Welcome Back Birthday Party!
 

"Welcome to the Barrow-Downs forum!" the Lady Estelyn said. "Here is the City of the Dead where dwell the Lord Barrow-Wight and the Ladies and Lords of the Administrators and Moderators. Long were we unable to enter, for our foes caused the destruction of the gate, and long have we waited for its repair. Yet now we meet again and welcome friends old and new, as is our wont. Enter as you wish and partake of the singing, dancing, feasting, and story-telling."

Arms opened wide, the Lady smiled to see many familiar faces in the city they all loved so dearly. She welcomed each one in anticipation of a wonderful festivity.

The old printing press was covered in cobwebs. More cobwebs than it usually was, at any rate. A small society of spiders, moths, and gazelles had taken up residence in the thing, making operating it a near impossibility.

Sir Hookbill Blackstone Goomba, hadn't written a word in many years, yet still felt confident that delivering the news would be the easiest thing imaginable. He took up a rock and slammed it against the wall repeatedly, banging out the news in morse code. Unfortunately, he was using a form of said code known only to himself and the family of gazelles living in the printing press.

A line of people passed by his wall and gave him a curious look. A little man stood in a ditch next to a single wall and a printing press inhabited by large south asian antelopes was not a common sight on the Barrow Downs.

Sir Hookbill, who had received his knighthood in a dream from a domesticated leopard dressed as the Barrow Wight Himself, maintained his stance. For another four and a half minutes at least. One can't stand in a ditch too long; trench foot was an issue The Downer staff had been plagued by on multiple occasions.

So, soggy and covered in ink, Hookbill followed the procession and started shouting things at other party guests. Things like, "NEWS!" and "OPINION POLLS", and "I WROTE A BOOK, DON'T YOU KNOW?"

Amazingly, he wasn't thrown out.

Nogrod had fallen asleep already some time before the falling of the gates and had slept ever since. He had awoken some time ago though, into a pitch dark world of silence - and a pressure on his wide chest. He was buried underneath the fallen rocks of the gateway.

For a while he tried to push with all his might, but the boulders that kept him imprisoned against the wall were not moving. The only thing moving seemed to be the little imps coming and going about managing their mischief. This he could hear but not do anything about.

And he grew angry with the little bots.

And he drew breath growing powerful in his might.

And he pushed with all the power of a great dwarven sage and smith.

And... he couldn't move the huge rocks.


Just as he had more or less given up and fallen asleep again he heard the noises and saw the tiny speckles of light coming from somewhere up above... He heard the eerie sounds of... what? The Barrow-Wight!

The Barrow-Wight and his apprentices had been hunting the little bots down and were now blowing the doorway open again!

"I'm here!" he bellowed, "help me out!". Someone clearly heard him and the huge boulder leaning on his chest pulverized into dust making Nogrod cough ridiculously.

"My sincere thanks to you my sirs. Could I be of any help?"

Suddenly he saw something small moving from the corner of his eye and sent his hammer flying shattering the little bot into pieces. "Aye, not much, but something...", he smiled.

Hearing the roar of others breaking through the doorway he smiled wider though. It seems we did this together, all of us - with the benevolence and guidance of the Barrow-Wight. He cheered aloud and even to his own surprise took a few dancing steps.

"O! Tra-la-la-lally!"

Cresting the hill, and seeing the repaired gates, Lindo was delighted. It had been so long... he drew a deep breath, and did not know whether to shout or break into song. The choice was made for him. Across the moor he heard an old favorite tune, sung by a deep, husky dwarven voice. He whooped in reply, and then replied (in tenor): "Here down in the valley! Oh tril lil lil lil lil lolly, the valley is jolly!" He ran laughing all the way to the gate and arrived breathless. He greeted singing dwarf with a salute, greeted a fellow who sped by shouting "I WROTE A BOOK DON'T YOU KNOW!" with "That's wonderful, congratulations!" And then he found Lady Estelyn, and bowed very low. "Well met, Lady Estelyn," he said. "It is good to be back. Have you ever seen antelope like those before?"

