door, approving the tasteful decor. Blue jeans, a button-up shirt, and black Under Armor shoes were the attire. He'd never been one for finery.

He'd heard of this soirée when it was held before, of course, but had somehow missed it. Nearing the Barrow-Downs 20th anniversary, though, this time it was certainly not to be sneezed at (;)).

Seeing some Downers had already arrived, he delightedly greeted his old WW comrades/bitter enemies Legate and Lommy.

And Esty! Long time indeed! And....could it be? Thenamir? How marvelous!

"Well!" he said. "What's on tap?"

[mark12_30]

Sounds of rummaging and a bit of clanking and clacking were interspersed with muttering. mark12_30 rummages deep in a closet. “The brown cloak or the blue? Green trousers or brown trousers? weskit or an embroidered red vest?” Stepping back with a snort, mark12_30 sputters, “Character first. THEN costume.” A little pause, and then...”Lindo.”

Lindo, now grey at the temples and a little less spry, approached the great door with some trepidation. Reaching just above eye-level for the man-sized handle, he wrestled with it for several moments; then with both hands, gave it a hard tug. The door flew open and the hobbit flew backward with it. “Ow,” came a clear tenor voice muffled by the hand that held his nose.

“Oh, dear, “ cried Estelyn, swooping toward the bloody halfling. “You should have knocked! Please, come inside where I can help you better!”

“It’s just my nose,” came the muffled tenor reply. “I am sorry.”

“I see,” Estelyn sighed with relief, and then ordered him inside. “You’ll frighten passers by if you stay out here. In you go. No, not the Ballroom yet. Here’s a towel. Take a bucket out the back door, scoop up some water from the cistern and wash up. Off you go!”

Still muttering apologies, Lindo did as he was told, and then he washed the towel and hung it in the sun to dry. When he returned, he came through the kitchen and stood for a while in the kitchen doorway, listening. He had not been inside an inn for many years. The ballroom was modest but lovely; he had a strange sense that no matter how many more people came, there would slways be enough room,
Estelyn, Thinlomien and Legate were speaking by the fireplace, while a fellow in blue trousers sporting a toolbox was inspecting the hinges and the patches in a nearby window. Lindo resisted the urge to refer him to the latch of the great door, choosing rather to gently suggest the idea to Estelyn.

And then he saw the rockers, and the quilts. Heaving a sigh of relief, he crossed the ballroom as quietly as a hobbit can, chose a rocker, turned it to face the small gathering, climbed precariously into it as it wavered with his movements, sat down and cocooned himself in the quilt, as he listened to the conversation. He wondered if his nose would turn black and blue.

[Morthoron]

The Dark Elf Morthoron, having grown restless and irritable during an extended period of in-home quarantine, decided to forego all conventions of social distancing (a hallmark of Dark Elf indifference, even in more pleasant times), and took a stroll among the stiffs and statuary of the Barrow Downs.

Traversing further than was his wont, he happened upon a secluded area of the Downs that he had not visited since the 2nd Age. He recalled that nearby a maid managed a moot wherein many met for the mead and meat that was mete for mirth and merriment, and having exhausted his allotment of alliteration, ambled aimlessly ahead.

Aside from the runic sign being a bit askew and weather-beaten, the Ballroom seemed relatively untouched by time. He saw the washing bowl, considered the unsanitary nature of many folk having already scrubbed their greasy hands in the muddy waters, made a pretense of washing his as well (while opting instead to use a bit of balm concocted by the blue wizard Purello, which he kept in a leather flask in a pocket of his cloak).

Not wishing to intrude on any conversation, he quickly found an Edwardian leather club chair in corner. As it was a very comfortable Edwardian leather club chair, he ignored the anachronistic nature of such a piece of furniture in this time period, and waited patiently for some Stout. Because what else would a Moriquendi drink but dark beer?

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn beamed at the newcomers, a greeting that could not lighten the Dark Elf's scowl. This obviously calls for something special, she thought, and I know just the thing.

"Morthoron, you are good in dark places - can you help me with something?" she asked. He shrugged, which she interpreted as his having nothing better to do, and followed her out of the ballroom. She led the way down a flight of stairs, even dustier than the room above had been, and attempted to open a heavy wooden door at the foot. With an exasperated sigh, the Elf pushed it open and said, "You should not have tried to pull it!"

She smiled ever so slightly in the darkness, knowing that the males of any species were prone to display their strength and superior knowledge when given a chance. "What do your Elven eyes see?" she queried. He peered into the darkness, which, unlike the Void, did not peer back at him, and said, "There are many bottles here."

"I am searching for a special Old Winyard brew, a wine that has taken on a bubbly character," Estelyn said. "The bottles are shaped differently than normal wine bottles."

He walked around the room and pulled two of the flasks from the shelves. "This looks like it could be the potation you seek. There are more, though I cannot recognise how many."

"We shall start with these, and see if more guests come later," she determined.

Back in the ballroom, Morthoron demonstrated his ability to open the bottles without permanent damage to the room or the guests, and Estelyn poured the sparkling wine into the glasses she had cleaned and prepared.

"Let's have a toast to those who brought us together here!" she exclaimed. "The Professor!" Glasses were raised and the guests appreciatively sipped the fine beverage. "The Barrow-Wight!" was the second toast, and by the time the glasses were emptied and refilled, the atmosphere had become joyously festive.

[Encaitare]

It had been a strange time in the houses of learning. Pupils were sent home, and keepers of wisdom were suddenly tasked with continuing their teaching from afar. Missing her young charges, Encaitare was grateful for even the limited contact afforded by her Palantir. After checking in on several pupils, she glanced at the surface of her messy desk.

Estelyn's invitation!

"Oh! Is that today?" she gasped. Time seemed to have less and less meaning these days, and yet somehow more. "Better put some actual pants on."

(And that's trousers to y'all overseas, thank you very much. ;) )

Indeed, she had worn little but pajamas for almost two weeks, not counting the fuzzy sweater she threw over herself to appear a bit more professional in her Palantir communications. She put on a favorite outfit (https://imgur.com/a/M8Sq71t) - a three piece black velvet suit with a diamond pattern in silver glitter. She had last worn it to ring in the New Year with her musical troupe (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_MWRLGo3Y8U). All that seemed so far away now.

"Perhaps I can provide some entertainment to lighten my fellows' hearts," Encai said. Her abode was full of options, everything from a piano to a kalimba. "No one wants to hear a euphonium right now," she mused. She suspected her neighbors felt similarly, though they were too polite to complain to her face. "I need something that's fun and easy to carry." After much consideration, she selected a ukulele and her trusty flute.

The ballroom was much as she remembered it, and after washing her hands at the door, she stood in the center, gazing up at the high ceiling. "Oh, the memories!" she said breathlessly. "How many happy hours were spent here? I think I feel a song coming on! Who's with me?"

[Lalaith]

"Bubbles? Did anyone mention bubbles?"

Lalaith had been delighted enough to receive the invitation, but was even more delighted that her entrance was marked by the sound of popping corks - to her ears, the merriest sound in Middle Earth.

Those of her friends who knew her best were not remotely surprised to see that she had gone overboard on the outfit - a full-length gown of teal and midnight blue, with silver workings on both the bodice and in her hair, which she wore loose and long. But she did so love a party - and there had been so few of late.
"This is a merry meeting," she cried, clapping her hands. "May we, at least here in the Downs, embrace our old friends in greeting? Oh, there is Lommy, and Legate, and Esty, and Inzil, and...."
Glass in hand, she ran about excitedly from person to person, trying not to spill her wine as she greeted them affectionately. She had wearied quickly of her dwelling in the guarded city of Londonlin, desiring ever to roam and wander free as had once been her wont. This grace to depart the safety of her walls, even for a virtual escape, was most welcome.

"So how is everyone? What news from the West, from the South, from the North...and from the East?"

[Lalaith]

I I think I feel a song coming on! Who's with me?"
"I am, I am!"
Lalaith waved her glass wildly in the air, with the bubbles frothing over and unfortunately splashing poor Morthoron, not improving his mood.

[Encaitare]

"I am, I am!"
Lalaith waved her glass wildly in the air, with the bubbles frothing over and unfortunately splashing poor Morthoron, not improving his mood.

"Whoa, whoa, careful there!" Encai said. "Come, sing with me. But hold your glass steady around my instruments!"

She picked up her ukulele and strummed a jaunty, cheerful series of chords, and sang:

"It's been an age since we were here
Now friends have come from far and near
Friendship shall not fade nor break
When times are hard, make no mistake!
These halls shall always house your friends
We Downers all together again!"

[Mithadan]

*knock, knock.

Mithadan groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. What was that sound? The sun was barely up, and he had not even had any coffee. Heed no nightly noises, he thought, and rolled over.

*knock, knock.

Mithadan sat up in his bed and shook his head. Groggily, he took account of his protesting joints. Low back pain, check. Creaking knees…. Then the springtime pollen did its magic and he sneezed. In response, a small dragon curled atop a bookshelf hissed quietly. Then, having ascertained that nothing justified her attention, the dragon hid her head under a wing.

“Good morning, Bird,” Mithadan muttered.

*knock, knock.

Shambling across the room, he entered the foyer and cracked open the door. On his doorstep stood a short (height-challenged, he corrected in an automatic and well-ingrained spasm of political correctness), bearded figure, dressed in a brown tunic and breeches, with a blue cape and matching hood.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the Dwarf said. “Special delivery for you, sir.” Mithadan accepted the packet and passed a coin to the messenger. With a bow, the Dwarf trudged off. Mithadan noted that his pouch was bulging with similar packages. He squinted at the parcel in his hands, but it revealed no secrets. He took up a knife, opened the envelope, and began to read.

“Estelyn?” he mused. “I’ve not spoken to her in years.” Then he frowned as he read the balance of the message. “A party?” he exclaimed. “She knows that I vowed never to do such a thing again after the Downie Awards. When was that?”

He walked over to a wall covered with pictures and framed papers. Among them was a picture of several figures standing upon a red carpet, waving to a crowd. There he stood, with Piosenniel, Cami and Bethberry. Underneath was a small bronze label which read “Downie Awards, May, 2003.”

“2003?” he exclaimed? “That long ago?” His gaze returned to the picture and he smiled. Next to it was a picture of Kuruharan and Gravlox the Uruk discussing something of great importance with Barrow-Wight, Squatter, and Saucepan Man. In the background were Diamond, Lush, Amanaduial, Maikadilwen and Mark12_30. His smile grew broader as other names came to his mind unbidden. Then his gaze was drawn to a set of newspaper clippings and his smile vanished.

“The Hobbiton Garden Club to Protest Marileangorifurnimaluim's 'Hobbit Sex Ed' Article” read one. “Half-Elves to Sue for Equal Rights,” read another. He read on among the succession of headlines. “Shield Maidens Rise Up; RPG Management Unfair!; Admins Discriminate Against Legofans!; Too Strict; Not Strict Enough; Gay Sub-text, Yes or No?”

Mithadan shut his eyes as a flood of less-pleasant memories arrived. The cliques, the rivalries, the protests, the lawsuits, the spam, the bot attacks all replayed in his mind. The old weariness settled in again. His shoulders slumped and the corners of his mouth tilted downward.

“Nope!” he cried. “Not me. Not again. Good morning! No parties needed here, thank you.” He let the invitation drop to the floor and turned away, planning to stalk off to the kitchen and put up a pot of coffee, only to jump in surprise. There, hovering before his face, was the tiny dragon, Bird, with eyes ablaze and trails of smoke trickling from her nostrils.

“Coward,” she hissed. “A little adversity and you slink away with your tail between your legs.”

“I have no tail,” he replied, stepping past the wyrm.

“No spine either!”

“I got tired!” he exclaimed. “I had other things to do; other concerns. I didn’t have time for it anymore! And I still don’t!”

“This isn’t 2003,” she replied. “The movies are over. The fair-weather fans are gone. Those that remain are those who care.”

Mithadan scowled. “Have you seen how few there are? There’s nothing new under the sun. Everything has been discussed.”

The dragon perched upon his shoulder. “Hmpph,” Bird grunted. “I seem to recall you issuing a challenge a while back. ‘Open the books to any page! Within a few paragraphs, you’ll find something to discuss! Open a new topic!’”

“That was years ago,” he responded. “Before the social media explosion. Before everyone had better things to do.”

“What about you?” she hissed. “Do you have anything better to do? Yes, I know you have other things to do, but anything better?” She took the collar of his tunic in her teeth and dragged him back to the wall. “Look! Look here!”

In a frame was a piece of fine parchment covered with elegant writing. It read:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BARROW-DOWNS!

On May 1, 2002, the forums at the Barrow-Downs reached the ripe (and I do mean ripe!) old age of TWO! While the site itself is a bit older, the second anniversary of the opening of the forums is a cause to CELEBRATE!!!!! Therefore, we will have a PARTY in celebration of the second birthday (uh, deathday?) of the Barrow-Downs forums and all members are invited!!!!!

PLACE: The Fields of Cormallen (the Freestyle RPG Room in a thread to be opened there).

TIME: Monday, May 20, 2002 beginning at 9:00am until ????

DRESS: Formal Middle Earth Wear.

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

COME CELEBRATE THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE BARROW-WIGHT AND THE BARROW-DOWNS!

RSVP


“Twenty years?” he whispered. “TWENTY YEARS!”

He rushed back into his bedroom, opened a chest and removed a carefully wrapped parcel. Placing it on his bench, he unwrapped it. Mithadan smiled as a grey velvet jerkin, a white ruffled shirt and a royal blue pair of breeches were revealed. “Good thing I had them laundered,” he said with a grin.

“Think they’ll still fit?” smirked Bird. “You’ve been a bit over-fond of your ale and porter recently…”

[Pitchwife]

Pitchwife was sitting on a sunlit stone bench in Rath Celerdain, at his feet a somewhat diminutive sheepdog, its coat black, white and amber; a large grey cat was curled around the palantír on his lap, and a somewhat smaller reddish one rubbing its head against his elbow. The Minas Tirith University Library (formerly Steward‘s Library) was closed for the duration, due to a plague that had spread across the land on the wings of a foul wind from Far Rhûn, but fortunately the palantír allowed him to work from home, or indeed anywhere. He was grateful for the skill of those ingenious jewel-smiths of the Seventh Age who had rediscovered the secret of making Seeing Stones a few decades back; less powerful these new Stones were than those wrought by the Noldor in days of old, but also far lighter and less vulnerable to Sauronic infiltration.


In early spring the air was still rather cool, even in the sun, and Pitch was just considering whether to retire to his study, a warm fireplace and a hot cup of tea when a faint green light in the palantír caught his attention. He gently nudged the protesting cat aside and, grabbing the Stone in both hands, brought the image into focus.


„Why, I‘d never - !“ he exclaimed. „A party on the Downs? Gosh, it‘s been ages! We‘ve all turned rather treeish in our middle age, haven‘t we? Well, most of us. I wonder who will be coming?“


„Wiff,“ said the dog (a bitch) in a tone that was half question, half appeal (and just the tiniest bit insolent).


„I know,“ Pitch agreed. „Only one way to find out.“ He jumped up suddenly, threw the palantír up into the air and caught it in his hands before tucking it away in a spacious coat pocket. „Come on then, Esty, it‘s high time anyway you met your godmother! You too, Simon and Garfuncil,“ he added, addressing the bewildered cats. „We‘re going to a party!“


Followed by his animal companions, he betook himself to Pelennor Central Station, and less than an hour later they were all sitting in a comfortable compartment of the Great North-Western Express bound for Fornost Erain and stopping at Isengart, New Tharbad and Bree.

[Thenamir]

(EDIT: It looks like Thenamir needs to read more posts before he posts himself. This is seriously out of order.)

Thenamir decided that he might as well remain and enjoy everyone's company, there were worse places to kill an afternoon. "Ho, Inziladun! Well met, old friend! It looks like Esty needs our help restocking the beverage table -- and if we help, we'll be first in line to refill our mugs!"

He grabbed Inziladun by the arm and dragged him to the door of the wine cellar where Esty and Morthoron were emerging with a couple of wooden crates loaded with interesting-looking bottles. Thenamir took one of the crates from a grateful-looking Morthoron and set it down on the table next to the goblets, mugs, flutes, and tumblers provided. "Well, well," He said, extracting one of the bottles and admiring its label, "Inziladun, you asked what was on tap, well lookee here! Old Winyards! Where have you been hiding this stuff, Esty? I thought the last bottles of O.W. went down the gullet of old Bilbo himself." Suiting the action to the word he smoothly extracted the cork and set himself up as an impromptu bartender for all those nearby.

"Is it too early for a toast?" he asked, not really caring whether anyone answered. "To Estelyn Telcontar, mistress of the feast!" All those in attendance shouted a hearty "Hear! Hear!" before draining their vessels dry. Which of course meant that they quickly came back for more.

[Oddwen]

When Ms. Estelyn Telcontar of the Barrow Downs announced that the Downs would be celebrating its 20th birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement on social media.

The invitations were impressive, gilt edges and fancy calligraphy and all, which was slightly odd because you know, the whole "digital" thing. Oddwen tried not to think too hard about it as she strolled up to the tomb doors. She had baked a few dozen cookies for the occasion, for what was a party without snacks? A party without snacks, of course.

The grand hall had been cozified and several people were already there, settling into comfortable chairs, distributing, quaffing and sipping drinks, and filling the space with music. The familiar green and gold lights made the scene eerie yet welcoming.

"Don't follow the lights," hissed a voice from a dark corner. "Or Downers will light little candles of their own..."

"That sounds pretty cool actually," replied Oddwen.

The voice had no answer and Oddwen figured it was just as well, as she had forgotten where the joke was going, and she washed her hands of the matter. She set the cookies on a likely looking table and placed a few boxes of disposable biodegradable gloves nearby.

[Galadriel55]

There was a knock on the door. "I'll get it!" said Estelyn, hurrying across the ballroom. She opened the door wide, but no one was there. "That is strange," she muttered under her breath. Only then did she notice a strange looking package placed neatly on the doorstep.

***

Galadriel55 was feeling very unqueenly. Due to the plague, all Elves were confined to their telain, and only the brave border guards would venture out on solid ground. This plague of course would not kill Elves, but it would sap much of their healing powers to clear. It was believed that the evil air stayed near the ground and could be avoided by living high up in the mallorn treetops. All of this meant that Galadriel55 was currently stuck with six other Elves on a not too large talan. And three just happened to be very young Elves, not even a hundred years old as Men would measure the passage of time.

Galadriel55's Mirror was sending flashes of green glowing light onto the mallorn branches. The Downs was calling, things were happening. But every time she turned towards it to send an answering thought, "We ran out of lembas!". Or, "He stole my length of rope! Tell him to give it back!". Or, "Tell her that if she continues calling me a slimy yrch I will stop lending her my cloak". Or, "Help me climb the mallorn branch! I absolutely need to!" Or simply "Aaaaaaaaaaa!".

