[Birdland]

The little fox stood at the very edge of Topfloorien, Gravlox’s billet deux held gingerly in his teeth. Orcish paper was made from the coarsest of wood pulps (with blue solid and dashed lines to aid in penmanship), and to clutch it too tightly could lead to rather painful splinters below the gum line.

Looking back, the fox could just see a faint line of Orc-heads, grinning helpfully and waving him on with many snickers and poking of ribs. Looking ahead he could only see shops of innumerable sizes and shapes; straight or bent, twisted, leaning, squat or slender. The Elvish mega mall seem to go on forever, with paths leading off in all directions. With many a look back, and a heavy heart, the fox set out.

There were, of course, Elves everywhere. Elves here, and Elves there. Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children. All shopping, their faces proud and fair, clutching their shopping sacks, with receipts in their silver hair. The fox shuddered as he dodged amongst the bustling shoppers, trying his best not to touch them.

Suddenly a lithe Elf maiden leapt in front of him, holding an atomizer and flashing an ageless, cavity-free smile. “White Simarils, Sir?” she asked brightly as she fogged the air between them with a blast of elanor scented spray.

The little canine ducked and dodged, muttering “No thanks. Allergies”. The Elf-maiden gave a sad, puzzled look - the Immortal Folk having no concept of runny noses or itchy, watery eyes. Then a tall, slender Elf Lord appeared in front of the four-legged messenger, sweeping a tray of broken bakery goods in front of his nose. “Would you care to try a sample of our Chocolate-Chocolate Chip Macadamia Lembas today? We’re having a special!” The fox backpedaled furiously, stammering “No, really! No thank you! I’m…I’m low-carbing!” The Elf Lord gave him a withering look, hand on hip, and sniffed ”Looks like you could use it, honey”, before he turned to seek another victim.

The fox scanned a near-by map, glowing with its own internal Elven light; marked with a bright “X” and runes reading “Welcome, Friend. You have traveled far, and are now here.” But the map was of little help. In all this mass of Elf-manity, all scrambling in a frenzy of buying and browsing, selling and pitching, how was he ever to find the Fellow/Gal-ship?

Suddenly the Fox found himself in a grove of trees filled with ancient statuary, all infinitely beautiful and impossibly thin, draped in the very height of Elven fashions. He was surrounded by a herd of Elven-teens, all fingering the finery with squeals of delight, checking the tags and swooping down upon the racks of ready-to-wear dotted amongst the trees. The trendiness of Topfloorien seemed to bear down upon the fox, and he felt that he could bear it no longer, and without warning he let out a shout: “Oi! Oi! I don’t want to buy anything! Just let me pass through, will you?”

The silence surrounding him was deafening. All eyes were upon the cowering little creature in the middle of the sales floor. Then the silence was broken by a lanky Elf-teen wearing a carefully distressed, faux Rohanian riding jacket. “Nice topknot, dude!“ he sneered, and the bevy of Elf-maids around him snickered.

The fox drooped even farther, realizing for the first time that pink probably really wasn’t his color. He had never felt so alone and out of it. Why had he ever come here?

But suddenly he raised his head. There was an answer, or so he thought. He turned round to listen, and soon there could be no doubt; someone was singing a song; a deep glad voice was singing happily, but it was singing nonsense:

Hey Dol! Half-Off! Ring it up! I’ll take it!
Here’s my card! Box it up!
You have to buy if you break it!”