The Dark Elf sat in a clichéd shadowy corner of the room, his face shrouded beneath a stereotypical hood. Before him on a prop trestle table rested a mug of hackneyed stock (which he, as an archetypal elf, of course did not drink). He glanced around with a look of shopworn aggravation and issued a well-worn growl of standard filmic odium:

"Pffft! Bloody tourists."

It seemed a cruel irony to Encaitare, that no sooner had she taken leave of her dear friends and made the long journey back to her own land, their old home and meeting-place was lost to them. Friends had gathered from near and far in the house of Kath for songs, games, and merriment. But where friends gather, they must eventually part. Encaitare had mourned the destruction of the great barrow that held so many wonderful memories for her.

But finally the day had come! The gate had been rebuilt, and the Barrow-Wight and his workers were beginning to clear away the rubble that the bots had left behind. Encaitare strode through the gate with a smile and a twirl, greeting her old friends as she passed them. Some of them were already singing with clear, strong voices. Encaitare drew her flute from her pack and hopped up onto a fallen block of stone that had yet to be cleared away. She began to play along to the tune, a merry welcome to each traveler who entered the city.

Gal wandered back curiously into the town, as if waking up after a long nights sleep, and with a feeling that something's been changed. "What happened to the yellow buttons?" she thought.

"Opinion polls!" she heard someone shout. Immediately, she replied, "I disagree!"

"I wrote a book, don't you know?" the man continued. Gal thought for a second. "Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall someone saying something somewhere about some book sometime. Maybe it was that time when we were enjoying onion rings and finger food in Chatau d'Mordor. Can't wait to get back to that place."

She continued walking. And walking. And walking. She knew her walking would have to be cut short soon - she could barely breathe due to her plugged nose and her eyes were streaming, all because some wind-pollinating plants can't be a little more discreet about their reproductive mechanisms. But she knew it would pass eventually; it always did. In the time that she had before she collapsed, she managed to think, "Weren't there also way more spheres around here?"

The boggart had been busy for there was mischief to be had everywhere these days, and many things to shout about in the night. It had bellowed about wars between men dressed as bats and men in iron suits. It had screamed about raggedy men in blue boxes. It had stalked the dark corners of a land with many kings at war, and a school where children rode on broomsticks. It had even collected a lot of little plastic bricks; those bricks generated a very satisfying sound when stepped on.

But there was one thing better than all of this and it was to make unearthly noises about wizards and their 'third way' and how rmagic rings really worked. The boggart entered the room surrounded by its usual fog, bent double, coughed, and said: "Sorry, it's just miasma."

Ah! The old barrow. She had wandered far, seen and done many things in the years since it had been a regular haunt. But it had always been there, welcoming and familiar in its cold and eerie way, for the days when overwhelming nostalgia or a burning question had drawn her back.

Then - to find the old way blocked! Suddenly the untold stories and unwritten conversations seemed so pressing in their unavailability. She had to get back. What a relief now to find the old way opened again, and the barrow filled with life and music.

A drink then, and a toast - "To the Barrow-Wight, to old friends, and to new memories yet to be made!"

Lady Great had been off on her own, utterly drawn in by her private teas and curly headed singer men. She hardly noticed her old barrow on her way to rattle the teacups, but one day she noticed a big sign outside of her much loved home. She couldn't go in anymore. Distraught as she was, she didn't idle, she threw in what she had to enter again.

After months of waiting, here she is again in her dusty old tea shop. "TeaGew's is open for business again after a long absence.," she hollered from her front door. Some had already arrived at the party: curmudgeonly Lal, the crazy old newspaper man Hookbill, Morth sitting in his corner to name a few. Ah. The familiar sight of home.

Well, I'm back., she said.

Look!

Up in the sky!

It's a bird!

No, it's a plane!

No, it's a, a....DRAGON!!!!

EVERYBODY HEAD FOR THE HILLS!!!

RUN AND HIDE! RUN AND HIDE!

Wait, there's a familiar figure sitting on the dragon among the...baggage..?

Dragons come with baggage?

That's a tale for another time, for Kuruharan had returned riding his magnificent pet dragon Chrysophylax.