For a few seconds things seemed settled. Galadriel55 felt a flutter of hope. Maybe now she will be able to take her thought to the faraway land? Maybe?... "I'm back from mallorn climbing! But I don't wanna wash my hands!". Galadriel55 sighed. Too bad.

But she would not be a complete bystander when so many faces were flashing in the mirror. Faces that were nearly forgotten, that were surely forgotten in the human kingdoms as all mortals who knew these faces were already gone. How many times has Galadriel55 exchanged jokes and quizzes with these people? Played WW, RPGs? The stern Books faces. The laughing Mirth faces. The sly wolf faces, and the pensive N&N crowd. Even faces that she has seen in life, not just in the waters of her mirror. She would send them all a token that they are not forgotten in the forest of Lothlorien.

***

Estelyn finished wiping off the package and tossed the cleaning rag back into the bucket. She untied the silver string that bound the lid of the box shut, and the string fell down onto the table like a trickle of water. She opened the lid.

"Come here for a taste of lembas, everyone!"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Guests had arrived at the party! It was New Year's Day in Middle-earth, and that meant lots of stories and poetry to share. Readers gathered in a special room and listeners flocked to hear them there:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdXtDHE6rKI

At the moment, a genuine Wight was reading - the renowned Brian Sibley!

[Pitchwife]

Brushing aside cobwebs and hanging moss, Pitchwife strolled into the ballroom, his furry friends trailing behind him. His coat, having outlived its narrative function of providing a pocket for the palantír, had somehow got lost on the way, and he was attired, as was usual for him, in jeans and a chequered flannel shirt; his hair, just beginning to grey at the temples, had grown long since his last visit to the Downs, and a pony tail stuck out under the rim of his leather hat. He had tied a scarf over his mouth and nose and was brandishing a Quenya pocket dictionary.

„Arriba los manos, eso es un robo!“ he declaimed to the company at large. „No wait, that‘s wrong. I meant Elen síla lumenn‘ ovomaltínë! I‘m afraid my Elvish has got a bit rusty lately. But what I really mean is you‘re all a sight for sore eyes!“

[Bêthberry]

Thwump. Thud. Ommphph. All the air was knocked out of Bêthberry. She hadn’t expected such an ignominious landing.

Then again, she hadn’t expected the invitation to a party on the Barrow Downs. How many years had it been? “Goodness, so many of the youngsters must now be almost adults, counting in hobbit years,” she thought, once she had caught her breath. And all those romances and partnerships and tieing up of knots. She thought for a bit. “Will many Downers be bringing new little Downers? Did folks not learn things from Marileangorifurnimaluim’s ‘Hobbit Sex Ed' article? Or maybe they did, ” she giggled.

Slowly stretching her legs to ensure nothing was broken, Bêthberry looked around and wondered if Wyrd would find her and join her at the party. Oh that she had been able to hitch a ride with him and not that execrable eagle who provided the drop landing. It was a trial and tribulation that Estelyn’s invitation had arrived just as the borders were closed back in her far, green country and she had had to search for Thorondor when Air Green Country was grounded. “Maybe it will be warm enough to take a coracle for the way home, although sails would be helpful given the size of the pond,” she thought. And her less than enthusiastic rowing ability these days.

“I wonder if Estelyn invited Vinegrettiel, Galadriel’s evil twin sister?” “And will there be talk of reviving The Entish Bow?” “Will anyone bemoan the Canonicity thread?” “Or want to replace it with an Intertextuality thread?” She wondered if Fordim Hedgethistle would get her note about the party or Squatter. She was fairly certain that Mithadan, Hele--um, Mark--and others, would show up, but she wondered if she could remember everyone’s Middle-earth names after having met so many Downers at primary world moots.

Bêthberry was getting quite good at talking with herself, so good that she was quite startled when she heard another voice answer her. She looked up and tried to follow the direction of the voice. A grey-feathered Wyrd peered down at her from the nearest tree. “Well, look what the eagles blew in,” he astutely said. “The party’s already started but I can show you the way. Don’t ever trust those eagles again. They are still quite miffed about not being asked to take the Ring to Mount Doom. You wouldn't believe the theories of narrative they have come up with to explain it.”

[THE Ka]

It had already been a week into quarantine when a letter appeared through the door slot. A pitch black grim flashed from a couch to sniff at it, considering it was the first 'thing' to happen in several days. Ka shooed them away, read the contents, but frowned and looked out the window.
An entire week of rain... and another week of being stuck indoors. More confirmed infections in our community and more going out without a care in the world.

She moved Estelyn's kind and encouraging words to a table and continued to clean and putter about, for there was little else to do besides annoy her dog further. Occasionally, her eyes glanced at the invitation and she ruminated whether it was worth going. Besides being potentially infectious, she hadn't visited with the other Wights in years let alone the Downs. It'd seem presumptive... what could she contribute on such short notice?

A few more days went by much the same, hesitation and deprecation fogged the air of her simple dwelling along with piles of books and loose sketches. Another invitation came forward through the door, this time from Mithadan proclaiming in bold and strong hand a reminder that the 1st of May was none other than the 20th anniversary of their beloved Downs. A twinge of intrigue went through her seeing so many familiar names had signed on the invitation as well. Things had began to calm for the most part in her rainy and grey cast spot of the world, yet unnecessary travel had been strictly prohibited by local authorities. Ka harrumphed and paced, setting her mischievous hound to circle excitedly.

Later that day another invitation and another began to slowly pile up at the door, a glaring reminder that for many others who were in much the same situation had decided eschew self-imposed isolation and the fever of boredom it came with to attend such a timely gathering. Her hound snorted in protest and she threw up her hands. Obviously the decision was clear. It was time to pay a visit to their old home away from home. Otherwise, the invitations would eventually jam the doorway anyways.

Going into an industrious flurry, she began to at least bake something to bring. The contents were a hodgepodge of whatever meat and veggies could be found at hand, but often was the nature of last minute 'meat pies'. This time it was the last of her remaining caribou. Discerning palates to Udun, it would have to do.

Dressing for the occasion would have to be swift, she didn't much care what was on display over the last few weeks since the only critic had been her dog and to him it was naught but a wash of greys. She held up two but old reliable tunics, one of red and one of a dark green for the hound to pick. He sniffed at both until she growled for a decision. Finally he settled with a snort at the green.

Ka glanced at some of the shaky sketches she'd done over the last few days. There had been less and less over the years and it had always been a sore spot remembering how prolific she and the rest of the Wights had been playing Paper Telephone. Instead she settled on just a few pencils and a sketch pad. Perhaps others would like to play again at the gathering.

She snuck from her quiet abode, down old forgotten and overgrown paths that slowly familiarized themselves to her with each step. It wasn't so bad, until an old moss and fog shrouded archway demanded her passphrase in a curt rattling voice. She gave an apologetic and clumsy smile as she mumbled through it. There was a frustrated groan before the fog was hurriedly waved away to reveal the path ahead and the voice chided her to be more clear next time or else. She had been a bit of an imp in the past, perhaps it was warranted.
Ka instead smirked, turned, and stuck her green sharp tongue out before hurrying down to the gathering with her invitation and gifts.

The gathering tomb was already lit inside and had the familiar eerie glow of home from so many of her fellow wights passing through. At the great doors lay instructions to make use of the water, basin, and soap. Ka complied without further word, there was no sense in causing her friends worry over where she had just come from. Further in at the entrance of the main hall were sideboards already ladden with food. Not wanting to disrupt the others chatting and sampling away, she slid her dish in at the end and looked about. Many had come and it gave her a warmth of home to see so many she recognized, but she had never really grown comfortable in boldly announcing herself at gatherings.

Instead she spotted a familiar face at the end of one of the long tables full of food. Silently she approached at Oddwen's side with a barely contained smile and poked her shoulder with a hello.

[Huinesoron]

Technically speaking, it would be entirely accurate to say that Huinesoron was dressed as befitted a Noldo of high degree in the glory days of Beleriand, but to make such a claim would be to miss out a few key points. Such as that he was at least a foot and a half shorter than his outfit had originally been tailored for. Such as that his hair was less 'elegantly braided' and more 'quarantine-trimmed semi-haystack'. Such as the way his colour-blindness meant his muted earth-tone palette contained more than a little bright red and emerald green (not to mention mismatched blue and purple socks).

But that was okay. He wasn't much of a one for parties anyway, and didn't want to get in the way of old friends enjoying a long-overdue reunion. He was perfectly happy to slip in through the door behind Ka, scrub down his hands (humming twenty seconds of a tune he fondly imagined would have gone down well in Nargothrond), and find himself a perch by the wall to nibble on a pilfered cookie. It was enough, for him, just to be there.

hS

[Mithadan]

“Losssst! Lossst! Lossst we are and we shall never find it. My preciousssss!”

Mithadan glared at the tiny dragon hovering over his shoulder. “Enough!” he cried. “We are not lost.”

“You could have asked for directions,” Bird hissed. “Maybe at that White City that we passed.” The wyrm flapped its wings and rose up towards the sky. “It’s not too far back. I can still see it.”

A cloud seemed to pass over Mithadan’s face and he, once again, appeared weary. “Empty; long since abandoned,” he mused. “Long embattled by bots and spam and neglected until its gates closed.” He closed his eyes for a moment and, opening them, appeared to see a vision of things long past. “Tall were its walls and bright were its banners. Many were its folk, and among them minstrels, storytellers and seekers of wisdom. Now gone. All gone.”

“And we’ll be gone as well!” snapped Bird. “Wasted away. I was hungry before we left. Your pantry was nearly bare. And now we’re lost! Keep in mind that I’m a dragon. Not above snacking upon a Man.”

Mithadan snorted in amusement. “I’d like to see you try,” he retorted, with a pat on the hilts of his sword. “Anyway, we’re not lost. There’s the Uniform Resource Locator now.”

To their right was a path leading into a dark forest. Its trees were shaggy, overgrown with moss and lichen, and cast a dark shadow on a track leading through their broad and craggy boles. A wooden sign stood next to the entry into the wood. “Da Downs” it read in green letters, and an arrow pointed the way. Without hesitation, Mithadan strode forward and entered the gloomy way. Bird hovered briefly before the entrance.

“This does not look right,” she grumbled. Then she darted forward, agile as a sparrow and quick as a hawk, and followed the Man into the trees. Catching up to Mithadan, she burrowed into his hood and folded her wings. The two trudged along for a while until the path broadened into a clearing that lay before a grey hill. The track ended at a black wall of rock in which stood a closed gate, flanked by two standing stones. Cobwebs hung from the lintel and a noisome mist crawled from beneath the gate. Over the door were glowing runes that read “The Barrow-Downs.” Under the letters, a graven image of a sword appeared to underline the words. Atop one of the stones, a crow cawed, then wavered and fell to the ground in a heap.

“Home, sweet home,” said Mithadan with a sardonic grin. Then he entered his password and stepped through the gate as it opened with a creak. Before them was a broad, gloomy entryway of dark green marble, covered by a pale, yellowish ceiling. Corridors led off to the sides, each labelled by a sign. “The Books, Name Generators, Fun and Games, Reader’s Section, Themes…” he read. The entryway was empty, and his steps echoed as he traversed its length.

“You’d think there would be more folks heading to the party,” muttered Bird.

“That’s something I noticed early on,” replied Mithadan. “Even when something has people’s interest, members live all over, in different time zones, and posts come in at all hours. Waiting for a response isn’t wise; the person you’re exchanging thoughts with may be asleep, thousands of miles away. Ah! There it is…” At the end of the hall was a doorway bearing the label “Ultimate Bulletin Board.” Grinning broadly, Mithadan entered, expecting to see a room filled with appropriately socially separated friends.

Bird’s eyes narrowed and a trail of smoke issued from her jaws. “Some party,” she commented as she spread her wings in caution.

The hall beyond was empty. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. There were no candles in the sconces. The only light was the ambient glow from the sickly-colored floor. A deep, sepulchral tune came from an unseen source. “That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that you weave so well, those icy fingers up and down my spine, the same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine… pzzzzt.” Acrid smoke wafted through the hall and sparks flew from behind a large dust bunny. Then, with a crash, a speaker fell over. A stream of rats issued from the walls, seized the fried piece of electronics, and carried it off, squeaking in glee.

“Looks about the same,” commented Mithadan. “But something’s wrong. Where is everyone?”

To the left was a heavy door, ornately carved, with a knocker made in the image of a ravening wolf’s jaws. A stream of spittle dripped from the fangs, and a low growl could be heard. Above the door was a sign that read “Middle-Earth Discussions: The Books.” He ignored the knocker, which was now audibly whining, and reached for the knob. The door opened with a creak. Here, at last, there were people, but this was not what Mithadan expected.

Figures walked to and fro, intent on their own tasks and lost in their own thoughts. But this was no party. The figures lacked substance. They were pale, translucent and their features were unclear. But their voices could still be heard. “Wings!” one cried. Another was expounding upon the naming of rivers in eastern Beleriand. A young woman spoke of the influences in Tolkien’s writing. Yet another argued that the Bridge at Khazad Dum could not be the only way in from the east side of Moria. To the side, two men raised their voices. “What part of enigma do you not understand?” one cried. “He’s clearly an earth spirit,” responded the other.

“Nerd party?” whispered Bird.

“No,” replied Mithadan. “Downers do know how to party, even in these times of stress and uncertainty. This is odd.”

He approached two of the figures and squinted at their indistinct features. “Galpsi?” He said. “Dogtrot?” Other figures approached. “Gwaihir? Joy? One White Tree? Saulotus? I have not seen any of you in ages! Have you returned?”

Another figure approached. Mithadan recognized him immediately. “Sharku!”

Sharku smiled sadly. “No,” he sighed. “We have not returned. We are no longer wights, but rather are shades or echoes of what was. Our words and thoughts remain, but we are trapped in the past and do not appear in the here and now. We exist only in the Ultimate Bulletin Board.”

“The UBB,” Mithadan “That’s our old platform. We moved years ago. This must be an archive.”

“Release us!” Rimbaud cried. “We have forgotten our passwords!”

“You need only sign on to the forums and post,” cried Mithadan. “Your passwords can be recovered. You need only ask.”

A man walked forward with a rattle and clamour. Mithadan recognized him as Saucepan Man. “But we are tired,” he said. “We have become treeish and have other things to do.”

“Follow if you will,” said Mithadan. “But know this, I need not release you. Your words remain on the boards and your thoughts speak to others who seek knowledge even today. The forums remain and are viewed by members, visitors and friends every day. Come if you may, but I cannot make you log in.”

Mithadan turned and stalked from the caves of the archive. He paused at the gate for a moment, looking inside wistfully. “Hither shall the flowers of simbelmyne come never until the world’s end. I wish that they would return, but I can do no more. For that is not my errand!”

Bird took wing and floated above Mithadan’s head as they made their way from the archive. It took some time, but they soon found the correct Uniform Resource Locator. Before them was the celebration.

“Let’s party!” they cried.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn left the reading room after several blissful hours of tales and poetry and was surprised to hear considerable volume coming from the ballroom. It was positively crowded when she walked into the room, and she smiled widely to see so many who had responded to the invitation.

Encaitare was still playing a jaunty tune, and soon the hand-shaking and embraces of fond greetings turned into a lively dance. Esty twirled from Lalaith to Pitchwife, interrupting her progress to cuddle her namesake puppy, dragged the protesting Lindo out of the corner to join the fun, did a credible imitation of a carousel with Inzil, thanked Thena for the toast, greeted Oddwen and THE Ka, and tried some of Galadriel55's lembas. Everyone must have had a piece, for the energy spread throughout the room and soon all were dancing, some with more enthusiasm than skill.

She stopped to catch her breath at just the right moment, for Bêthberry entered the room. "How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I'm glad you were able to join us!" She saw an unfamiliar face and walked over to introduce herself.

"Hello! I'm Estelyn, the hostess of this party. I don't think we have met, have we?" Huinesoron stretched out his hand rather shyly and said his name. "Don't worry," she smiled. "We may be dead Wights, but we're a friendly group - the more, the merrier!"

"This is a pleasure indeed!" Esty laughed as she saw Mithadan enter the room. "One of the illustrious Old Ones has come to celebrate with us! Who knows - maybe even the Barrow-Wight himself will look in? After all, this is turning into a birthday party, and he's the one responsible."

[mark12_30]

Lindo gasped as Mithadan entered. Mithadan turned.

"You brought Bird, " Lindo whispered.

"Or, she brought me, " said Mithadan.

"Let me see her, " said Lindo, hesitant but eager.

Mithadan hesitated too. "She is, ah, a dragon right now," he said.

"Indeed," Lindo whispered, eyes very wide. "Black with a white stripe?"

Mithadan smirked. "You make her sound like a skunk," he said.

"Hey!" Said the dragon, poking her nose out of Mithadan's hood. "Oh, it's that daft singer."

"Nice," snorted Mith, as Lindo began to hum a tune from the drowning of Beleriand, and then very softly he began to sing.

"Raven hair in wind blown tangles
One tress opalescent dangles..."

[Pitchwife]

„Did I hear right?“ said Estelyn the sheepdog, using osanwë to communicate with her human friend across species boundaries. „Did she just call me a puppy? Me, a bitch grown & flowered (TM), and mother of three (https://image.jimcdn.com/app/cms/image/transf/dimension=890x1024:format=jpg/path/see70c98c3943cdc8/image/i1f35bfc960761076/version/1544550015/image.jpg)?“


„Shush,“ said Pitchwife. „The lady meant no ill. Children will always be children to mothers - even godmothers. Believe me, I know what I‘m talking about! Now, why don‘t you go find some food, or someone to pet you? I‘m sure there‘ll be takers. But don‘t just nibble on any old pile o‘ bones you find lying around – they might be a new member!“


Estelyn (still the dog) took his suggestion and began to explore the ballroom, weaving through the guests and sniffing here & there as was her wont. At last she wound up in front of Oddwen and The KA and looked up at them with a friendly wag of her tail. „Arf!“ she said.


The cats had already vanished into the crowd by that time. The red one (https://i.imgur.com/S1L29Zf.jpg) had found a lintel to jump on, whence it surveyed the gathering with the air of a theatre critic, while the grey one (https://i.imgur.com/SJNOOgm.jpg) approached a gaily-dressed Noldo sitting all by himself and rubbed against his leg with a soft „Prr?“, its tail curled into a question-mark.


