(Pioseniel wins! "The Producers" was correctomundo! Just pick a prize off the Bee-Dubya's gift table. Hmmmm, not much left except the 1978 LoTR action figures. Seems we're not the only larcenous party-goers here...)
Everything had gone wrong with the beautiful plan, since that horrible hobbit-child Primrose had so unexpectedly appeared in the darkness. ("Wait a minute", thinks Birdie, "I usually think hobbit-children are absolutely adorable! What's going on here?")
C.7.A. is crouched over a sodden, dog-eared margin-scribbled copy of "The Silm", crooning "my precious, my precious" under her breath. "Ya know," thinks Birdie, "I really should try reading that someday, and find out what all the fuss is about."
Pioseniel, whistling nonchalantly, as if she wasn't the one to come up with this cock-a-mamie scheme in the first place, has grabbed a bottle of vin ordinaire and is wandering off with Veritas, perhaps to seek the truth.
And where is the REG? "In my pocketess?" Birdie pulls out some lint, 47 ticket stubs to LoTR:FoTR, a book of matches from the Prancing Pony, and a cheap gold Elven ring that she flips into the bushes. No REG.
In the fishing net? She rummages around, but it has disappeared from the supposedly "safe place", but all that remains is some bones and scales.
All she knows is that Mithadan is looking decidedly mithed...errr...miffed. "I better make like a Balrog and fly", thinks Birdie. Suddenly a whimpering Balrog with bloody stumps where his wings were runs by. Another not-so-good sign.
Suddenly, all REG heck breaks loose! A mysterious, thundering, red-headed who's-it looms above the party-goers, covering the fields in a not-so-nice cloud of doom and destruction.
"I have reclaimed what was mine!!!!"
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