Yes, Kuruharan, World Renown Raconteur and Traveling Salesdwarf had come bearing free(ish) drinks, along with games, inflatable bouncy castles, barbeque grills, swimming pools, and other such trinkets all at reasonable rates!

Form an orderly line please, no trampling each other in your excitement.

As, comparatively speaking, a more recently-interred inhabitant of the Barrow, Zigûr loitered nervously in the background, occasionally muttering something about the "fatuousness of modern culture" to reassure anyone who might be interested that he had not undergone a radical transformation over the intervening months.

Lommy, too, had slowly tramped back, after having been evicted from her home and done a might tour of Middle-Earth. ("I saw penguins!" she liked to tell people. Or: "I held Orcrist! The real one!" Surprisingly few of these discussions turned into debates about grave robbery, which was fortunate.)

Now Lommy was looking around, paying little attention to all the shouting and dragons and whatnot - those were, after all, common occurrences at the 'Downs. She smiled. Everything looked as it had always looked, if the grass on the barrows wasn't even greener. "Awful thing that what happened," she muttered, peering into a barrow to see if there were any traces of damage. "I bet it was that Bombadil fella collapsing wights' residences again."

Then she nodded, pleased with herself for figuring it out, and headed out in search of food, drink and old friends.

A Man entered the room. His cloak was stained and threadbare. His boots were caked with mud. His shirt was torn and his trousers were more patch than cloth. And were those cobwebs on his hands? His fingers were bent and gnarled as if from long disuse.

His hair might once have been raven black, but now the dominant color was silver. His head hung as if weighed down with sorrow or great regret, yet he seemed familiar.

He walked to the bar and leaned heavily upon the rail. Then, as if with great effort, he straightened himself and raised his head. His eyes were clear and grey and a hint of a smile crossed his face. And with that smile, years seemed to fall from his shoulders. He reached for a flagon of ale and raised it up in a salute, before taking a long draught.

He turned about to face the room and scanned the many people around him. Some were familiar, others less so. He brushed the cobwebs from his hands and stretched out his fingers.

"I... remember this place," he said quietly. "I have been here before, but have been long absent." He drew a hand across his eyes, and his smile grew broad.

"I have been here before," he repeated. "And I have missed this place."

A person he did not recognize came forward hesitantly. "Your name, sir?"

The Man hesitated. "My name? I... I was... Nonesuch... and... other names." He frowned as if deep in thought. "Gravlox? That sounds familiar. Aelfwine? Grrralph... and there was another... another name."

Kuruharan stepped forward. "For five silver pennies, I will tell you your name," he said, extending a hand, palm up.

The Man reached into a pouch, rummaged about, then counted five coins into Kuruharan's hand. The Dwarf crooked his finger to the Man, who bent over to allow Kuruharan to whisper in his ear. Then he straightened, and a look of amazement passed over his face.

"I... I was Mithadan," he said. It was almost a question.

Kuruharan hesitated as if he was considering asking for another fee. Then he also smiled.

"No," the Dwarf said. "You are Mithadan."

It had been ages. Kitanna had traipsed here and there, thinking she could always come back to her beloved barrow and the City of the Dead. For a while it seemed the old dwelling had been lost to smoke and fog, fallen into complete disrepair. However, the dark days appeared to be over.

Kitanna laughed maniacally to see the city repaired. With the old crazed twinkle in her eye, Kitanna wandered through the gate to find old friends and partake in merriment. After all, everyone knew wights threw the best parties.

After a spasm of panic at realizing he had turned down the prospect for an additional fee, Kuruharan decided to surrender to the joyous nature of the occasion.

"Here, have some complimentary fireworks," said the dwarf as he handed them to Mithadan. "Just make sure to set them off outside," cautioned the dwarf. "I wouldn't want to have to live through a repeat of the...nevermind."

:-)
 

Hail and well met old friends!!

It has been many a year since I visited the Barrow and thought it may have met the fate of Numenor, but am very happy to see it's revived.

:D

Awakened by a bark
But, oh, it was dark
Fortunate for a candle then
Unfortunate... it's wax was spent

This place I remember
Before torn asunder
The army that attacked
That we gallantly fought back
We claimed victory
So they live in misery

...