Pitchwife, meanwhile, having helped himself to a glass of Old Winyard and a lemba (and made a note to write to the Lady of Lórien at his earliest convenience), sauntered through the crowd, toasting and greeting all his friends of old, some of whom he had only met far from here in the intervening years, some not at all for a long time. He noted with great pleasure that the plague had not killed Lalaith this time (Maedhros or no Maedhros) and, having listened to her duet with Encai, said to the latter: „Hi, I‘m Pitchwife! Not sure we‘ve met in this place before, but you seem vaguely familiar. Something to do with horns, great horns of rust wildly blowing, I think?“

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi was glad that Bethberry had invited him to the party. He used his palantir to watch the beginnings of this new unexpected party.
He wondered if he might go in the garb of Eodwine of Rohan?

Go as yourself.

Elempi set aside his Habit o' Nine Types, put away his palantir, and made for the party.

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

Many miles and no miles later, he stepped up to the door, washed his hands and entered, looking for the food and drink and a nice corner from which to watch the goings on. In time, he would do more than watch.

[Kitanna]

How long has it been? Kitanna thought as she washed her hands with the soap the thoughtful Esty had laid out. Two years? Three? Five? No matter, she had been away for too long. Having received the invitation to the party she quickly aired out her finest dress of black and red silk and made travel plans. Too long had she been away. The invite was just what she needed to lift her spirits.

As she walked into the great hall there were faces she recognized even after so long an absence. Esty in her red dress with the white blouse. Lommy offering her assistance. Legate looking regal an as though he had just stepped from the woods of Lórien. Thenamir, Inzil, and so many more! This was right, this was home, and Kitanna was glad to be back.

Kitanna had not come alone though, she brought a loaf of her famous soda bread. She set it on a long table filled with other refreshments. She had shaped the loaf to look like a mallorn leaf. She hoped her simple dish satisfied the other party goers.

Esty wandered around greeting the guests, but rather than wait Kitanna hurried to her.

"Esty, you beautiful, wonderful, fantastic-" Kitanna stopped herself, knowing she was gushing. "You have done something truly wonderful bringing us all back here." She hugged Esty without giving it a second thought.

[Boromir88]

It had already been a week since Boro received Esty's party invitation, an Unexpected Party too! What is not unexpected, Boro is usually one of the later arriving guests to any party, and not even the fashionably late sort. He was coming in a rich purple sweater and dark blue jeans. He was also carrying a brown satchel bag with a shoulder strap.

Boro was troubled by the sickness and quarantines effecting everyone. It was almost a year since Boro's last journey of significance visiting Enca and her partner, Celuien and her husband, Formendacil, Nienna and their child, and wilwa for the Tolkien: Maker of Middle-earth exhibit. His thoughts were on them, and many more who are in heavily crowded areas and have to hunker down through the perilous days ahead.

Boro had seen another party-goer traveling to the house far ahead of him, but he could not make out who it was. In his youth, he might have ran to catch up with the others, but thought better of it. He was sure the last thing Esty would want to have happen is her opening the door and there he would be on the door step exhausted, panting and sweaty.

When he finally got to the entrance, he wondered if he should knock or just let himself in. The door appeared to make up Boro's mind for him, and seemed to open on his own. Already he was able to see there was quite a significant gathering with many familiar and friendly faces.

"Hello. Well, it's good to be back."

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn hugged Kitanna enthusiastically - hugging was one of her favourite ways to connect with others, and the outside world prohibited that at the moment. "I'm so glad you came!" she exclaimed.

Then her eyes widened as she saw Elempi, and she swirled him around in a boisterous embrace. "Isn't it wonderful to be partying together again?!"

"And Boro too! What have you been up to since we last met?" she asked. The question fell into one of those mysterious lulls in the general noice of conversation and echoed in the room. And suddenly everyone started answering, and stories of families and work and enjoyments of life were exchanged, as if the hall were a book of faces.

[Morthoron]

All this time it had become quite plain to the Dark Elf that these were some rather queer folk assembled herein. Not that there was anything wrong with queer folk, of course, particularly not if one eschewed the more modern pejorative sense of the word. And it wasn't a matter of looking fairer and feeling fouler, just the innate queerness of a group of introverted folk who seemingly had been imprisoned at a Renaissance Faire for several years and now suffered from some malingering form of Dernhelm Syndrome.

"Or Cosplay Dismay," Morthoron chuckled to himself, as he kindly accepted the glass from Lady Estelyn with a nod and an approximation of a grin he hoped didn't appear sinister....or downright creepy.

He sighed as he sat back in his anachronistic Edwardian leather club chair, coming to the sad realization that he had become, in fact, the very caricature of a stock grim Dark Elf. All he needed was some ebonized galvorn to be the epitome of grouchy old Eöl, grousing about the smithy, graceless and grumpy. Bah, humbug!

But Morthoron had a dark epiphany as the group of idiosyncratic Dungeon & Dragon characters toasted the Professor. With the sudden recall of a drowning man (drowning elf, damn it, why do I think in terms of mortals!), a rush of reminiscence filled him with dread as the last couple decades flashed before him like an amusement arcade mutoscope that flicked cards in sequence to give the appearance of an actual moving picture (as he was sitting in an Edwardian chair, this analogy seemed to fit, even if it was totally nonsensical for the Third Age). And he suddenly realized the reason for his morbid melancholy.

"Peter Jackson!"

There was a sudden stillness in the room, and all eyes turned his way. The Dark Elf cursed under his breathe: he had uttered the sacrilegious name out loud! Eventually the thrum of buzzing discussions returned and the frivolity that is the handmaiden of inebriation settled back on the crowd, and the Dark Elf was left alone with his murky musing.

"Yes," he thought to himself, "it was Peter Jackson that did this to me!" Morthoron shifted with the discomfiture of an insomniac in the chair. "Sandworms from Arakeen! Aragorn frenching his horse! Xenarwen, warrior princess! GAH!!!!"

The Dark Elf slammed down the expensive and exquisite Dorwinion as if it were cheap bathtub gin, savoring none of its richness. Now more miserable than ever, the malignant memories washed over him like an insidious black tide. Three films instead of two. Del Toro! psychedelicized wizards with bird droppings and hedgehogs named Sebastian (O, the arrows of irony!)! Sam leaving Frodo! Goblin Chutes and Ladders, and a Great Goblin with a globulous goiter as ridiculously over-sized as the WitchKing's monstrously massive mace! Thranduil riding a moose! An each and every and all and sundry an extended edition to maximize canonical misery!

The Dark Elf threw up in his mouth a little.

[piosenniel]

On the way . . .

“We’re going to be late, you know . . .”
A small voice stage-whispered in the Pio’s ear – this time with an added flick-flick of scaled tail against the Elf’s neck.

Not missing a step, Pio swatted at the insistent tail. “And we would not have been, you dreadful wyrm, if you had not eaten the horse!” Shrugging her shoulders, she adjusted the rucksack back into a more comfortable position. The sudden jerky movement dislodged the small, golden-scaled dragon from her perch.

With an irritated flutter of wings, Angara resettled herself on the Elf’s other shoulder, digging her claws in just a wee bit for emphasis. “Hmmmmmph!!” she snorted. “I was hungry! It was a loooooong flight to get here. What was I supposed to eat – the scrawny Elf who owned it?” Stretching her neck out, Angara peered into Pio’s face, fixing her with a green-gold eye gone wide. “I could have, you know.” She poked at the Elf’s cheek with one nail. “You don’t eat enough . . . too rangy, too bony! That horse, though, now that was a toothsome delight.”

Getting no response, other than a raised brow and a disbelieving snort, Angara turned her attention to the small rucksack. Poking her nose in it to open it wider, she riffled through the scant contents. Some lembas, a stoppered bottle of Old Gammer’s Elixir (bearing four XXXX’s on the label and an assurance of “Good for Whatever Ails Ya or Don’t” – no doubt from the back storeroom of the Green Dragon), several sharpening stones, some oil, a number of knives carefully wrapped with leather. She hopped round to look Pio in the eye, once again. “It’s a party, you ninny! Where’s your party dress?”

Hoping to divert any further questioning of her lack of beribboned finery, Pio grasped her small companion, and placed her on the pine-needled track. ‘So, here’s an idea – why don’t you just fly us to the party, dear heart.” She smiled sweetly at the wyrm. “You don’t want to miss all the meats and pies and honeyed pastries that are sure to be there, do you”

~*~

Grown to full size, Angara made flight to The Barrow-Downs with record speed. “Just land up there on that rocky outcropping,” Pio instructed as they circled the Downs from on high. “Let’s not raise a fuss among the party-goers.” “And besides”, she thought to herself, “I want to get the lay of the land before we go down.” “Of course, you do – wary as ever, I see,” Angara replied silently.

Dismounting from her perch behind the dragon’s neck, Pio looked down at the gathering crowds of people of all sorts. She stomped against the rocky ground - dislodging some of the trail dust off her boots. Smoothing her leather jerkin, she brushed what dirt she could from it. Her leather leggings looked adequate enough to her mind. Her long dark hair she loosened from its braid, combing it as she could with her fingers. Motioning for the now-again-small dragon to perch on her left shoulder, the two companions walked toward the site of the celebration . . .

[Pitchwife]

Before Encai could reply, however, Pitchwife‘s attention was caught by another new arrival. „By Glaurung‘s third molars,“ he exclaimed, „does each and everyone on these Downs have their own pet dragon nowadays?“

[piosenniel]

“By Glaurung‘s third molars!” a man exclaimed. “Does each and everyone on these Downs have their own pet dragon nowadays?”

Her hearing had always been quite acute. Angara’s head whipped round to focus on who had uttered this quite mistaken opinion. Her gold-green eyes fixed on the speaker. “Pet! My A…!!” she started to hiss toward the fellow.

“SSssst! Quiet!!” Pio picked up her pace, attempting to put a necessary distance between the man and herself. “Don’t start a fight! We’re hardly in the door!!”

Angara gave the man one last scathing glance and a last parting comment. “And to be clear, dear, if anyone’s the pet,” she said with a certain smugness, “it’s the Elf!”

Pio made for the bar she’d noticed at the other end of the room. “Tall glass, if you please, ‘Keep. Something strong.” She nodded at the tap he pointed to. “Yes, that, thanks!.” Taking a long drink, she held up her hand, indicating to the Barman she had an additional request. “Oh, and for my friend, here,” Pio said, pointing at Angara, “a nice bowl of wine . . . something Dorwinian, to sweeten her mood.”

[Boromir88]

"And Boro too. What have you been up to since we last met?" Estelyn asked.

"Much has happened and changed!" he exclaimed. That was quite true, especially the past year, events in his life have been hurtling him forward. All for the better, but coming to a sudden stop had left Boro befuddled. "Well, it started with acquiring a new house; small, but suitable for my needs. Then I was blessed with a sister-son (https://scontent.fpit1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/p720x720/72884149_10108664827418424_3080981642890706944_o.j pg?_nc_cat=104&_nc_sid'=110474&_nc_ohc=T46xoGdPvjwAX96Q7Fx&_nc_ht=scontent.fpit1-1.fna&_nc_tp=6&oh=9900603dee1bc3b57bc70df6098cc287&oe=5EAD4E48). He pulled out one of the first pictures taken with his nephew. "He will be quite the charmer with those dark-blue eyes. And one of the final new changes was a career change. I coordinate an exchange program. Young travelers from different realms come and we have an exchange of languages, history, culture, sport and..." Boro faltered. The program had to be cut short from concerns involving the plague.

"Begging your pardon, we had to end the program early. Oh, they all made it back home safe and healthy, which is the most important thing. It's just I don't recall all the world coming to a sudden and complete stop before. I hope and look forward to the day we can start again. Being here amongst friends and..." Boro faltered again, when he noticed another arrival "dragons, is most welcome. Thank you for the invitation."

[Galadriel55]

*****

The door silently opens again. 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A note attached to it says:
Always bring a banana to a party. Besides, you gotta keep moots canonical (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=664197&postcount=1121).

*****

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Beyond the Edge of the known universe, far past the ends of the Twittering Hells and beyond the reach even of the Googloid Hegemony, lie the wide grey plains of the Offline.

In these asphodel fields, beneath jet skies and dying stars, the sightless and endlessly hungering husks of the Old Net wander, gnawed at by insatiable hunger, tormented with unslakable thirst; forgetful of all but a pitiless, griping Need.

Conscious, too, of the nightmare babel through which they must pass to catch the merest scent of a lolcat meme or amusing badger video. These forsook the horror of a world run mad, only to discover beyond their barred gates and bolted doors that they had left in the asylum a map and the keys, and that the inmates had followed, or perhaps that they had brought with them that which they flew.

In their despair the Old Ones forsook the Online, retreated into a real world that others had abandoned, and found that it could be worse and had bookshops.

In some far-flung corner of this virtual desert, made all the more virtual by its not being on a computer, and therefore meta-virtual, even doubly virtual. Maybe virtual cubed or something. Factorial of virtual. Imaginary, in any case. Figurative if you will. You get my point. Anyway, in some nameless corner of the ashen lunar plain stands a ruinous house. In that dread place, which even Gomez Addams might have considered giving a lick of paint, lives a Collector.

What exactly he collects, where he finds it, how, when and even why are all indeed questions. He might say "things" or, being a pretentious sort, "unconsidered trifles." Mostly it appears to be dust, but to the hypothetical observer who has somehow arrived in this unedifying place its most notable content is unread books. Books in modern languages, books in dead languages; books about history, about pharmacology, about things that never were nor ever will be; books about other books; books about how to acquire yet more books and which they should be: on shelves, in boxes, in piles, stacks, heaps. Among these are some that appear actually to have been opened, and of those happy volumes more than are good for anyone's mental health are marked with a JRRT monogram. Amid this bibliophilic confusion sits, or I suppose you could say "squats", the Collector himself. Festooned with cobwebs, half-buried under the dust of ages, much about him is indeterminate; but the shape on his head might once have been a silk top hat. Perhaps the hypothetical observer has somehow brought him a hypothetical message through the fourth wall, and perhaps it concerns some sort of Party. Or perhaps an e-mail was sent to a work account. One of those things, almost certainly.

Beneath the shifting drifts, the figure stirs. Images like long-dead amphibians rise up from the stagnant pool of memory. Green. Green on black: emerald signal, but that was something else. So far down, downish. Downs. "Have fun posting and enjoy being dead." So many words. Much concerning a talking bow. A dry, cracked voice announces: "Yes, I was Squatter". A Summons has been received and even at this late hour must be heeded. What, he wonders, does he have in his pockets? Ah, six-month old till receipt, several sets of keys, lint, mothballs. All there. Ideal. Best take a flask too. Need the edge off with that many people about. In a great billow of forgotten years, a dark figure rises, tweaks some wax into its false moustache, and sets its feet on the long road back to its grave.

---


Many leagues through the plague-lands later, a less dusty but more rained-upon Squatter passed through Downish Quarantine. Fortunately, despite mild cases of croup, mange, the King's Evil, septicaemic plague and even the Red Death, he had somehow avoided the Nameless Pest, probably. The finest physicians known to automatic password recognition had declared it unanimously. So he was admitted, and in time came to the Dark Tower. I mean lit ballroom. Wait: we still have a ballroom? I thought it would be a cinema now. Or -he shuddered- a discotheque. No, apparently not. Someone had been busy. Probably Estelyn. Keeps the lights on. Casting his eyes about, he picked out familiar and fondly remembered faces of Discussions Past. Almost exclusively so. What year even is this? Can it be 2002 again? Looking forward to that new film by some New Zealander, but not having actually seen it. Those were good times. Is that Mithadan? Nice surprise. Not spoken in ages. Quested after that bow together. Blimey, Underhill will be in before you know it, then the fat will hit the fire. Laugh a minute. Whatever did we do with the Travest-o-Meter? Probably buried in some sub-basement. Unless we blew it up, of course: something like that may have happened. Not an admission of liability. Clear fictional damage case. Vandalism? Desecration? Bother Oxford council. No sense of humour.

These, of course, were the thoughts of but a moment. A nip of Talisker and an archaic figure in well-worn morning clothes a hundred years out of style sauntered up to his hostess and bowed. "Hi, Esty. Nice shindig. Sorry it's a bit late: dark road, came as I could. Twenty years, eh? They built them to last in those days."

Mysteriously, in spite of the thorough cleaning the room had undoubtedly received, the atmosphere seemed now ever so slightly more laden with dust, as though some old volume had been lifted from its bed of centuries so that someone could look up rude words. The summons was answered. Squatter was Online. How good a thing this would be remained to be seen.

[The Saucepan Man]

The vir(tu)al party was in full swing and the pleasant hum of friendly conversation filled the Barrow Downs ballroom. The air was thick with the delighted cries (and odd squee) of Downers who had not seen each other in many a year and the excited babble of long lost friends reacquainting themselves with each other.

Suddenly, a discordant sound rang out, cutting through the cheerful chatter, and bringing the delighted discourse to a sudden halt. Just beyond the ballroom door could be heard a dreadful clattering fit to raise the dead, as though a large quantity of metal had been dropped from a great height.

Estelyn rushed to the door, concerned that some great misfortune had befallen the latest guest to arrive. Flinging it open, she was greeted, to her great relief, by the sight of a pile of cooking vessels heaped in the passage beyond. Relief because she quickly remembered that this was in fact the customary manner of arrival of said latest guest.

Slowly, a wizened face emerged from under a large cooking pot and flashed a broad smile.

“Thank you for the invitation, Esty”, said the Saucepan Man with a twinkle in his eyes. “Sorry I’m late. Strange place to leave a banana, though!”

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Esspiem,” cried Estelyn cried in delight.

“More pies? Well I haven’t had any yet, but I am happy to try whatever’s going,” replied the Saucepan Man. His hearing, impaired as ever by the clatter of his pans, had not improved with age.

Slowly, the Saucepan Man picked himself up from the ground. He was, as always, covered from head to toe in cooking pots, frying pans and kettles, and a shiny saucepan sat atop his head. He was sporting his finest kitchenwear, dug out especially for the party, although it had still seen better days and was slightly rusted with age.

“Wonderful to see you, my dear,” he said fondly, as he made to give Esty an affectionate hug. “It’s been a long time.”

It had indeed been a long time. Many years had passed since the Saucepan Man had last clattered noisily through the Downs, not all of them happy. But the familiar black and green glow of the place, the sight of Esty in her festive red finery and the pleasant hum of intelligent discourse, once more resuming after his cacophonous interruption, reminded him of the wonderful times that he had once spent here.

Esty returned the hug as best she could, given the bulky and somewhat jagged nature of his attire.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” she said, raising her eyes in mock exasperation.

[Lhunardawen]

“It’s like the Red Arrow,” whispered Lhuna, staring at her computer screen, as one who receives a summons long expected and yet dreadful when it comes. She trembled. It had indeed come to that, as she had predicted. Had it been entirely up to her, she would have heeded the call with all the strength and speed she could muster, but there were other factors to consider. A comrade in arms counselled her to wait until the stores of personal protective equipment were adequate, and the siege was better under control. She, in turn, decided to start sharpening her best weapon. Long had her mind — and stethoscope — been idle.

