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A tall and not-quite-haggard stranger strode across the Barrow Downs, nursing a limp in his left leg, the last vestige of a once badly broken leg. He had not crossed these grounds in many months indeed. His countenance had changed in those days (he wore new glasses now), and none in those parts knew him by the names he now used: the Philosopher-King, the Church-Geek, and the Edmontonian.
His nose twitching in irritation, the Philosopher-Geek walked up to the barrow, noticed the absence of action inside and the instructions to a lawn party behind, and so quickly jotted down a birthday greeting,
"May the peace of the Valar leave this unhallowed place untroubled for many years to come."
The Edmontonian did not sign it. He had a vision from years long past, of a ghost--Piosennial was it?--that haunted anyone who left their signature on such things.
Unable to linger longer at the door, he slowly trudged around the barrow to the lawn party. It had been what? One year? Two years? since he'd lived in these parts. Such a long time. He had charted many strange courses (like 'Ancient Near Eastern Religions' and 'British Romantic Poets') in the time since and he doubted many people would be left who remembered him.
Then he reached the lawn and there was Esty, and there was Bęthberry, and there was Oddwen: familiar figures all. It was like stepping into a picture; all of a sudden you were there and amid all the strange hairdos and and clothing styles that looked terribly outdated and left you with the jibblies because you used to dress that way. Except it wasn't quite that bad, because Hookbill the Goomba was nowhere to be seen.
"Wonder where the old Goomba is?" he muttered to himself. "Better not be in the hospital having surgery--he owes me an appendix."
For better or worse or uglier, Formendacil had returned to the Barrow Downs.
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