Meh I've got nothing else. Hi guys!

"Alright! Party! Hey Larry, back that wagon up here!"

Larry Largebarrel backs the wagon up and stops by the door.

"Now, we brothers of Largebarrel Brewing of Oatbarton have brought two kegs of our fine ale, and a firken of honey mead to celebrate this great occasion of re-opening of the Barrow Downs. For the malt-heads we have a keg of Shagrat & Gorbag's Black Imperial Stout (brewed under license), and for the hop-heads we have Freddy's UPA (Umbar Pale Ale). Taps are set from the back of the wagon so no unloading necessary!"

Freddy and Larry Largebarrel each tapped a flagon from each of the kegs as Hanasian the Dunedain Ranger rode up. Dismounting, he took his wood flagon from his belt and tapped himself some honey mead. Lifting it high he said,

"Long Live the Dead!"

We the five living inside this single head are delighted to see the gate open again

May us spend more time inside now that we value the place the more for its absence

He hadn't haunted the Barrow Downs for a long time, the wight called Pitchwife. Years ago he had discovered a portal into another world, ventured through and been seen no more on the green hills of Tyrn Gorthad. Far had he travelled through spheres beyond the realm of Arda, become engrossed in alien (not Alien) lore, worn other names and faces and met other kindred spirits.


But in all his adventures he had never quite forgotten the cosy necropolis where he had been born into the digital afterlife. "One of these days," he used to tell himself, "I'll pay a visit to the good ole Downs, check what's happening and who's still around." Somehow, though, that day had never come - it had always been another day and yet another, and there had always been something else claiming his attention, and so days had agglomerated into years.


By and by, however, he found himself getting homesick, for what is a wight without a barrow but a wisp of ectoplasm adrift on the winds of the ethernet? So one day he said to himself, "Tomorrow never comes. It's now or never."


Even after all his years, he still would have found the narrow path blindfolded that branched off the King's Data Highway (formerly the East Road) and led southwards up into the mist-shrouded hills, but to his dismay it was overgrown with brambles and nettles, and when the fog cleared it revealed a view to rival the Desolation of Smaug. Where once luscious grass had covered the hills there was now only scorched earth, all the mounds and barrows had been bulldozed, and the whole site was cordoned off with black and yellow tape.


Serves you right, said a snarky little voice inside his head. One does not simply walk away from the Downs, come back years later and expect to find everything as if time had stood still.


There were places in space and time, it seemed, you could never go back to. But even if that was so he still felt he had at least to find out what kind of catastrophe had come over the Downs. So he made a trip to the nearest hardware store and came back a few days later armed with a shovel, resolved to dig up the virtual soil until he knew what had happened.


But lo and behold! The path had been cleared, and the tape cut up and woven into pretty garlands with cobwebs and mistveils to adorn the standing stones; and young grass was growing on the hillsides, and the earth had opened and released its dead, and a good many merry ghouls, wights and liches of yore (and a couple of new ones) were dancing on the fresh verdure, gaily lit by corpse-candles and will-o'-the wisps, and drinking mountain dew from skull cups and singing.


Then the shovel fell from his hand, and joy pierced his undead heart like a blade of the Dúnedain, and tears welled up in his empty eye-sockets.


Whatever you say, said the snarky little voice in his head, don't use that Sam Gamgee quote. You know which one. It's so hackneyed.


"Oh do shut up," Pitchwife told the little voice. He gazed at the Downs, and slowly he lifted his arms and opened them wide.


"It's a gift," he said.

The Defeated Repairman's Surprise
 

Thenamir trudged on in the direction of the old barrow, carrying his toolbox and prepared for long labor and bitter disappointment. Though he now seldom frequented the musty dwelling wherein he had enjoyed much goodfellowship in days past, he still dropped in from time to time to sweep up a bit, replace damaged support joists, and try keep the place in good repair for those who continued on in his absence.