In the midst, however, of studying the local clinical practice guidelines for COVID-19 management, her concentration began to waver. Before long she found herself wandering along long-forgotten halls; dark they were, but with a tinge of mint green light that seemed to emanate from no particular source. As she walked, a musty scent filled her nostrils, making her sneeze. She was careful to cover her mouth with the crook of her elbow, as health authorities advised. The sound echoed faintly in the empty hallway.

At the end of a hallway there was an elaborate door from which came a steady hum of voices, some oddly familiar, as though she had encountered them often in years past but had since been absent, some entirely unknown, all filled with excitement. Lhuna found herself drawn to the sound. She started pacing towards a glitter near the slightly ajar door, which revealed itself to be a frying pan reflecting sunlight from the room inside. “What’s a pan doing here?” She picked it up, wiped it with a piece of tissue soaked with 75% isopropyl alcohol, a bottle of which she always brought everywhere she went. She also poured a generous helping of alcohol on her palms and rubbed them briskly together, as she had done countless times. She then peered cautiously through the door.

“Downers!”

Lhuna had not said the word in years, yet was surprised at the ease with which it escaped through her lips. “I must have fallen asleep reading that CPG. But if this is a dream, I hope I don’t wake up yet.” She stepped inside soundlessly, and walked along the wall to keep herself inconspicuous. She had not seen or heard from any of them in ages (her own fault, she had disappeared even from Facebook) and she was not certain they would remember her. She looked at the familiar faces and, as was her wont, gave herself a few seconds before each one brought to mind a name, and a particular memory. She saw a walking pile of pots and pans (“SpM! I must remember to give this pan back to him”) speaking to a long-haired woman with her back towards her (“Esty! I’d recognise Princess Fiona’s hair from anywhere. I wonder if she remembers swooning over Aragorn”). She realised she was not up for socialising just yet.

She saw Elempi sitting in a corner and knew he would not mind quiet company. Lhuna made her way to his corner and sat gently on the seat beside him, before turning to face him and answering his wide-eyed look with a huge smile.

[Envinyatar]

Soap and water! And an actual towel to with which to wipe hands dry!!
It had been a long stretch since he’d been near to any sort of civilized establishment, much less around a roomful of people all got up in their partying finery. He washed his hands carefully, enjoying the warmish water and the subtle fragrance of the soap - the softness of the towel against his rough worn hands. There had been some kind of sickness, he’d heard, that was moving through the more settled placed in the lands.
People were taking care not to catch it.

For his part, he’d been far away from cities and towns of late – traveling through the forests along the feet of the Grey Mountains. By chance he’d heard from some old fellow traveler that there was to be a party of sorts back at the Barrow-Downs. He wondered if any old friends would be there.

He glanced about as he walked into the large room.

[Thinlómien]

So many people! Thinlómien thought, happily ambling through the crowd, sharing toasts with old friends and enemies alike. It felt like good old times. And to think, an even bigger party was only to come!

Suddenly, her musings were interrupted by the papery sound of a telephone ringing in the distance.

"Is that for me?" she muttered aloud. "And if I pick it up now, who's gonna pick it up the next time it rings (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?p=722228#post722228)?"

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

"Saucepan? Common greeting brings underworld to nothing! I do beg your pardon, Lhuna. Haven't had a chance to do one of those for a while."

This may seem like an odd way for old comrades to greet one another, but it had been some time since Squatter had put a crypticism to the Saucepan Man and the sudden presence of a room full of old friends had left him slightly overwrought. He rambled on, apparently to the world in general.

"The old place hasn't changed a bit. I wonder what we've all been up to. So many unquiet dead returning to their mounds I almost feel newly deceased again. Good to see you anyway. Servant, ma'am."

He trailed off, apparently having forgotten what he was talking about, and gazed around the room. Perhaps he had drifted into some philosophical reverie, but more likely he was looking for canapés.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn was delighted to see such old friends as Saucepan and Squatter in the ballroom! How wonderful, she thought. Many had become treeish in the past years, as she had sometimes thought of herself, but fond memories had kept the Barrow on her mind and quite obviously, on others' minds as well.

Ah, the good days of adventure - Merisuwyniel and all who had shared those times... Her reminiscences were interrupted by images of the world beyond these halls, where her companion was not an Entish Bow but a sewing machine, where stacks of cotton waited to be sewn into protective masks. The masks of anonymity in the early days, of hiding behind a nickname, had dissolved into the true names and faces of friends, truly met in life, or at the least virtually known. Now it was back to masks again - strange times indeed.

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen lingered outside a long while. She had seen the invitation sometime ago but she had never been a party person and this tendency had strengthened over the years. She had grown more like her name greyer and more treelike in temperament as well as physically. She was definitely not as bendable - “and increasing in circumference year on year” piped up a voice in her head. Her mind’s eye gave her inner voice what her mother would have called an old-fashioned look and the voice bit its tongue.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love the place, she did. it had been a refuge for years but she had another refuge now, a home she need never leave on the blessed island and there were things in the other world which took her time and occupied her mind. She had taken a stop gap job on moving and just when she had planned to move on she found herself a key worker in the struggle against the pestilence. She was working for the victuallers and as a wise hobbit once said “where there’s life there’s need of vittles”.. She couldn’t save your life but she knew where wine and the requisites for the privies were kept... Spending all day answering queries and soothing the irate left her almost grateful for social distancing.

But yet there were people it would be good to see again, those of whom no word reached her in the other place. So she loitered outside and watched others enter, some the firstcomers she knew little, some of her own time, some of The bright younglings grown very well indeed. Inner voice and another that sounded rather like Lalaith’s chivvied her on. She wrapped herself in her shadowy cloak, washed her hands carefully While she hummed the first stanza of “Gil-galad was an Elven king” and slipped in as unobtrusively as she could contrive.

[piosenniel]

“Oh, look!” Pio’s companion nodded her head toward the man who had just entered and now stood glancing about the room in a somewhat bemused manner. "He looks like that fellow you told me about. From that Inn you ran? Or was it some adventure?”

Raising a brow at that vague description, Pio scanned the room in the general direction of Angara’s nod. Just the person I wanted to see!
She smiled, nodding her head at the fellow. Raising her arm, she waved at him, half filled mug still grasped in her hand.

“Envinyater! Join us!! I’ll stand you a cup of whatever your thirst desires!"

[Lalaith]

Lalaith had been happily exchanging Werewolf anecdotes with Pitch and cooing over pictures of Boro's gorgeous sister-son - babies were, like parties, one of her Favorite Things. A clanging noise distracted her. Well, of all the...Saucie!!

And who is that gliding in stealthily behind him..."Aha! Mith...dear thing!!" Remembering her friend would not appreciate a great song and dance, she reined in her urge to halloo across the crowded room. Instead she deftly grabbed another glass of bubbles from a passing tray, and made her way through the crowd, being careful to not tread on any toes or dragons' tails.
"Hello darling, isn't this fun? Here, have this - I've hardly spilt a drop. And do you know, I think I've spotted Lhuna!"

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen smiled. . It was always a joy to see Lalaith and she could say much the same of a glass of fizz. “It is a wonder to see so many again, and you are right about Lhuna”. Mithalwen smiled again recalling how Nilp had adopted her and so Lhuna by logical necessity was also one of her brood. “I have had word from Her brother lately, but I don’t think he is here yet. And Lhuna seems deep in conversation just now, but there is young Galadriel” , again Mithalwen’s sometimes frosty heart filled with maternal warmth and guilt, my cub! It was long since she had seen her and letters had been left unsent. She was worse than Butterbur she thought.

[Envinyatar]

“M’lady! Well met!!” Envinyatar nodded at the barkeep who’d noted his arrival. “Whatever she’s having, I’ll take one, too.” He took a step back in order to take a more full look at his friend, lingering a bit on the scaled companion who rode her shoulder. The Wyrm returned his gaze in a most measuring way.

A nudge at his elbow alerted him to the arrival of his drink, a tall mug, filled to overflowing with a stout – dark and topped with a creamy head. Lifting it to his mouth, he first drew in an appreciative whiff of its aroma. And then a long pull on it and he could feel the wondrous liquid slide from mouth to belly.

With a satisfied sigh, Envinyatar set the mug on the bar top. “Now, let’s catch up, shall we?” He looked down at his dusty boots and well-worn leather pants. ‘For my part, as you can see, I’ve been out traipsing – back country, mostly. Just seeing what’s going on.”

“And you?” he prompted, looking her up and down. “You look a bit dusty, yourself.” He nodded at her companion, giving the Wyrm a quick wink and smile. “And who is this lovely creature?”

[Arry]

Arry buffed the toe-tops of his boots against the back of his breeches. Left, first; right, following. The napped texture of the cloth brushed off what dirt and dust there was while the motley of brown colors of the breeches themselves helped to hide any evidence of them. He pulled at the hem of his shirt, evening out the blousing beneath his wide leather belt. His vest, at least looked fairly presentable – a soft honey-brown with its lacing all neatly done up. Catching sight of the wash bowl as he entered the big hall, he quickly laved his hands – singing a low tune to himself as he squished and squashed and rubbed the soapy lather over, around, and between his fingers.

He eyed the towel, but thought instead he would run his wet fingers through his thick straight hair, battening it down a bit. It was cut short, just touching the tops of his ears. And as his mother always sighed as she attempted to comb it into place, “Stars above, boy, that old cow musta licked your head every which way when you were a babe!”

Aside from a small rucksack he carried slung on one shoulder, Arry’s only other bit of gear was his small guitar. “Lily”, he said was its name. It fit snugly along his back, held in place by a woven strap that ran across his chest from shoulder to hip.

He hoped the Elf had decided to come. It had been a long time since last he'd seen her. He had many new songs he thought she'd like. Mayhap she would sing some with him.

And there was the recent news of an old friend to both of them. Sad news… quite unexpected.

[Rumil]

Rumil was pottering,

definitely pottering, though he liked to think of it as sauntering. Pottering about he remembered a long forgotten path, a bit dusty and weed strewn, that led up the hill. "I shall potter up here", he thought, "one so rarely has time for serious pottering except when besieged after all".

Up the path led, to a country of swirling mists and ominous dark standing stones on hills of verdant green. "Hmmm, haven't been up here in a long while, I wonder if the old barrow is still haunted by the Wights of Old?". Rumil began to decidedly saunter.

The old black and green barrow opened at his muttered incantation, "well I'm sort of surprised I remembered that one, but maybe not so surprised, it was a special place after all". Deeper into the hallway strange sounds emanated, perhaps a clatter of pans - surely not, chittering - possibly squirrels or penguins, and the unmistakable scent of bananas. The way to the ballroom was freshly swept, Rumil followed the trail to the great doors, flung them open and stopped in amazement.

The ballroom wasn't empty

Far from it, first and foremost, Esty as delightful, serene and welcoming as ever. "Hail and Well Met" quoth Rumil. "My word, I haven't seen this place in so many years, I'm really very glad to meet you all again".

Lommie fantastic, Legate the riddler in chief! Thenamir Inzil cool, mark I'll never forget your stories, Lal! Mith mighty amongst the Downers,Pitch, G55, littlemanpoet wow, Morth, pio, Boro

Squatter we are not worthy!

and

no

actual

way

Saucie really? Awesome! Not all those who wander are lost!

Old Friends, we have trudged dark ways of which we will not lightly speak and scampered up joyous paths when laughter fell like rain.

Hail and Well Met indeed,

Well, I'm back

[piosenniel]

“And who is this lovely creature?”

Angara gave the man a toothy smile, practically purring as she took in his wink and smile. “Pleased to meet you, Man!” she said, nodding her head at him. She turned her head back to eye Pio, saying, sotto voce, “You could take this as a lesson, Elf!”

Pio nodded and bobbed a small curtsy. “Here,” she said, perching the Wyrm on Envinyatar’s shoulder. “I’ll just get us another round while you two get to know each other.”

Leaving the two new friends to get better acquainted, Pio meandered slowly to the far end of the bar. Nodding to all the familiar faces as she passed. It was a nice, low-key party. Less exciting than the last one she’d attended – but that was good. She found in these last few wandering years that she enjoyed a slower pace of life. What needed to be done was of course accomplished – but in a more relaxed manner.

From somewhere to her left she heard a familiar voice hail her by name. “Miz Pio! Miz Pio!!” A wide smile lit up her face as she turned in the direction of the caller.

[Arry]

She was a sight for sore eyes. Still beautiful in her own way. And after all this time, the years had left no marks of their passage on her face. His own face, he knew, looked older. No more the boyish visage of the very young man when first he’d passed through the Shire those many years ago. She’d been Innkeeper then at The Dragon, taking care of the many visitors that at that time passed down the East Road.

He wondered that she had remembered him and more that she smiled at him now as if no time had passed since last they’d met.

A small voice niggled at the back of his mind. “Stars and stones, man! Pull yourself together. Quit gawping! That’s your old friend, you ninny!” He rubbed his sweaty palms against the rough cloth of his breeches.

“It’s me, Miz Pio,” he managed to stammer out. “It’s Arry.”

[piosenniel]

“Of, course you are, my dear Arry!” Pio laughed and reached out one hand to cradle her friend’s chin. Turning his head one way and the other. “Who else would you be?!”

Bending down a bit, she hugged him. As her arms encircled his shoulders, her hands bumped up against the instrument held close against his back. “Aah!” she cried in delight, clapping her hands as she stepped back. “We’ll have music!” Her eyes glimmered in the lights hung about the great hall.

‘I remember the old songs we sang. They always lifted my spirits. As did your playing, Arry, and that fine voice of yours.”

She steered him back to where her other companions were engaged in what appeared to be quite amusing conversation. “I have some new songs, too, I’ve learned in places traveled to of late. But what about you? What have you been doing? New songs? And what news do you bring of old friends?”

[Arry]

Arry tugged on the Elf’s sleeve after only a few steps. “Wait, Miz Pio,” he said slowing his steps. ‘Let’s sit over there for just a bit,” he went on, pointing to a small empty table in the corner. He pulled out a chair for her when they had arrived. He freed himself from his rucksack, hanging it by its straps from the nearest back-post of his chair. His guitar he leaned up against table’s top where it butted against the wall. Arry sat himself down with a sigh.

A passing server, in the meantime, was waved over by Pio, and two small, thick glass tumblers of Dwarven whiskey placed on the table. Arry nodded slightly as he raised his glass and downed it in a single gulp. The Elf sipped at hers, quietly waiting for what he had to say.

Instead, Arry picked up his guitar and began the accustomed routine of putting it in tune. This familiar habit calmed his mind and as he strummed a series of sweet, clear chords, he found the words to tell her the news he’d brought of their friend. Straightforward, plain words.

“It’s Jack, Miz Pio,” he began, playing a short refrain from an old song they both knew. “Jack Pryne.” He smiled, remembering other times when the music had carried them all along. “The old minstrel. You remember. We sang together – him and me and you. That old clapboard shamble of a tavern, down by that harbor… What was its name?” Arry heard the scrape of the Elf’s chair legs as she scooted closer to him. He looked up, into her questioning face.

“He’s passed, Miz Pio. Old Jack. He’s gone on.”

[Kath]

So many reams of paper had surrounded Kath for the past few weeks that another piece, beautifully addressed though it was, had quite escaped her notice. But finally all the other sheets had been bundled together and sent off into the desperately grateful hands of parents across the land, ready to be opened and met with cries of: “But that’s not how they did it in my day!” and “What do they mean by ‘bus stop method?’” followed by copious amounts of weeping and a few hefty splashes of gin.

A party, the letter said. A chance for old friends to gather and reminisce and enjoy each other’s company in a way that Kath could barely remember. If any silver lining could come from this strange new world everyone was living in, well, this was certainly one example. It was such a special occasion, Kath even dug out some appropriately themed attire (last worn, to the delight of the small charges she taught, for Shakespeare Week) before setting off with all haste.

Despite that, she was inevitably late to the celebrations, and by more than just Day 1 this time. And yet, as she carefully manoeuvred around the myriad of obstacles by the door and stood washing her hands (singing Happy Birthday under her breath), she felt glad of her late arrival as it meant that she had time to adjust to seeing so many people from such a happy time all those years ago. Tears sprang to her eyes for a moment as a warm feeling of ‘home’ passed over her.

An instant later they were gone as she was welcomed with good cheer, handed a drink and pulled straight into conversation. It was as if she had never been away.

[Envinyatar]

As the Wyrm regaled him with stories of old adventures she’d been on with Pio, Envinyatar found himself laughing and nodding his head. Angara had a quick wit and a sharp tongue in her opinions of how things might have gone better if only those involved had taken her counsel. What a battle that must have been! The self-confident Elf . . . impulsive, obstinate, even . . . standing toe to claw with the vociferous, tail thumping Old Wyrm.

His own wanderings these past years had been less colorful than those of his old friend and this new one. He had no home base. Just whatever dirt his old boots touched – wherever he laid his head down at night. Big towns, not too much. He tended to make a wide berth around those. Small little towns, yes, and no towns at all, too. Just little farms, wide spaced from one another. Long dusty roads intermingled with the much welcomed, cool, shadowed treks beneath the trees of some great, quiet forest.

These past few years he’d felt a vague insinuation in some old places he’d passed through of some deeper shadow that wriggled just out of his perception even as his attention was drawn toward it. He was thankful the brief encounters had been few. But they had set an alarm in him. And he’d kept a look-out these past few years for any hint of occurrence.

There had been no indication at all of any darkness, of any lingering shade, as he’d traveled the last miles to these Downs. And if this party here were any indication, the Downs continued to be an inviting place of light and good-natured fellowship. It was a welcoming feeling that put him at his ease.

His woolgathering was cut short as he felt Angara’s talons tight on his shoulder. “What’s this!?” she hissed, her eyes on the little scene unfolding in the corner of the room. “The Elf looks troubled. And sad.”

Envinyatar glanced toward the corner, narrowing his eyes. “And she’s crying,” he murmured. With quick steps, he and his perched companion moved toward their friend.

[littlemanpoet]

Elempi stared at the dark haired woman who had sat beside him. He seemed to recognize her from the Downs, one special corner of them. He searched his mind. He thought of a big, lumbering, blonde and bearded Eorling smith, a tongue tied and bashful man. Harreld. Such fond memories, writing for Harreld. He remembered now.

"Lhuna!" He whispered. "It's you! It's great to see you here! You wrote for Ginna! That was fun."

Elempi stopped being quiet, completely taken up in fond memories of hijinks and hilarity that the two of them had co-written.

