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It had been a harrowing experience. A brief reprieve from the horror that is work had been required by the lass that is called Feanor of the Peredhil. She made her way silently and stealthily to the address bar... she began to type. F... O... R... U... A name mysteriously appeared below her command. She checked behind her, making sure was not followed. She pressed onward. Carefully Feanor returned to her work, pretending convincingly that she was accomplishing something. She spared a moment to look about... to see if she had yet reached The Barrowdowns. Her jaw dropped in horror.
Have I been blocked? she thought, panicking. I know I used words that are not particularly family friendly, but they were via private message... and they were used in discussing dialect, speech patterns, and all number of okay things. She tried again, fruitlessly. She made her way to the void that some call the Chât Rüm. A reassuring message met her.... the words of Bêthberry met her eyes, telling her not to panic. The letters could not have been more welcome than if it had been emblazoned on a small grey box. In any case, they were emblazoned within a large one.
Fea gave up all hope and returned to what has been labelled the Rëal World... a place full of terrible things, all of which should be sent to Mordor. Nearly completing the work that she so longed to put off, she eventually went to bed. The next morning she awoke.
A party? How droll. But at least we are back. Fea made her way to Bethberry. "Do you need a hand? Mine are theoretically detachable, should the need arise." She winked at the hospitable woman. "What in the world caused this stir, do you know?"
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