Then came that day when he found the gates were barred and immovable, the bolts secured with many intricate and impenetrable spells and wards of closing. Thenamir was no magician (though previous fixes had some of the barrow denizens muttering about "wizardry"), and no chisel, axe, or mace in his toolbox could penetrate the dreaded Forrowfor that denied him entrance.

Since that day he had returned as often as his other responsibilities allowed, toolbox in hand, to try again. And again. And yet again. All for naught. "It would be easier," he ruminated as he walked, "to break the locks on the Barad-dur itself than to wrest this barrow-gate open."

As he neared the last bend in the road before reaching the entrance, Thenamir thought he heard...something, a very strange noise for that desolate and gloomy place...it sounded like...a boom-boxin' get-yer-groove-on hoedown! He raced aound the turn and found the doors open, a sparkling disco ball visible from the entrance, and a live (well, as live as one gets in a grave) band thumping out dance tunes!

His toolbox and his jaw hit the ground simultaneously...but picking them both up he joined the general merriment and rejoicing...

Through the fog and the rain and the shade of mossy trees, Aganzir drifted in, savouring the walk through the overgrown grass. You know when you have been away a long time and see the shapes and colours with new eyes, with a feeling of déjà vu almost? You recognise the names and faces but from another distant place, and then suddenly it clicks and they are who they have always been, indeed who they are - to you - meant to be. And you know that you've come home.

OH MY GOD PITCHWIFE I MISSED YOU SO FREAKING MUCH WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN HOW ARE YOU!????

ahem

Aganzir bent to pick up something that was glistening and sparkling on the grass. It was a silver ring that she recognised from a New Year's Moot a year and a half ago (one that she had used to propose to a fellow Downer, who rejected it because apparently it looked too much like a ring pull). She smoothed it with her thumb and carried it gently back to the Great Barrow.

"It's the Barrow treasures," she said, almost shy to hear her own voice again after all this time. "You see, all scattered. We need to bring it all back to renew the spell of the mound. No more toys for Tom and for his lady Lucy. No more cracks in the walls, no more infiltrators and spies (she cast a dark look at HDwwdbpc who was trying to sneak in). Only the Wights and the dead."

And then her face lit up and she laughed.

She rushed to grab the Lady Estelyn in a tight hug, and to dance a few steps with Nogrod along to Encai's tune, and peck Lady Great affectionately, and grope Lommy ("HeEI!! AGANzir!"), and express great delight and surprise at seeing Pitchwife again. And she complimented Kuru's mighty dwarven beard and asked for permission to touch it, and then she turned around rather abruptly and wandered off whistling (Livin' on a Prayer, rather poorly). She could later be heard speaking about the complimentary drink she had got from Kuru ("For warming his miserly old heart by being so fond of dwarves").

And she greeted people left and right - people she had barely talked to before and people she had known for years alike. And when the laughing and dancing and eating began to tire her, she sat down at Lady Estelyn's feet, content to watch and listen.

Olen ollut pitkään poissa kotoa.

The Dark Elf, realizing he had been more hostile than hospitable, sought for atonement. Therefore, he got up from his shadowy corner and said (in a very loud voice):

"YOU ALL LOOK VERY GOOD...FOR DEAD PEOPLE!"

His limited grasp on cordiality having been strained beyond its bounds, the Dark Elf offered a sheepish half-bow and sat back down.

*Kuru collects himself after having his beard touched by Aganzir and quietly passes Morthoron a drink*

Any initial awkwardness Pitchwife felt as he mingled with the crowd was soon swept away by Agan's exuberant welcome. He gave her a tight hug and whirled her around laughing wildly, then set her down and stooped to help Thenamir pick up his tools and his jaw. When everything had been put back into place he turned to stroll around a bit.


He waved with both hands to Noggins and Lommy, gave respectful nods to Kuru and Mithadan, was a little worried by Morth's unwonted outbreak of cordiality (but chalked it up to the circumstances), bowed to kiss the Lady Esty's hand, poked Hookbill in the ribs and congratulated him on having the gumption to actually finish writing a friggin' book (a quality he had often found himself sadly lacking) and started to think about getting himself a drink when a young woman collapsed right at his feet. Kneeling down to assist her, he found her face strangely familiar in spite of her eyes being swollen shut by allergy.