[piosenniel]

Pio leaned back in her chair, shaking her head slowly. No words came. Tears pooled into memories behind clouded eyes. “That can’t be true,” she murmured. “We were to meet at the Windrose Inn – just a few weeks from today.” She shook her head again. “He had a new song to try out… and I wanted to sing some of our old ones again.” With her forefinger she traced the raised grain along the table’s top, losing the line of it as it faded into smoothness.

The sound of her small companion’s wings preceded the weight of the Wyrm’s body as she landed, her talons gripping tightly on the Elf’s shoulder. “Who’s troubling you? Shall I break them?” She fixed a wary eye on Arry. “Just bend them a bit, perhaps.”

[Arry]

“Now wait a minute!” Arry protested, leaning back in his chair. He looked Angara directly in the eye. “Nobody’s been troubling Miz Pio. Not me at least.” He shook his head. “We’re both troubled. We’ve lost a good friend. That’s what makes her sad.” He cradled his guitar against him. “Makes me sad.” He plucked a tune. Chords and single notes blended quietly together.

“Remember this one, Miz Pio?” He strummed a few bars, setting the rhythm of the song. “That one he said was about Mount Gumry. You sang it with him at the Seven Bells.” He watched as she tapped out the tempo with her fingers.

And then in a voice pitched soft and low she began to sing the familiar words of that old song (https://youtu.be/8TQK2h2BPNM).

[Envinyatar]

As the song came to a close, Envinyatar smiled and clapped his hands. “That’s old Jack Pryne!” He laughed at first, glad to hear the old balladeer’s song. “But wait,” he went on, his brow furrowing in disbelief and sadness. “Surely you can’t mean that he’s left us?” He pulled up a chair and sat facing Arry and Pio. “Envinyatar,” he said, nodding at the other man as he sat down. “Pleased to meet a friend of Pio,” he went on, extending his arm. Arry returned the greeting, grasping the other man’s offered hand.

“I traveled with him a couple of times,” Envinyatar continued. “What an easy guy to be with on those long dusty roads between little towns here and there.” He nodded his head and smiled at the memories. “Sometimes we’d stay in some farmer’s cow shed. Jack’d pay for our supper with songs and stories that’d set the farmer roaring with laughter. For my part, I split and stacked firewood for the farmer’s good-wife.” Envinyatar rubbed the back of his neck, and chuckled. “Jack always said I carried that firewood far better than I ever carried a tune! He did like my stories, though, of the places I’d been and the people I met. Later on down the road for us, I’d find he’d taken those very same stories and made them into songs.” A quiet pause in conversation ensued as the companions savored the picture their thoughts had painted for them.

“Say, how ‘bout I get us another round of drinks?” Envinyatar offered, breaking the pleasant silence. “And I know just the ones. Four Handsome Johnnys – one each for us and one for our old friend.” He heard the rasping sound of the Wyrm clearing her throat. “Make that five,” he corrected.

“And just what is this ‘Handsome Johnny’?” the Wyrm inquired, raising her brows.

Envinyatar laughed as he recalled Jack’s favored libation. “Why it’s gingered ale and a clear spirit from the far eastern country – vodka, I think it’s called. Goes down real smooth. Got a kick to it, though, if you drink too many.” He waved over a passing server and placed the table’s order.

As they waited for the return of their drinks, he tapped the guitar as it rested on Arry’s leg. “Let’s hear another of Jack’s tunes.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “How about that one about this goofy old world? That's a good one!”

Humming, just a bit off key, the beginning of the tune, he recalled the opening words of the song.
Up in the morning
Work like a dog
Is better than sitting
Like a bump on a log (https://youtu.be/ZACwVOJXpn0)...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn smiled as she looked around the ballroom. The refreshments were definitely popular, songs were being sung and stories told, reminiscences being shared - she had high hopes of hosting the party for another two weeks, until the jubilation of 20 years could be celebrated. She mused on the possibilities for a special commemoration of that special event...

[Arry]

Arry nodded as Estelyn glanced his way, and dipped the guitar he was playing in her direction. He turned back toward Envinyatar and sang along on the last verse. The older fellow’s fellow voice had grown stronger as the song went on and he seemed to have gained the trick to keeping on tune.

Not that it mattered. Old Jack wouldn’t really have cared. The fact that there was camaraderie, and pleasure in the music, and drinks to fuel the merrymaking would have been enough for him.

One of them ordered another round of drinks, local brew this time. Mugs were raised and clinked. And more songs (https://youtu.be/2L4BvI2cr8Q) sung. Pio was enticed once again to join in. This was an old song (https://youtu.be/P8tTwXv4glY) that she'd sung many times. One which always brought laughter to both the singers and the listeners

Arry’s eyes lit up with delight to see her enjoy the singing of it once again.

[Formendacil]

"Hrrrm hoom..."

Deep in his dusty home in New Luthany, Formendacil stirred. Who was to say what he was now, who had once been a cantankerous Númenórean of Arnor, but Barrow-downers are not obliged to self-identify themselves with but one of Middle-earth's races and the slow passage of time had rendered him far more Entish than aught else, at least so far as his virtual life went.

"I smell something in the air," he muttered to himself. It was dust, most likely, for a thick layer covered his haunt. He spent most of his days in the Other Land now, where he had reached his Hobbit majority (though had not come into any inheritance). That was a dour realm of late, and perhaps the dourness drove him back to the dusty lands he'd once known.

Even the invitation to celebrate the Downs's impending anniversary was covered over with further layers of postal detritus. It was weeks old.

"A wizard is never late..." he heard himself say aloud, in a creaking timbre of a voice. He frowned: that was a sign of age indeed, if he were unthinkingly quoting The Movies.

"...nor is he early," he admitted with a deep, ponderous sigh. Selecting his heaviest staff, he started away.

[TheGreatElvenWarrior]

he party was already starting when Lady Great finally opened her mail to see her invite, but this was not unusual for the lady because she was always fashionably late. She called to her sweetheart Baranduin to her side and they quickly put together a basket of tea, cakes, and their special pipeweed to take. You can't go to a party emptyhanded! she said aloud as she slipped into her coat. She couldn't go anywhere without her tea, and she knew her friends would love to share it anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Ladies Great entered the ballroom (and remembered to wash their hands). I have so many memories here. Lady Great said with tears in her eyes. There were her old friends. She felt the joy of seeing all of their faces in that familiar place. I'll be right over, I just need to find some wine. said the lady to Oddwen and Ka as she thought about the order in which she was going to greet everyone. How lovely was it to visit her old stomping grounds again. This looks like the beginning of our best party yet she thought.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Party activity had slowed down in the course of time, as it does when friends feel free to come and go, or to sit in companionable silence and recollection. But now a special announcement was made by Estelyn:

"My dear Elves and Dwarves, Hobbits and Humans, Wizards, and Orcs, and Wraiths of all Peoples. May 1 is the Barrow-Downs' 20th birthday - it is 20 years old tomorrow!"

"Hurray! Hurray! Many Happy Returns!" the guests shouted, and they hammered joyously on the tables. Esty was doing splendidly. This was the sort of stuff they liked: short and obvious.

"I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am." Noises of trumpets and horns, pipes and flutes, and other musical instruments. In one corner of the ballroom some of the members, supposing Mod Estelyn to have finished (since she had plainly said all that was necessary) now got up an impromptu orchestra, and began a merry dance-tune.

But Esty had not finished. Seizing a horn from a youngster nearby, she blew three loud hoots. The noise subsided.

"I have called you together for a Purpose. Indeed for Three Purposes! First of all, to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that twenty years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable wraiths. Secondly, to celebrate the Downs' birthday. Thirdly and finally, to this effect I wish for you to share your favourite poetry with us for the occasion. Whether you quote from the books we all love, or recite your own serious or humorous poems, or share a translation in another language, of the Ring poem, for example - your contributions are welcome! Those who know the use of special techniques to record their own voices reading a poem are welcome to post the links here, so we can hear you speak. And of course toasts to the Barrow Wight are in order, and any conversation is allowed as you please. I look forward to a wonderful celebration with all of you!

And though in the past, numerous members have announced that they were going, leaving now, I am staying!"

[Huinesoron]

"Twenty years?"

Huinesoron stirred from his corner, stepping out into the room.

"Twenty years... and here's me around for barely two. It suddenly feels like a very heavy history is hanging over me..."

He stopped, shaking his head, and smiled. "But if anything is hanging from these rafters, it's bunting. This is a festive occasion! And while I may not be the best in crowds (though put me in a riddling game and I will dive in wholeheartedly), I will join you all in raising a glass to the Downs and the Wight - and in sharing a little poetry."

Huinesoron shuffled through his pockets, studiously ignoring the amused looks he was getting, and after a few moments produced a scrap of paper. "I wrote this some years ago," he explained (or failed to explain). "I was practicing Sindarin at the time, and I... so it's a translation of the last four lines of Sam's song in the Tower. You know, 'Above all shadows rides the sun' and so forth?" He coughed, glanced down at the paper, then straightened his back and looked up.

Anor dhosta or-dhuaithoth
Ah elenath hilar
Ú-bêdithan "i galad veth
"Ah in elin 'wannar..."

hS

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The day had arrived, and with it the first poem; Estelyn smiled, rather wistfully - it was not only an appropriate tribute to the Professor's created language/s, it was a timely reminder that "...in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach." These difficult times, too, would pass. She cleared her throat, which had become rather husky over those thoughts, and climbed onto one of the tables to make an announcement:

"As we begin our celebrations, let us take a moment for the ritual of our times. I ask you to take the soap into your wet hands, face west, and recite with me:

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them,
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."

The hall rang with the sound of many voices united as one, then a sound as if of many waterfalls, as hands were rinsed, then the reverent silence of drying them. Estelyn thought she had heard some voices speaking in other languages and hoped that the speakers would recite their poems individually so that all could hear them.

Since she was already on the table, she decided to propose the first toast of the birthday party: "Please raise your glasses, preferably filled with something you like, and toast the one person without whom our lives would have been much less interesting: The Professor!"

[Morthoron]

After yet another toast, the Dark Elf was feeling rather amused, or bemused as the case may be, for the Old Winyards was surprisingly potent, even for one of the Moriquendi. Elves do not get intoxicated as a rule, although Morthoron did recall a certain Silvan steward of Thranduil who was relieved of his duties for being dead drunk. "Sacked for too much sack," he chuckled to himself.

In any case, the Dark Elf was certainly more amenable to interaction with the odd admixture of personas proliferating in the hall; and given Lady Estelyn's request that all and sundry of the assemblage should share some token of esteem for some brief anniversary being celebrated herein (short, in terms of Elves, of course), Morthoron rose from the comforts of his fine leather Edwardian club chair. He politely cleared his throat to gain attention, cleared it again when some of the more roisterous imbibers in the back failed to yield the floor, and then began in a sonorous tone:

"Choices. We all have to make them at one time or another, of course, but some are more momentous than others. Take for instance, the sons of Eärendil the Mariner, who by the Grace of the Valar were given the irrevocable choice of which kindred they would remain, Elda or Adan. This then is The Soliloquoy of Elrond Peredhil...

An Elf or not an Elf...that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to be mortal and suffer
The twinges and hair loss of Mankind's fortune,
Or to take up Elfdom and limitless potential,
And by inference become immortal. An Elf -- to sleep no more --
Because Elves rarely sleep given their high metabolism.
But there is heartburn: a thousand years of eating lembas
Does not aid in my digestion. 'Tis not a bowel movement
One would wish on an enemy. And sheep -- sheep that yearn to dream --
Ai! I've lost count. For in that count of sheep no dreams may come
While snugly mortals coil 'neath comforters and nap without pause,
There's only insomnia that makes calamity of so long a life."

The Dark Elf, half-smirking, formally bowed and returned to his seat.

[Kath]

Having quietened down long enough to listen to the Dark Elf's humorous take on the life of Elrond after Esty's rousing toast, Kath was keen to get everyone joining in again. This called for something with a bit of a chorus that didn't take much time to learn. And so, she cast her mind back to The Hobbit, that wonderful book that had started her journey into Middle Earth, and found something that suited her aim.

"Alright, fellow 'Downers," she called out over the general merriment, "let's hear your best 'Ya Hey'!"

Fifteen birds in five fir trees,
their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!
what funny little birds, they had no wings!
Oh what shall we do with the funny little things?
Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;
fry them, boil them and eat them hot?

Burn, burn tree and fern!
Shrivel and scorch! A fizzling torch
To light the night for our delight,
Ya hey!

Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast ’em!
till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;
till hair smells and skins crack,
fat melts, and bones black
in cinders lie
beneath the sky!
So dwarves shall die,
and light the night for our delight,
Ya hey!
Ya-harri-hey!
Ya hoy!

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

When the applause and the merriment after the last poem (or actually, sing-along) quieted down, the Wights began to look at each other expectantly. When nobody seemed eager to take the spotlight, Lommy and Legate got up from their seats.

"We have heard quite a few poems thus far - both by the Professor," Lommy raised her half-empty glass once again, "and by some of the creative spirits among us. We may not have a poem of our own," she added, "but there is a little creativity in there, too."

"As one Elven traveler once said," Legate continued, "it is fair to hear words of your own language from the lips of other wanderers in the world. But we would do something different this time: let you hear words of other languages from the lips of your fellow 'Downers. It is a piece of poetry you all know."

And with these words, they started reciting; first Lommy, then Legate, and taking turns after each stanza:

Kun kevät saa pyökin lehtimään ja virtaa mahla sen,
kun virralla valo kimmeltää, ja tuuli on luoteinen,
kun askel on kevyt, ja hengitys; sää vuorilla viileää;
palaa luokseni, palaa luokseni, sano: kaunis on maani tää!

Když jarem raší zahrada a roste obilí,
když květy jako lesklý sníh nám sady obílí,
když zem a vzduch se rozvoní deštěm se sluncem,
já zůstanu, já nepůjdu, vždyť já mám krásnou zem!

Kun kesä jo valtaa maailman ja viheriöi joka puu,
kun lehväkatoksi puhjeten uni oksien toteutuu,
kun metsän saleihin vehreisiin tuuli lännestä puhaltaa,
palaa luokseni, palaa luokseni, sano: maata ei parempaa!

Když slunce hřeje, jablka a hrušky vypéká,
když sláma zlátne, bělá klas a žeň už nečeká,
když kane med a zraje plod a hnědne ořeší,
já na slunci tu zůstanu, má zem je nejlepší!

[Thinlómien]

Kun talvi jo saapuu tappava, puut metsän maahan lyö
kun auringottoman päivän taas yö musta tähdetön syö;
kun kuoleman tuuli idästä tuo sateen viiltävän,
minä sinua etsin ja kutsun ja taas sinun luoksesi kiirehdän!

Když zima píseň umoří a padne černá tma,
zlomí se větev neplodná a skončí práce má,
vyhlížet budu, čekat budu, až mi přijdeš vstříc,
pak nelítostným deštěm spolu odejdeme pryč.

Me yhdessä matkaan lähdemme, tie länteen vie yhä vain,
a daleko snad najdem zem, kde srdce spočinou.

As the audience applauded politely, Lommy and Legate bowed, holding hands and laughing, with a slightly self-conscious flush on both their faces. After all, there was no getting around the fact that the poem they had just recited was a little too cheesy for either of their tastes.

"That is how it goes," Lommy said. "A fair song, if a tad melodramatic. In real life, differences between the forests of the north and the rolling hills and farmlands of the south aren't such a big deal."

"Easy for you to say, when we live in your forest land," Legate teased her good-naturedly.

"Well, *anyway*," Lommy said. "Now that I'm talking, I propose a toast. For all the wonderful people we've all met through this site - and no, I'm not just talking about Legate - imagine how much poorer all our lives would be without them. Cheers! Or, kippis!"

"Na zdraví!" said Legate, and clinked glasses with her.

Lommy smiled at him, then raised her glass and turned to the wights that were gathered around. She made sure to make eye contact with all her friends present, both those she kept in touch with regularly and those she only saw occasionally on the 'Downs or while browsing the book of faces. How lovely it was that they were all there!

[Mithadan]

Mithadan and his companions applauded. "Lovely tunes!" he said with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! What did you think?" He turned to a dubious looking creature, seated to his left.

"Not bad," answer Gravlox. "Very pretty indeed! but I rather liked that other one. Reminded me of my youth,

"Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast ’em!
till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;
till hair smells and skins crack,
fat melts, and bones black

"That's a bit more my style."

"It would be, my Uruk friend," retorted a figure dressed in a white, silk suit with a black tie. His hair was immaculately coiffed and his shoes shone from having been buffed until every scuff had been eliminated. He held a pad of yellow, lined paper in his hand and was scribbling frantically with his Mont Blanc pen. "You're an Orc, and can appreciate a nice bit of thievery. Straight out of The Hobbit, I believe. Let's see, copyright violation, treble damages, attorney's fees..."

Gravlox scowled and bared his yellowed fangs. "Can't you lighten up for once, Sueim?" he responded. "Enjoy yourself! Have a drink and a bit to eat!" The Orc drew a dagger and stabbed a cockroach that was sauntering by. It disappeared into his maw with a crunch. "Juicy!" he exclaimed.

"Well, if I recall, you can neither write poetry nor sing," Sueim replied. His cellantir rang, but he ignored it. He leaned forward toward the Uruk and emphasized his words with a flourish of his hands.

"I've never heard you sing," snarled Gravlox. "Your 'predecessor' maybe, but not you."

Sueim grinned. It was a truly horrifying sight. Loyers should not be allowed to smile. "He could entertain, couldn't he? Maybe, I should let my hair down and get into the swing of things. Even if it means letting Grrralph take over for a moment..."

Sueim stood, and gestured as he recited a quotation from Mr. Justice Brandeis. Abruptly, he was surrounded with a cloud of grey smoke that quickly changed into the darkest black. Then, with a flash, a new figure appeared where Sueim had been standing.

"Oh no," moaned Mithadan. "Call the insurance company..."

In Sueim's place stood an imposing, shrouded figure, 2.4 meters tall wearing hooded robes over full body armour consisting of chainmail (steel, black), a breast plate (steel, black), vambraces (steel, black), leather gloves (black) with steel studs (black), chain hose (black) and thigh high boots (red). A nearby group of Hobbits dropped their tankards and fled, screaming. Grrralph raised himself up to his full height and emitted a long drawn out wail which rose and fell like the cry of some dark and lonely creature. Then, to everyone's horror, he began to move back and forth. At first, he merely tapped his boots, but then he began to sway and, suddenly, caught up in the moment, he drew his pale blade and began spinning around with his arms outstretched. His thigh-high red boots struck sparks from the floor as he shifted into a dance.

The crowd scattered and took refuge under tables or pressed up against the walls to evade the spinning wrai… er, person. Then, he began to sing.

Daggers and maces,
and bows at ten paces.
Longswords and spears,
that lay foes on biers.
Arrows on strings,
and cold golden rings,
these are a few of my
favorite things!

Liver and spleen,
and kidneys between.
Muscle and tendon,
and blades with to rend them.
Lungs, hearts and hamstrings,
and eyeballs a-bouncing,
these are a few of my
favorite things!

Nonplussed, Mithadan watched as Grrralph swept about the room. "'Enjoy yourself'" he said to Gravlox. "Good thing he didn't have a drink! Why didn't you double dog dare him?"

Gravlox watched as the tip of Grrralph's sword separated a guest's waistcoat into two neat pieces, amazingly without drawing blood. "You've got to admit," the Uruk responded with a toothy grin. "He's got style."

[piosenniel]

“What a wordsmith the Old Fellow was! And a true inspiration for those who have come after…” The rest of Pio’s acclaim was cut off as a long drawn out wail which rose and fell like the cry of some dark and lonely creature cut a discordant swathe through the room. Brows raised, she eyed the fellow as he spun and sang. “Have mercy!” she swore aloud. “Not bad . . . not bad . . . as far as lyrics go, I’ll give him that.” She watched as the fellow, now done with song, began to express himself with his sword. Drawing a knife from each boot top, she placed them close at hand on the table.

Pio raised her half-empty mug in the direction of the whirling singer, a friendly gesture. And one to say she was keeping her eye on him.

Taking a small sip, she raised it once again, high in the air. “And here’s to Himself, The Barrow-Wight, for making such a delightful place for us misbegotten wanderers to tarry awhile in…” She drained the last of her drink and set the mug upside down on the table.

“Arry, you know this one, I think.” She hummed low, a few bars of an old story-song. Arry strummed a mix of chords, fitting them to the rhythm of her singing. Pio nodded her head and winked a smile at him. “And you, ‘Vin,’ she went on, thumping her fingers lightly on the table’s wooden top in a soft, measured rhythm, motioning him to follow along. “Keep the beat for me . . . if you will.”

Pio listened as her two friends wove a light melody.

“Now this is a long-ago song from times when magics were carried on the winds.” She smiled a little to herself. “It brings fond memories of times of my own…”

I know a window in a western tower
That opens on celestial seas,
And wind that has been blowing round the stars
Comes to nestle in its tossing draperies.
It is a white tower builded in the Twilight Isles,
Where Evening sits for ever in the shade;
It glimmers like a spike of lonely pearl
That mirrors beams forlorn and lights that fade;
And sea goes washing round the dark rock whereit stands,
And fairy boats go by to gloaming lands
All piled and twinkling in the gloom
With hoarded sparks of orient fire
That divers won in waters of the unknown Sun -
And, maybe, 'tis a throbbing silver lyre,
Or voices of grey sailors echo up
A float among the shadows of the world
In oarless shallop and with canvas furled;
For often seems there ring of feet and song,
Or the twilit twinkle of a trembling gong.

O! happy mariners upon a journey long
To those great portals on the Western shores
Where far away constellate fountains leap,
And dashed against Night's dragon-headed doors
In foam of stars fall sparkling in the deep.
While I alone look out behind the Moon.
From in my white and windy tower,
Ye bide no moment and await no hour,
But chanting snatches of a mystic tune
Go through the shadows and the dangerous seas
Past sunless lands to fairy leas
Where stars upon the jacinth wall of space
Do tangle burst and interlace.
Ye follow Earendel through the West,
The shining mariner, to Islands blest;
While only from beyond that sombre rim
A wind returns to stir these crystal panes
And murmur magically of golden rains
That fall for ever in those spaces dim.

The last echoes of voice, and strum, and wooded beats fell away into the Great Hall’s environs.

“Well, done my friends!!” Pio nodded her head, smiling widely at her two companions. “Now, what do you say for another round of the ‘Downs finest? That was a rather longish song-poem – and my throat is parched!!!”

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

“Tha Eadigan Saelidan: The Happy Mariners”
----- from the Old Fellow: J. R. R. Tolkien - The Book of Lost Tales Part Two

[Galadriel55]

Galadriel watched through her Mirror as the Day of the Downs approached. Poetry and song! How else to celebrate Twenty Years of Tolkien and friendship? Galadriel dug around on the shelves, looking for a ruffled scroll with some very old writing. One of her first writings, in fact. The handwriting is simply embarrassing, the punctuation is atrocious, and the content?! She shuddered. :o A less thought-out fan fiction couldn't have existed. But no matter. It's the sentiment that counts. Right?


This tale takes root in ancient times
When Sun and Moon were young.
Wise Elves thought they had tales to tell
But their tales have just begun.
In those times joy was mixed with grief
And hope was in despair.
In such a place, in such a time
Stood Gondolin the Fair.

In that white city, proud and tall,
A blacksmith, proud and skilled,
Wrought three bright Elven blades of steel:
Those blades were wrought to kill.
Two kingly swords, like brothers, but
One older than the other,
And one sharp knife - a deadly knife,
He was the youngest brother.

And these three blades enchanted were,
A blessing was bestowed:
When orcs or other foes were near
They with blue fire glowed.
And special hatred for all foes
Was sown in them at start;
More deadly they have proved to orcs
Than axe or club or dart.

On silent night, when darkness ruled,
The thralls of Morgoth crept.
O'er high passes the entered in
When guards, unwary, slept.
They took the city by surprise,
Great treachery befell.
The few survivors who escaped
Now had their tale to tell.

The blades were buried under stone
And under ruins deep,
Until the waters of the sea
Between the mountains seeped.
They stormed and ravaged in the halls
By enemy laid bare.
Since then no man has trod the soil
Of Gondolin the Fair.

But not for water, not for loss
Were these blades shaped by Elves.
Their fate was greater than the fish
And salt sea-water wells.
The Lord of Waters did not wish
For skill to go to waste.
Upon the crests of his great waves
He brought the blades in haste

To shore, where they would one day be
By wary traveler found
Whose errand lead him to the Sea,
Who came by journey bound.
And men have come, and found the blades,
Though secret it remained
If this man just and honest was
Or with foul thieving stained.

The blades hid from searching eye,
They passed from hands to hands
Until by merry company found
With trolls in northern lands.
A sagely wizard took the first,
A Dwarven King - another,
A little hobbit with them came
And took the youngest brother.

Many were the battles fought,
Countless the foes slain;
Many orcs, alas, found out
That these blades were their bane.
When peace had settled on the land
And weapons put away
The middle brother on a tomb
Beneath the Mountain lay,

The eldest and the youngest blades
Have left the Hither Shore
And with their keepers they remain
In golden Valinor.
And through the Ages, from all years,
The blades enchanted hold
The tales and stories of the past
And memories of old.
...The grief and glory of the past
...And memories of old.

[Brinniel]

Brinn stepped through her door into the deep depths of The Barrow-Downs. It had been many years since she had explored this realm and yet it felt like coming home. In her last visit, it had been so quiet - but that was no longer the case. The rooms were teeming with life (so to speak), visited both old and new friends alike. The mood was joyful and full of song. One could almost forget that we have been living through such dark times these past weeks.

Twenty years The Barrow-Downs has existed - in the world of the interweb, that is no small feat! So much has changed in that time; after all, Brinn had only been a young lass when she had joined the ranks of the dead and now she was all grown up. And yet little has seemedto change here. The black walls and glowing green and gold remained the same. It was all so familiar that it almost felt like Brinn had stepped into a portal through time.

Not another moment to waste! Brinn made her way through and joined in on the celebrations. While some Downers were dressed festively, she opted for comfort and wore her special shirt (https://drive.google.com/file/d/1idw-vWh9h1OtJl0Os1Toz6kgBxDmdshL/view?usp=sharing) to commemorate the occasion instead. As the others made the rounds reciting poetry and songs, Brinn felt a tad embarrassed that she had come ill-prepared. "I have not prepared anything original for a long time, nor have I done much research," she thought. "But then again, what better time to share words from the Great Professor himself - a poem we all know well."




The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

[Envinyatar]

Envinyatar poured half his mug into a bowl and offered it to the dragon. In turn, Angara dipped her snout gracefully into the dark, foamy liquid and sipped up a generous measure of the ale. Her tongue flicked out as she finished and swiped the faint line of foam delicately from round her lips. He watched her, fascinated by the agility of her long tongue. And catching a glimpse of her sharp teeth, wondered if she ever cut the soft-looking skin on the under side of that tongue as it withdrew back into her mouth.

“Ahh, the things one does not know about dragons,” he thought. “And best not ask about, either.” Angara, he had noted, could be quite sharp in her reaction and quick to be vexed. Envinyatar chuckled softly to himself. “But then she doesn’t know me, either.”

As if she had caught the drift of his meandering thoughts, Angara turned her head toward him and narrowed her gaze. Before she could say a word, Envinyatar turned his full attention on her and gave her his own toothy grin.

“You know,” he began, wagging his finger at her. “I think I have a song (https://youtu.be/JZnPlBOZOvs), poem really, you just might like. I heard it from a fellow some time ago who’d just passed through the Withered Heath.” He shook his head, as the dragon cocked her head at him. “Yes, that very valley where old Smaug once dwelt.”

Envinyatar nodded at the recollection of the rough, old fellow who’d shared his camp fire one cold, dark, windy night. “Now he sang it fine, but no, I’m really not the singing sort. For the life of me, I cannot carry a tune.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But, I’ve a good memory and do love the flow of the rhythm of well placed words.” “It’s like a stream running over and ‘round and even under things,” he went on, “carrying those different water sounds, blending them in a such a way as to be pleasant to the ear and spirit.”

Pulling his chair closer to where Angara perched on the table’s top, Envinyatar began reciting in a low, cadenced rhythm.

The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf:
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold,
and like a tide it roared and rolled;
the branches groaned, the forest moaned,
and leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East;
all movement in the forest ceased,
but shrill and harsh across the marsh
its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
the reeds were rattling—on it went
o'er shaken pool under heavens cool
where racing clouds were torn and rent.

It passed the lonely Mountain bare
and swept above the dragon's lair:
there black and dark lay boulders stark
and flying smoke was in the air.

It left the world and took its flight
over the wide seas of the night.
The moon set sail upon the gale,
and stars were fanned to leaping light.

https://atolkienistperspective.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/erebor-map-worm.jpg?w=353&h=259

“Hmmm,” Envinyatar murmured as the last words faded from hearing, the desolate image dissolving, too. “Still brings a shiver to my spine,” he said quietly.

He shook off the chill as he raised his mug up high, above his head.

“And here’s to The Barrow-Wight – the author of this night’s celebration. May his life be long, his glass never empty, and his patience deep for us passing strangers in his realm!”

[mark12_30]

Lindo, who had climbed back into the rocking chair with the quilt, remained quiet for a while longer, except for the occasional sniffle. But ere long, he clambered down out of the rocker and went softly to Galadriel. It took her a moment to notice him. “Hello?” She said.

He bowed. “Lady, I am a minstrel myself. And I was born under the walls of Gondolin.”

Her eyebrows raised. “A halfling?”

“Indeed,” he replied, his eyes sad and quiet. “The blacksmith you sing of was a bold and fierce fighter, and he fell, so it is said among us, by the fountain defending the king. But the blades passed from our knowledge. Indeed we knew little but hunger in Ladros, until Ancalimon came. But no matter,” he said. “I only wanted to thank you for your song. I felt that I was standing by the King’s fountain in happier days.”

She stared at the slender grey-haired hobbit and the tear that yet to fall. “You, a halfling, were born in Gondolin...?” she whispered, her eyes narrowing.

He bowed again, deeper this time. “An honor that perhaps I did not deserve. But if you would like to hear the tale,” he nodded at the black and white dragon and the grey Haired Dunadan watching Gravloc, “He knows the whole tale, of which I played small part. Ask him.”

Lindo bowed yet a third time, and then returned to the quiet corner, the rocker, and the quilt.

[Arry]

“So be it!” cried Arry, foam spilling down the side of his mug as he clinked it against Envinyatar’s raised cup. “May the Old Wight walk unseen among us for as long as he pleases!” But under his breath he murmured a low entreaty to whatever bright spirits might be gathered round about. “And may he never lay eyes on the likes of me.” His left hand crept to the small leather pouch that hung round his neck by a thin braided string and grasped it tightly.

His old Gran had made the pouch and added to it a few charms to keep him safe when far from home – a tiny twig from the Hawthorne tree outside her cottage; a sage leaf, a bit of rosemary from her garden; and a wee pinch of dirt from the very path as went to and from her door. Small comforts to quiet a case of the shudders and goose-bumps.

‘Thanks, Gran,” he whispered to himself.

Arry tucked his leather pouch inside his shirt and took a long pull at his ale. “Say, Pio,” he said, setting his drink on the table. “I just remembered an old song I learned to play in the Shire.” He picked up his guitar and strummed a few chords. “I think you know it, too. There’s a tipsy cat. And a dog, and a cow, too! And those dishes – they ran away with the spoon!!” He laughed, his fingers nimbly picking out the tune as he smiled at her.

“Reminds me of the time we worked together at the Green Dragon.” His foot tapped out the beat. “Come on, join in!”

There is an inn, a merry old inn
Beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
One night to drink his fill. (https://youtu.be/ypVbkcXRFys)

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Far away, in a remote area of Elvenhome in Muddled-Mirth, the strains of a mournful song echoed:

Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
Our story's sound asleep, wake up, MeriSusie, and weep,
The RPG's over, it's twenty-twenty, and we're in caverns deep.
Wake up, MeriSusie
Wake up, MeriSusie, well...

Whatta we gonna tell Estelyn,
Whatta we gonna tell Mith'dan,
Whatta we gonna tell our readers when they say "Where and when"?
Wake up, MeriSusie.

I told your creator that you'd write Quest Three,
Well Susie baby, too ambitious were we,
Wake up, MeriSusie
Wake up, MeriSusie, we gotta go on.

Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
The RPG wasn't so hot, it didn't have much of a plot,
We fell asleep, our loose ends lost, our reputation's shot.
Wake up, MeriSusie,
Wake up, MeriSusie, we gotta go on.


And lo, the lay was heard, and two perfect, shell-like ears twitched, then a shapely head was raised, long golden tresses trailed behind with only as much tousledness as to be extremely attractive, and a shapely body rose from its long forgotten resting place. "The voice of my beloved has called me!" Merisuwyniel (for indeed it was she, being immortal) exclaimed. "But where is he?" In the back of her memory she realised that she had not finished the last quest upon which she had embarked, but this new quest was irresistable. She chose her most becoming raiment (to be described later) and embarked upon the search for Gravlox. :Merisu:

[piosenniel]

Pio pulled her chair about so that she faced the table. Crossing her arms on the table’s top she scrunched down and rested her chin on them. The fingers of her left hand drew lazy little spirals in the rings of ale condensed there from their many mugs.

Angara stretched out her neck and came snout to nose with the Elf.

“I had some doubts about this party,’ the dragon remarked, her head nodding slightly. Her tail swished lightly across the wooden surface, coming to rest as it curled beneath her chin. “But I must say the food offerings are quite tasty. And I applaud the resident barrel-master on the excellent wine, not to mention that ambrosial brew – the dark ale, especially.” As if to punctuate her approval, Angara gave a toothy grin.

“Glad it’s come up to your standards, Old One!” Pio returned. Noticing a half full plate of beef ribs nestled alongside a small mound of crisped tater slices, she reached out and pulled it nearer her companion. “Might as well polish these off, my dear – other wise they’ll be relegated to the slops bucket and it’s the pigs that will be enjoying them.”

“Hmmph!” Angara snorted. “I hope you are not comparing me to a pig!” She eyed the proffered plate and took in the scent of meat and taters. “For one thing, pigs cannot fly. And for another, they are my tasty morsels – I am not theirs.” The last few words of her declaration were muffled and she munched of the beef, her strong jaws crunching through the bone as if it were nothing. “Say,” she went on having swallowed the first mouthful. “Don’t we know that fellow over there?” She raised her head up high and nodded toward a table across the way.

Pio raised up in her chair, surveying the area of the room her companion indicated.

He was turned away from her, so she just caught a small portion of his face. His black hair was unremarkable, and if she narrowed her gaze she caught a few glints of silvered grey tucked in among the ebon. He wore a grey velvety sort of jerkin, white shirt, and the loudest pair of royal blue breeches she had seen in a very long time. He looked well nourished, at least from the back – his jerkin showed some tight creases in the back as he moved in his chair. “Hmmmm… seems familiar,” she murmured. His companion, she noted, was a well attired Uruk.

But wait. Who’s that?” Her eyes had caught a small black and silvered dragon resting near the man.

Angara snorted, giving a sly grin followed closely by a rumbly chuckle. “Mastered that form, hasn’t she?”

“You didn’t think to tell me Bird was here?” Pio asked, her eyes narrowing at her companion.

“We dragons don’t intrude on each other. And besides – where’s that keen elvish eyesight that misses nothing? If you hadn’t been throwing back those mugs of ale and showing off your singing, you’d no doubt have noticed. And furthermore…” The remainder of Angara’s comment was cut off as Pio began laughing.

“And so that fellow you first pointed out - the one in the bright blue pants. That’s Mith, isn’t it?” She stood up, hands on hips, and gave him an appraising once over.

“By the One, I wondered what he’d got in to. “

[Envinyatar]

The din of the party had ebbed. Envinyatar surveyed the hall, noting the guests had sorted themselves into smaller groups. Bodies leaned in more closely to each other. Talk grew quieter, punctuated by laughter at some shared joke or some funny remembrance. Even the lights seemed softer.

And how fortunate a boon is that! he noted to himself. The softer, lower lights smoothed out age’s natural ravages of long-gone youth. Ghosties moving through a pretty dream.

A slight shake of his head and the room came back into a more present view. Guests took on their ordinary guises. The voices crept up in volume. The view from where he leaned against a back wall grew sharper.

‘Hey, Arry,” he said, moving more toward the corner where his friend sat, chairback propped against the wall. Arry looked up from his guitar, his fingers still picking out the notes to some tune.

“Pio seems a little busy back at the table. Looks like she’s spotted another friend.” He lifted his chin a little indicating where Pio pointed at a group farther across the room. “And to be honest, I’ve had my fun seeing her again and you, too.” He smiled and gave a quick wink to Arry. “But I have plans to travel south. I need to get going.”

Envinyatar clasped hands with Arry and added. “Say good-bye to the Elf for me. I was never good at doing that. And Angara, too, if you will.” He reached into an inner pocket of his leather vest. “Give this to Pio – I found it in a rocky cave along the western shores. It’s a relic from the Old Fellow’s time.” He pointed to a bright crystal jewel in the middle of the slender box-like object. “Just press here and she’ll hear his voice.” He handed the device to Arry. “Quite amazing, really.” He started walking toward the door. “I think she’ll like it. I did.”