"Good golly, Gally, is that you?" he exclaimed. "One might think you've drunk from the waters of the Ents - I could swear you've grown!"


He led her to TGEW's tea stand where the great elven healer had soon prepared a herbal mixture for G55 to inhale and put a lukewarm teabag on each eye. She also had some deliciously smelling Earl Grey brewing which Pitchwife was very much tempted to sample, but he decided that tea would do better for breakfast the morning after the party. Tonight was no time to stay sober.


He went over to the beer wagon and bade Larry Largebarrel draw him a pint of ale which he sipped as he ambled around, smiling happily at all the faces around him as fond memories long buried awoke in him. On a night like this it was good to be dead.


In the end he sat down on a boulder next to a quiet, sombre-looking wight who had something vaguely Númenórean about him. "I don't think we've met," he said, "but mae govannen!" He toasted his neighbour, took a deep draught and wiped the foam off his moustache with a contented sigh. "So," he turned back to Zigûr, "what about the fatuousness of modern culture?"

After giving Aganzir a great big ole hug and kiss in excitement (isn't it nice to see old friends at home again?), Lady Great went back on her business of preparing tea for everyone.

"I will not be getting drunk tonight, folks," she announced with passion, "but when the rest of you are too far into your drinks to stand up, I will be here to hand out some warm tea and scones. Just don't break my china. I've had to steal it back from that old Tom Bombadil, you know."

Taking a break from dusting off some saucers from her collection and yelling, the lady brewed some tea for her old friends, Pitchwife and Galadriel 55. "Enjoy!" she sang, and danced away to collect some shiny things for the Great Barrow.

Estelyn smiled as she looked around the Barrow - the party may not have been so crowded as in bygone years, but those who came were true friends, dear to her heart. She had abandoned her post at the door and was enjoying the food, whirling as many wights as she could in time to the music, and generously distributing hugs all 'round. It is strange to feel so alive when you're dead! she thought.

The Gal could feel her eyes getting better already. "Thag you very buch," she said to Pitch and Lady Great, albeit belatedly. She was glad to see both of them back here in the comfortable Barrow.

Bêthberry stretched back from her kneeling and crouched position. It was hot in the mid-afternoon sun and after days of weeding, digging, raking, and planting her fingers were stiff and her old bones ached. The warmth of the sun, though, felt good after the months and months of a long, cold winter that had just about rivaled the Long and Fell Winters of earlier ages.

Wyrd took this opportunity to divebomb her, gently, as he had been for the last two weeks, trying to peck at her hands in their gloves and playfully combing her hair with his claws. He returned to this several times despite her hand lightly batting him away. "What are you doing with the game, Wyrd?" she asked. "You've been doing this the entire time I've been planting the spring vegetables and herbs. You know I need to plant the herbs now so I will get a good crop of them before the frost returns."

Wyrd circled higher and higher, crying his kee-eeeee-arr as his circles widened and then he straightened his path and began flying south, towards Gondor. Just as he flew out of sight, he quickly turned and returned, swooping down again on Bêthberry, this time actually grabbing the clothes off her shoulders as if he would pick her up and carry her. He had never been that insistent before.

"Is there news, is there news, Wyrd, that I am called back to Gondor? Have the orcs been defeated? Are we called back to Gondor to celebrate?"

Wyrd nodded his head, emphatically and as if to emphasise his point he even scratched some soil over the trowel Bêthberry had been using.

Bêthberry rose. "Well," she said to him, "I have just finished all the planting. Let me water the herbs one last time, bathe and pack, and we shall be on our way. If you are leading me on a merry chaste for nothing, though, don't look to me for any special treats."

With that remark, Bêthberry rose, collecting all her tools and seedling trays, empty now, her tiredness forgotten in excitement at once again seeing all her Downs friends at a party. She hoped she would be able to borrow a horse or pony to make the trek shorter. And she hoped the party would still be going on once she got there!

The finest sentiment I have seen in this thread must be attributed to Heren Istarion. My old friend, you said it best.

I have missed you all.