With a quick wave to his friend Envinyatar made his way to the Great Hall’s door. Opening it quietly, he stepped out into the falling dark.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan chatted with Lindo, musing upon their old journeys and the friends that they had known but had gone by the wayside as time passed. He smiled. "Those were good times," he thought. "Maybe dangerous and stressful, but still memories to be savored."

He shook his head. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps you might sing Maura's Lament before the night is out?"

Lindo's face clouded a bit. "That song if full of sorrow," Lindo replied.

"Do not confuse sorrow with evil," responded Mithadan. "We are better for having known him and Cami." Bird, her mouth stuffed with meat from a pasty, one of several on her plate, nodded agreement. Then she swallowed and raised her snout into the air, as if sampling a passing scent. Her eyes narrowed.

"Do you smell something?" she asked. "Like burning charcoal? Or brimstone? Maybe mixed with barbeque sauce? The spicy kind, not the sweet kind. Vinegary, not fruity. Maybe with a bit of five-spice. Or maybe..."

"I smell only food and good drink," he answered. "There is meat cooking upon a brazier over there..." He pointed, then paused, and his eyes narrowed as well. "Now there's a bit of trouble," he muttered.

"Where?" Bird took to the air and spun about. A stream of smoke issued from her nostrils as she readied for... another small dragon perched on the shoulder of a figure wearing a cloak. She had curly hair... she! Curly! "PIO!"

Flames spouted from Bird's mouth. Then, like a burning arrow, she shot off toward her friend and old partner in adventure.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

With the innate modesty only a truly Elven shieldmaiden possesses, a stunningly beautiful female entered the ballroom. The star-gem-studded deep blue gown she wore vied with her smile for brilliance, her golden hair rippled down beyond her trim waistline, and her violet eyes were obviously searching for someone. Yet her sensitive nature alerted her to the fact that a festivity was in progress, and she listened to others declaim their poetry with true interest. Here indeed were works worthy of performance, written by great poets who eclipsed the one she remembered from the Quest of the Entish Bow, Vogonwë, as the Sun eclipses all other heavenly bodies during the daytime.

She searched her long and perfect memory for something she could contribute, a work that would both honour the Great Maker of Middle-earth himself as well as the world in which she had spent many ages, Muddled-Mirth. And so when there was a lull in the conversations, she stepped into the spotlight and recited:

We RPG and libel it just so,
(for parody it is, the Entish Bow);
we write a post and read with smiling face
one of the many major wastes of space:
a sword’s a sword, some metal in a sheath
compelled to speak or to condemn to death.
Amid the serious, canon, lofty tales,
here, influence of moderators pales.

At bidding of a Plot, which we do bend
(and must), we only dimly apprehend;
the Itship marches on, as Game unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on screen ‘tis written without clue,
with letters green on background black in hue,
an endless multitude of posts appear,
some grim, some frail, some wonderful, some queer.

The REB is not compound of lies,
but draws some humour from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long enstranged,
he turneth in his grave, and every change
the faithful Travestometer doth see;
we hold in honour creativity
and splinter from the true LotR
our many hues with no intent to mar
the memory of him who’s now decayed.
We write still by the model which he made.

Then Merisuwyniel stepped back and her eyes found the one on whom all her thoughts rested...

[Morthoron]

Estelyn gave Morthoron a subtle wink, for she well knew that parody and satire were hallmarks of Moriquendi culture (hence, "Dark" Elves). Morth took the cue and ran with it.

"Minor characters," he intoned so that his baritone growl echoed unto the furthest recesses of the hall, "are the very stuff of what you mortals call 'fan-fiction'. To build a plot around a personage who was mentioned in passing, who barely had a bit of scripted dialogue, and who had no part to play in the greater story line, is, suffice it to say, the sophomoric act of making Mordor out of a molehill."

The Dark Elf threw back his cloak for added effect and concluded, "Therefore, in honor of that time-tested tradition, I give you a song - a ballad as it were - of just such a character. One not so noble, not very heroic, and certainly not worthy of the time it took for me to come up with the rhyme scheme. In any case, drink up, for the drunker you are, the better I shall sound:

Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
His character was minor,
And his grammar weren't much finer,
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man.

O, he was a man who lived in Bree,
Just like the whole damned Ferny family.
Bree-Men had names from botany
Like Goatleaf, Butterbur and Photosyntheses --
Photosyntheses?
Plural, if you please.

Don't ask Bill for a piece of his mind,
Or engage in pleasantries to pass the time.
Just be prepared to suffer a crime --
The greedy bugger would rob you blind!
Rob you blind?
Watch your behind!

Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
He used the mild expletive 'garn'
That's synonymous with 'darn',
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man.

O, he had a house on the edge of town,
Crackerjack built and quite rundown,
With an overgrown hedge that ran around
To hide his lawn unmowed and brown.
Unmowed and brown?
A toxic dumping ground!

And in his house with the broken panes
That ne'er kept out the wind and rain,
Did naughty acts better left unnamed
With sheep and chickens and ibex from Spain!
Ibex from Spain?
It rhymes with rain!

Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
He was a secret spy of Sharky
Whose retorts were always snarky,
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man.

O, Bill sold Sam a broken nag
For 12 silver pennies in a burlap bag,
And in delight he hid his swag
Beneath a pile of dirty old f*gs!
Dirty old f*gs?
Did I stutter? Did I lag?

And when at last they rode from Bree,
Frodo and Strider and the whole company,
Bill did sneer, but was forced to flee,
When Sam, apple-tossing, hit his nose with glee!
That line sucked!
Who gives a......

*Ahem*

Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
Bill Ferny was a brute of a man -- yes, he was!
There ain't much more to say,
But I'll say it anyway --
Yes, Bill Ferny was a brute of a man.
No, there ain't no more to speak
Cos' I've got to to take a leak,
But Bill Ferny was a brute of a man....

Cha-cha-cha!

[piosenniel]

Angara’s eyes went wide in disbelief, a half-chewed rib-bone dropping from her mouth. A flaming missile had launched itself in her direction. Had that pretender-wyrm gone suddenly mad!

I thought you said she had mastered the form! Pio’s words beat a loud tattoo in Angara’s mind.

With barely a heartbeat between the sighting of flames and the hammering of words in her head, Angara grew larger in size and knocked the Elf down, sweeping her beneath a table, far to the left of the fiery winged arrow headed their way. The flames would barely register against her own scaled hide and she intended her larger mass to be a cushion for the smaller dragon to bump into – and hopefully just fall to the floor.

In the rushed action she had not taken into account a fundamental old M-E axiom – Best laid plans etc. etc. . . .

Bird’s swift, flaming-snouted, densely compact body hit the larger Wyrm’s belly with considerable force. All equations, and vector diagrams, and complicated physics-maths aside – the two muscled and strong-boned, steely tendoned creatures went crashing against the back wall of the ballroom.

And through it . . .

Pio crawled out from beneath the table and clambered over the wreckage of wood and plaster and rent tapestry hangings. Kicking a once elegantly wrought sconce out of the way, she approached the final landing area of the dragons.

‘Well, isn’t this just a fine kettle of wyrms!’ she snorted, shaking her head. But where she had expected to see two dragons, there was now only one smallish gold one. ‘Lord & Lady! Angara – tell me you didn’t swallow her whole!” Angara puffed out her cheeks and spit out a sodden and bedraggled looking largish cricket. “Nope, I didn’t swallow her, now did I?”

neek-breek breek-neek neek-breek . . . came the irritated outcry from the pile of rubble where the Neekerbreeker now perched. In less than the time it takes to draw a breath, a slender woman clothed in leather breeches and a cotton tunic now stood face to face with Pio. Bird laughed, wiping a gob of dragon spittle from her cheek, and winked at her old friend.

“So, how’d you like that entrance?”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Truth be told, Merisuwyniel found herself somewhat in awe as she gazed about the room. Though she herself was ruler of a realm, here were those Great Makers who had created her entire world of Muddled-Mirth and brought to life the beings who populated it. She saw Thenamir and recalled his unusual technical abilities. There was Mithadan, whose creation had a special place in her heart and whose loyerly advice had helped in many situations. There also was The Saucepan Man, knowledgeable in arcane mythical legends and speaker of the strange language of Legalese. She observed The Squatter of Amon Rûdh, whom she knew in various incarnations, then peered about in hopes of seeing The Barrow-Wight himself, but she could not espy him. She was happy to see that Bêthberry had come, for she was a congenial companion in many guises.

Then she approached piosennial, of whom she had heard from afar, but never yet met. She waited hesitantly until the lady was no longer in conversation with others, and spoke: "Lady Piosennial, may I have a word with you?"

Pio smiled, "As many as you like, my dear! What is on your mind?"

"It has been many years since my story was told," she said. "The circumstances of my life have changed since then, and what is the use of having a realm of my own if I cannot brag - I mean, if I cannot share the experience with others? Will you grant me a small part of your realm to continue my tale?"

[piosenniel]

"Lady Piosennial, may I have a word with you?"

At the sound of that honeyed, and exquisitely modulated, question the three companions turned about. Their three pairs of eyes fixed on the vision that now stood mere inches from them, her dainty feet in the dusty rubble of the now destroyed section of the ballroom’s wall. Amazingly so, not one speck of dirt or mote of dust clung to her slippers. And it seemed the hem of her raiment, as if by some olden magics, seemed to inch up as needed so as not to encounter the dusty, dirty floor.

Bird leaned in close to Pio’s ear, asking sotto voce, “Do I have a concussion from that tumble?” She gave the apparition a slow once over. “’Cuz I swear I’m seeing someone from ages ago in one of our Dragons and Dungeons games!! – Laydeee Piosenniel” From behind the both of them, Angara gave a snort indicating both her agreement and her amusement.

Pio tapped Bird lightly on the shin with her boot, while ignoring completely the commentary from the Wyrm. She swiped her dusty hands quickly on her vest and stepped forward to greet the newcomer. Instructions, heard long ago from one who had thought to train her in court-like etiquette, rose up in her mind. She smiled and nodded toward the woman and remembered to speak politely.

“What is on your mind m’Lady?” she offered.

Pio nodded as the woman began her story. Her minded drifted, the effects of too many mugs and not enough food during the evening. She did manage to bring her attention back around just as the lady said, “…Will you grant me a small part of your realm to continue my tale?"

“My ‘realm’?” Pio asked, her brow furrowed. Bird and Angara were now convulsed in none too silent laughter. “Might I ask what ‘realm’ that might be?”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

"If my memory of the golden Âr-Pé-In days of yore still holds true, you are the one who holds the keys and can grant me the right to tell my story there. And who knows, mayhap I can encourage others to share theirs as well. Are you willing and able to do this for me?" Merisuwyniel asked.

[piosenniel]

Ah! The sconce was now lit in a dim and cob-webbed cellar room of Pio’s mind. “That realm!” she nodded.

She reached into the back pocket of her leather leggings and pulled out a thin, black, rectangular object. Just a little larger than the palm of her left hand. Its face was smooth and rather mirror-like. And with a light tap of her forefinger, the mirrored surface lit up and seemed to come to life with tiny little, and rather odd-looking, pictures. Or symbols, really. With a practiced rhythm, Pio tapped here and there, revealing other scenes seemingly captured behind the mirror.

‘Here we go,” Pio said, glancing up from the device with a smile to the lady. “I have to say I haven’t traveled in those lands for ages now. And the memories are quite dim. Although…” Her face lit up with a smile as the picture of a flag from a ship she’d once sailed on appeared - The Lonely Star.

Shaking loose from those pleasant, but now passed, scenes, the Elf brought up a picture of golden letters on a black background. Interspersed with the golden letters was a smaller ghastly sort of green writing. “Just have to log in here as Moderator,” she explained, tapping a few more places on the screen. She glanced up at the befuddled look on the lady’s face as well as on that of her other companions. “Uh… yeah… ‘log in’ is a sort of secret word for ‘keys’. And ‘moderator’ is my title in that realm – kind of like ‘Queen’ or ‘Princess’ but without a bevy of handmaidens and servants or a steady flow of monies or treasures flowing in for the use of my time and energy.”

“There you go, m’Lady,” Pio exclaimed, glad to have remembered the URL, her password, and the general layout of the Âr-Pé-In realm.

“Just click your heels together three times and you’ll find yourself there – with as many as you’d like to bring along for company.” She made a final tap on her device and the mirror blackened as she slid it back into her pocket.

“Oh, and by the way, I’ve left you a message (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/forumdisplay.php?f=27) in the Âr-Pé-In Game Planning & Discussion barrow of my, ummm, realm. Very easy to find," she said in an assuring tone.

"Have fun!!!”

[Arry]

Arry watched as Envinyatar crossed the room and slipped out the door. “I sure hope our paths cross again,” he murmured to himself. Seems like an interesting man – lot deeper than he lets on.

Glancing around the room he noted that the demolition of a section of wall by the two dragons had not seemed to perturb most of the party-goers. He had not been to a previous party and wondered what outrageous incidents might have occurred that the partiers were immune to such events.

Pio, he saw, was still in conversation with a very beautiful lady. Serious conversation, it appeared. Arry rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering what that was all about. Was the woman planning on hiring Miz Pio? Behind them, still looking a bit bedraggled, was Angara and another woman. He narrowed his eyes trying to picture her more closely. “I wonder if that’s the Elf’s old friend she talks about so fondly.” His brow furrowed as he dug deep for a name. “Bird”, he said aloud, nodding his head in confirmation. “That must be her! Looks just like the way Miz Pio described her.”

Remembering the strange device Enivinyatar had given him, Arry reached into his vest pocket where he’d placed it. “I wonder what this does?” He sat down at the table and placed the slender box-like object on the table’s top, turning it around slowly to see all sides. His eyes were drawn toward bright crystal jewel in the top of the box. “Vin said he’d found it in a cave by the western sea. And it’s from the Old Fellow’s time.” Arry picked it up for a closer look. “How cool is all that!!!”

He put it down once again in front of him. Trusting nothing too outrageous would happen if he gave it a try, Arry pushed the crystal button as Envinyatar had instructed. There was a quiet click followed by a soft hum. Then a rich voice sang out (https://soundcloud.com/brainpicker/jrr-tolkien-sings-sams-rhyme-of-the-troll) as if the singer were right here next to him.

“It really is him, the Old Fellow, Mister Tolkien, himself!!!”

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: ‘Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o’ my nuncle Tim,
As should be a-lyin’ in graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin’ in graveyard.’

‘My lad,’ said Troll, ‘this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o’lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Thinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don’t need his shinbone.’

Said Tom: ‘I don’t see why the likes o’ thee
Without axin’ leave should go makin’ free
With the shank or the shin o’ my father’s kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!’

‘For a couple o’ pins,’ says Troll, and grins,
‘I’ll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o’ fresh meat will go down sweet!
I’ll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I’m tired o’ gnawing old bones and skins;
I’ve a mind to dine on thee now.’

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o’ the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain’s root,
For the seat of a troll don’t feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan.
And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom’s leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don’t care, and he’s still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll’s old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!


Sam’s Rhyme of the Troll
--- J. R. R. Tolkien

[piosenniel]

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain’s root,
For the seat of a troll don’t feel it.
Peel it! Heal it! . . .

The voice of the Old Fellow came to her ears just as she finished her conversation with the lovely Lady. Try as she might, the Elf could not recall having met her, and no name sprang to her mind even as if might have been mentioned in some passing conversation. The Lady did seem as if she might be an interesting person to get to know. She was from out of town, Pio guessed, trying to place her pattern of speech. And the seemingly archaic references she had used made the Elf curious as to just exactly where and when she had come from.

“Better keep an eye on her,” Pio murmured to herself. “Didn’t see any obvious weaponry about her – but it always pays to be on the cautious side.” She turned to see Bird and Angara giving the Lady’s departing form a curious appraisal. “Don’t ask,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know either!!”

Bird, with a now small Angara perched on her should, pointed at a table inside the Great Hall. ‘Don’t sees how we can fix this at the moment,” she said, gesturing at the dusty rubble where the wall had collapsed. “But let’s go sit over there and catch up. Haven’t seen you in ages!” Bird laughed at her words. “Ages! Get it – Ages!” She punched Pio in the shoulder to emphasize her point.

Angara, for her part, rolled her eyes and snorted.

Once they’d sat down, with the dragon settling comfortably on the table top. Bird waved over a server and ordered drinks all around, including a bowl for Anagara. “Now,” she began having taken a satisfying swig of ale. “What’s going on with you? “I noticed you came alone?” Angara cleared her throat at this question. “Oh,” said Bird, “alone with Angara then, right?”

Pio narrowed her eyes at her friend. “Yes, we came together . . .” She looked at the Wyrm. “And yes, it has been ages. All our kids are now grown and their children’s children, too.” Brushing her fingers lightly on the table to give herself a little time to consider how much to say, she nodded her head slowly, “We’re just tramping around a bit. Seeing some of this part of the wilds.” And, of course, seeing a few old friends,” she went on. “Before we head south . . .”

[Arry]

When the song finished, the crystal button on the device went dim. Arry picked the little song box up and placed it carefully in his vest pocket. He looked over to where Pio and her two companions were seated close together at a table, deep in conversation. Gathering up his guitar and rucksack he made his way over to where the Elf sat.

“Hey, can a fellow buy you all another round of ale?” He flashed his best smile at the three.

[piosenniel]

“Before we head south…”

Just that half sentence had captured Bird’s attention. She leaned in closer to Pio, her eyes narrowing. “South,” she echoed. “Now isn’t that interesting. You know, I…” Her stream of thought was cut off by a politely voiced, “Hey, can a fellow buy you all another round of ale?”

Angara sidled up to Arry, answering his smile with a toothy grin of her own. “Why, yes, my dear Arry. That would be just the thing” She managed a dry cough as if to emphasize her point. “I don’t know what these two want, but would you mind getting this old Wyrm one of those delicious looking bright green drinks with the frothy topping?” her long thin tongue flicked out and licked at her upper lip. “I heard someone say it’s made with juniper berries gathered at the summer solstice. And most delicately infused with wild flowers and a dash of refreshing herbs.” Angara closed her eyes and seemed to actually be purring at the thought. "Sounds quite delectable, doesn’t it,” she said, nudging Pio with a talon.

Pio arched her brows at the description of the drink. “Delectable? Maybe…. But do you think you should have that on top of the ale you’ve already downed?” Angara gave her a dismissive lift of her snout. "Thank you for the offer, Arry,” Pio went on. “And yes, we’d like to take you up on your offer!”

Bird added her thanks too, looking the young man up and down. “Friend of Pio’s?” she asked. “I’m Bird,” she said introducing herself as she extended her hand.

[Arry]

“Very happy to meet you, Miz Bird!” Arry shook her offered hand firmly, a smile lighting up his face. “I’ve heard lots of grand stories from Miz Pio about her adventures with you. Glad to put a face to her travel companion.” As he finished, he realized he still held Bird’s hand and was still shaking it. A red tinge crept down his cheeks. Letting go her hand, he nodded to the three ladies and said he would be straight back with the agreed upon drinks.

The line was short, and it was just a bit later that he returned with a pitcher of ale, three fresh mugs, and one of those tall and rather dreadful looking bright green drinks – this one with any extra layer of frothy topping and some gold colored sprinkles. “Here we are, m’ladies,” he said setting the drinks on the table. He dared a wink at Angara as he positioned her glass within her easy reach. Picking up the pitcher, then, he poured a mug each for the Elf and Bird and himself.

He settled in a chair, his guitar close at hand and his rucksack tucked neatly on the floor beneath his seat. He was about to take a drink when he recalled the device Envinyatar had left for him to give to Miz Pio. “Oh, say, Miz Pio, I’ve something here that Envinyatar wanted me to give you.” Arry dipped his fingers into his vest pocket and pulled out the device, placing it flat on the table. The light from a nearby sconce seemed to infuse the crystal button on the top of the little rectangular box with a rainbow of lights. The crystal flared up and blazed for a moment.

“Envinyatar said he had to leave. And he wanted me to make his good-byes to you.” Arry shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Said he was no good at doing such. And he gave this to me, saying it was for you.” He pushed the small device toward the Elf. “He said he found it in a rocky cave along the western shores. It’s a relic from the Old Fellow’s time.” Arry pointed to the bright crystal jewel in the middle of the slender box-like object. “Just press there and you’ll hear a most amazingly wonderful thing.”

Arry smiled as Pio pressed down on the crystal. There was a small whirring noise and then a familiar voice began to tell a story.

Pio’s face lit with delight at the sound of the storyteller’s words: (https://youtu.be/3OVzkiveUr0)

The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinúviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.

There Beren came from mountains cold,
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.

Enchantment healed his weary feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
Through woven woods in Elvenhome
She lightly fled on dancing feet,
And left him lonely still to roam
In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
Or music welling underground,
In hidden hollows quavering.
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,
And one by one with sighing sound
Whispering fell the beechen leaves
In the wintry woodland wavering.

He sought her ever, wandering far
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,
By light of moon and ray of star
In frosty heavens shivering.
Her mantle glinted in the moon,
As on a hilltop high and far
She danced, and at her feet was strewn
A mist of silver quivering.

When winter passed, she came again,
And her song released the sudden spring,
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
And melting water bubbling.
He saw the elven-flowers spring
About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
Upon the grass untroubling.

Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinúviel! Tinúviel!
He called her by her elvish name,
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinúviel
That in his arms lay glistening.

As Beren looked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering.
Tinúviel the elven-fair,
Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
And arms like silver glimmering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless.

-----------------------------------------------
--- J.R.R Tolkien reading The Song of Beren and Lúthien

[piosenniel]

The poem had come to an end – the device from which it had played became silent. Bird leaned her cheek against her hand, her arm resting on the table top. “Nice. Very nice,” she murmured. “Wasn’t it, Pio?” There was no immediate answer from her friend; the Elf looked faraway – lost in some long ago memories. Bird nudged her with her free hand.

Pio rubbed her hands together softly and came back slowly to the present. “Yes, very nice,” was her brief reply. She turned her attention to Arry. “Did Vin say anything else, Arry?”

Before Arry could answer, there was a loud slurrrrrp... followed by a softer burp. Angara lifted her snout from the now empty glass of green liquid, a thin mustache of whipped topping gracing her upper lip. “Say, Arry do you think you might find me another of these? And ask them to give it a generous shake of those gold sprinkles.” She looked about the table as her companions fixed her with doubtful stares. “What?” She sat back on her haunches and huffed a bit. “It’s a party, isn’t it?” Angara let out a long, satisfied sounding sigh. "Have not been to one in a very long time."

[Arry]

Arry nodded his head at Angara’s request, though on looking closer it seemed as if the wyrm’s eyes were not quite tracking together. He looked toward Pio and Bird, his brows raised. “Looks like that was some potent potion Miz Angara,” he said turning back to the dragon. “And look at that line at the bar, will you!” He reached under his chair for his rucksack and pulled out a long, tight woven cloak. “Bit chilly in here, isn’t it, since that hole got knocked in the wall.” He flung the cloak over Angara, soothingly encouraging her to settle in and just rest a bit til he could bring her another drink.

After several more minutes of soft talk from Arry, Angara’s eyes closed and the low, even sound of her snoring became part of the background noise of the party. He looked up and saw the surprised faces of the Elf and Bird. “Grew up on a farm,” he began. “My Da raised sheep. And I learned to talk down the skittish Mamas about to have their lambs.” He grinned. ‘Didn't know if it would work on Miz Angara – I think the amount of spirits she drank down this evening helped a bit.”

Arry adjusted the cloak a little around the sleeping wyrm and then settled himself into a chair closer to Bird and Pio. “Now what was it you asked, Miz Pio?” He took a swig from his mug. “Right! About if Vin said anything else before he left.” He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the scene of the man’s leave-taking. “Yes, now I remember. He said to give you his good-bye and a good-bye to Angara, too. And then he said he needed to be on his way. That he was headed south.” He looked at Pio with these last words. “And begging your pardon for eavesdropping, but didn’t I hear you saying something along the same lines when I came over to your table? Something about you heading south, too?”

He topped off the mugs of the two ladies, then sat back waiting to hear what the Elf would say.

[piosenniel]

It was Bird who spoke up. “You know, I wanted to tell you a while ago that I was thinking about traveling down south myself.” She tapped Pio on the knee. “Don’t know if you recall, but I think I told you that there was some talk from the ones who fostered me that my people come from down there. Bird pursed her lips in thought. “I know hardly anything about my real kin,” she said quietly, her voice trailing off.

“Yes, I do remember.” Pio shifted her chair closer to her friend. “Look... I’ve had a letter from a friend in Far Harad. His family, and his clan, I should say, live there. He’s wanting me to come down. Something he wants to show me.’ She gave Bird a weighed look. “And,” Pio went on, “he asked if I’d seen you… and would you come, too.”

Bird leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes at the Elf. “Just how does this this fellow know my name?” She bent forward, close to Pio’s face, and spoke in a low, clear voice. “And, in particular, why does he think I’d be interested?”

Pio thought how she might put the answers in a good light. But then, this was her old companion – no need to present things other than just plainly. “Well, it’s like this, Bird… he’s a skin-changer, from a Maenwaith clan. I told him a little about you - the we were good friends. I shared some of your background. I asked if he could fill in some of the blanks for you. I was going down to see what’s what.”

“Going - without me?” Bird interjected.

“By the One, Bird! Not by choice! Hadn’t heard from you in years. Didn’t know where you were. Or how to reach you.” Pio laughed and shook her head. “As a last resort, I even tried ósanwe – but we were never good at that, were we?” Bird snorted and shook her head, ‘no’.

A momentary silence fell between the two companions, broken at last by the impetuous Elf.

“Soooo… how about I just throw this out there. Come along with me! It’ll be like old times.” Pio winked at her friend. “It’ll be fun!”

[Arry]

“Hey! I’m in!” Arry leaned forward in his chair, his eyes shining. “I’ve never been to Gondor. Only once made it to the northern feet of the White Mountains.” He looked from Bird to Pio.

“I’m a pretty good companion on the road.” He started ticking off his positive qualities. “I won’t slow you down – been tramping most my young life. I’m good at hunting for meats and greens and tasty herbs from off the land. And, if I do say so myself, I’m a dab hand at cooking them.” He flexed his shoulders and biceps. “I can pretty much pull my weight in any situation.”

“And…” Arry picked up his guitar and picked out a tune. “I can keep you entertained when we camp.” He set his guitar back down and leaned forward once again.

He put on his most endearing smile. “So, when do we leave?”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn looked into the ballroom once more - the wights had faded back into their own lives and locations, but their voices and faint images lingered. Conversations continued in other rooms of the Downs, and she knew that the Barrow would always be home to her and to many others. As she wiped the tables and swept the floor, she smiled rather wistfully, wondering what the coming year would bring. In a low (and melodious, of course! :Merisu: ) voice she began to sing:

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate...

[Mithadan]

As the assembled crowd grew silent and lost in their own thoughts, typically a foreshadowing of a mass exodus from the party to take place shortly, Mithadan smiled. It had been a long time since he had done more on the Barrow-Downs than post an occasional thought, start a rare thread or do some needed policing. Long ago, he had posted as often as anyone. Long ago..., and here was the reminder of how long. Twenty years. Around 1998, he had begun to first scour the internet for sites with information about Tolkien and Middle-Earth. It was not long before he came across the first message board. A sleepy place with few posters having a short attention span. It disappeared quickly. He did not even recall the name... something like the Tolkien Meeting Room or something like that. Shortly thereafter, with news of the movies beginning to percolate, Mithadan discovered a few more bulletin boards. Some were too quiet. Some had members that actually knew one another and weren't interested in outsiders. One was dominated by a moderator that was convinced he was the ultimate authority on Tolkien. Another was fixated on the movies.

He stumbled upon the Barrow-Downs within days after the site opened (the splash page opened a bit before the forums; did anyone here even know that the site has a splash page?). He did what most people do. He lurked for a while without registering or posting. Then he jumped in with both feet. Not only did he post; he started a new thread... and got flamed. Mithadan chuckled. He even recalled who did it. A condescending reply along the lines of "shouldn't this be posted in the Newcomers Forum?" This was almost enough to make him leave. But he didn't. And soon, he virtually met Barrow-Wight, Mr. Underhill and Sharku, who eventually made up the initial team of Administrators. Twenty years ago...

Taking up a wine glass, Mithadan drew a dagger and tapped it against the rim, sounding a bell-like tone. The room grew even more silent as he stood. Curious, Bird flew over and perched upon the back of a chair.

"Estelyn!" he cried. "Thank you for organizing this virtual get-together. This has been a fine party on a worthy occasion. And a welcome distraction from our troubles and concerns. To Estelyn!"

He drained his glass as the crowd chimed in with cheers and cries of "Here, here!" and "Good old Esty!"

As the cheers died down, he continued. "The is the Down's twentieth birthday! That is a long time for a website to exist. Even Facebook is not that old!" He looked about at the faces surrounding him. "I do not know everyone here. I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

"Oh-oh," whispered Pio. "He's leaving again."

"But," he continued. "I hope that I will get to know many of you. And to those who have been long absent but appeared for this special event, thag you bery much!"

He took a deep breath and his smile grew a bit sad. "Twenty years," he said. "A long time. And perhaps I have been an absentee for many of those years. I wish I had not been. For I have enjoyed being a member of the Downs. I have enjoyed the discussions, the RPGs, and even the arguments. You see, before I joined the Downs, my interest in Middle-Earth was, to quote the Professor, 'a secret vice.' Until there was an internet, I did not know anyone personally who had an interest in things Tolkien. It seems inconceivable today, but its true. And thank you, Barrow-Wight for making this happen!

"So for the last twenty years, I have enjoyed the opportunity to converse with people having like interests, something I could not do during the... ten years I lived before that."

"Ha!" proclaimed Saucepan Man. More polite, Piosenniel and Birdland merely chuckled.

"In about 2005, I first noticed something," Mithadan continued. "Some of the members that had first posted a few years before had disappeared. These were persons that I, at least, considered colleagues that shared a common interest, and, at best, friends. Some had made announcements or explanations, others simply were gone. Some reappeared years later, for a month or a season, but most did not. Others arrived and filled their spaces, if not their memories. Keep in mind, this was years before "Social Media" in its present form developed. Members never used their real names and rarely shared them; there was a real fear of hacking and identity theft, as well as perhaps a desire that the members "vice" remain secret. I sometimes received queries from concerned parents worrying about who their children were speaking to."

Mithadan paused. He seemed to see faces and images that others could not. His smile faded almost entirely. But it did not disappear. His message was both melancholy and happy.

He continued. "The folks that I posted with in 2000 to 2005 are not the same as those who posted in 2005 to 2010, 2010 to 2015, or 2015 to 2020. Yes, I have gotten to know new members and make new friends and some old timers are still here. But I miss those that are gone. Yes, I could look up the e-mails that they used to register, assuming they survived the change over of platforms and that the members still use the same accounts, but that would be a bit strange. Perhaps some will stop by again, as several have to attend this party.

"But their words and thoughts survive, maintained on our forums. They are not forgotten. So my last toast today is in honor of those missing. I have prepared a list of some of those departed members; those that I recall fondly. You should all feel free to recite your own lists and why you remember those members. Mine is too long to give reasons why I miss them. Suffice it to say that I do. And if I have forgotten anyone, well, they will have to stop by and remind me who they are... or were."

He laughed. With a twinkle in his eye, he added, "For I am not Mithadan. That is only my persona. Just as they are not their screen-names"

The doors to the hall opened and a line of Stone Trolls entered. Each, ignoring the screams of those who fled from their entry, marched with dignity into the center of the room. Each bore a drum and carried drumsticks. They formed a (slightly ragged) line and awaited Mithadan's signal.

"This list contains the screen-names of those who once posted here, but are now gone. Members that have posted or visited within the last several months are not included, even if they rarely appear. Some may have very few posts, but touched my soul in some way. Some may not have visited in many years. Others that have many hundreds or even thousands of posts are not included simply because I do not recognize them. This is my personal list. I urge you to post your own lists in honor of your departed friends. Something like this was done many years ago in a thread entitled A Memorial of Members. (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=4648)

"To all my friends who have moved on, a toast!" After each name was recited, the drums rolled.

Mithadan removed a scroll from his pocket. When unrolled, it nearly reached the floor. Interested, Bird craned her neck, a stream of smoke issuing from her nostrils. "Don't even think about it," warned Mithadan as he pulled the scroll out of her reach. He cleared his throat and began to recite his list.

"*Varda*
Aganzir
Ainaserkwen
Alaklondewen
Alfirin
Alkanoonian
Amanaduial the Archer
Aralaithiel
Arwen Imladris
Aylwen Dreamsong
Azaelia of Willowbottom
Balin999
Belegorn
Belin
Beregond
Beren87
Birdland
Bruce MacCulloch
burrahobbit
CaptainofDespair
Child of the Seventh Age
Cuthalion
dancing spawn of ungoliant
Daniel Telcontar
davem
Diamond18
dogtrot
doug*platypus
dragoneyes
drigel
Durelin
Dwarin Thunderhammer
Ealasaide
Elenna
Elmo
Encaitare
enep
Envinyatar
Erendis
Feanor of the Peredhil
Finwe
Firefoot
Frodo Baggins
galpsi
gamegie
Gil-Galad
Gilthalion
Gordis
Gwaihir the Windlord
HerenIstarion
Ibrîniðilpathânezel
Imladris
InklingElf
JenFramp
JennyHallu
Joy
Kalessin
Kalimac
Keeper of Dol Guldor
LadyBrooke
Lalwende
lathspell
LePetitChoux
Lindil
Lindolirian
Lobelia
Lotrelf
Lush
Mad Baggins
Maedhros
Maikadilwen
Man-of-the-Wold
Marileangorifurnimaluim
MatthewM
Mattius
McCaber
Merendis
Mhoram
MLD-Grounds-Keeper-Willie
Mnemosyne
Morai
mormegil
Nerwen
Nienna
onewhitetree
Orald
Phil the Balrog
Phrim
quam
radagastly
Raynor
red
Rhun Charioteer
Rimbaud
Rose Cotton
Samwise
Saulotus
Sharku
Sindacuion
skip pence
Sleepy Ranger
Susan Delgado
Taimar
Telchar
Tevildo
The Might
The Perky Ent
the phantom
The X Phial
Tigerlily Gamgee
VanimaEdhel
vanwalossien
zifnab"

He drained his glass again.

[Snowdog]

"Gah! Leave it to me to be late to the party. I was yet again off rangering and maybe got a little pre-loaded at the inn over on another board."

I walk over to see if there is any ale left to be had. "I did catch your words there Mith... many have come and many have gone. Like you I remembered searching out the webz for the boards in 1999 & 2000, and remember coming to Barrow Downs when it was on EZ Boards using my global account. I never seemed to stay long in one place and I think I could guess which boards you mean by your descriptions."

Snowdog turned and saw that Estelyn was tapping a frothy mug of the finest ale from the Shire, brewed by that Hobbit masterbrewer Harry Largebarrell of Oatbarton in the North Farthing. Rumour had it he made both the Green Dragon house ale and the deep amber of the East Farthing sold at The Golden Perch.

"Woo! Some ale remains! Thanks much for the tankard!" The rather unkempt ranger took a long draw from the flagon and set it down. "Yes... i likely have spanned all yhose eras that Mithedan mentioned, but being I managed to accumulate five hundred some posts in that time, one can see I was elsewhere much of the time. My early years were spent on The One Ring dot com, but after a couple years I managed to get banned mainly due to marriage-politics. Then the White City was a place I was a regular until it become a ghost of itself.

Anyway, always loved The Barrow Downs as it was where true Tolkien types were, being the Barrow Downs weren't in the PJ fanfix. I just yesterday re-discovered my Barrow Downs t-shirt, along with my Minas Tirith t-shirt and Tolkien Forums t-shirt. I had a Barrow Downs mug for a number of years but lost it somewhere in a move.

What a list Mithadan! I met Lush here and still stay in touch with her and her journalistic work! I recognise a couple other names there as well. Nice party!"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A dim figure, small and unobtrusive, cloaked so close about that he was hardly visible, sate in the corner quietly sipping a fine mug of ale. Pulling the pipe from his mouth and blowing out a magnificent ring he raised the smoking instrument above his head as though in salute, or acknowledgement.

"To friends long ignored," he said, "but often in my thoughts."

Dropping the hand which had held the pipe aloft to the table, he busied himself with knocking out the ash and cleaning the instrument before putting it away. Then taking up his mug he sipped another contemplative sip of ale before putting it back in its place too, then assumed an air of one about to speak wisdom. The gathered dignitaries fell silent, and into that great quiet expectancy the figure spoke one last time:

"In days such as these, we must needs all remember: be kind to one another, for there's more good in the world than evil, and faith in that -- though long in being rewarded -- is sure." And so saying he fell silent, and those who listened thought that he was done. But just as they turned away, from the dark corner the voice added: "And floss. Always remember to floss."

[Snowdog]

*Gets another ale*

And among the tshirts I re-discovered is my December 2001 Spokane Riverside Theater Trilogy Tuesday shirt! a marathon EE Fellowship, EE Two Towers, and premiere at midnight of Return of the King! :cool:

Since a new lockdown was announced here in Melbourne I guess I'm forced to stay at the party....