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Thenamir, the spirit of capitalism, was broke again. Being a capitalist doesn't always mean one will be a successful capitalist, and his latest idea for making a million farthings, Selling foot warmers to hobbits, had failed as miserably as the last 50 or so ideas he had. Fortunately, being dead means that your expenses (like food, shelter, and clothing) are very low indeed.
He was roused from his musings by a banging on his barrow-entrance. He prepared himself to scare whoever should so intrude on his privacy, and was disappointed to find that it was only the postal-wight bringing his ghostly and insubstantial mail. "You know," he snapped at the departing mail-carrier, "you could just float through the door instead of making such a contemptable racket." The post-wight stopped for a moment, then turned around with a smirking grin on it's face and a multi-bolt crossbow in its hands, spraying Thenamir and his door with crudely-fletched arrows. One of them actually passed thru Thenamir, leaving no mark or wound in his ectoplasmic form. He closed the door, muttering about how many wights were going postal these days. "Some people should just go back to their bodies and live in the real world again for awhile," he thought in an insulting fashion.
He was about to toss the mail in the trash (he never got anything except junk mail and sale-circulars, and he'd been to enough wight-sales to last, well, an eternity) when he spotted the gold-engraving on what appeared to be an invitation. Having no social life to speak of he tore open the envelope and out drifted a vellum card from none other than the Divine Miss Estelyn asking for his presence at the Annual Barrow-Ball and Birthday Bash. "Just in time," Thenamir thought, "I'm down to my last hobbit foot in the fridge, and I could use some free grub." He arranged what was left of his insubstantial hair, assumed the appearance of a wealthy businesswight, and flew down the road at such speed that he actually raised a bit of dust of with his see-thru form.
Arriving at the party he floated thru the entranceway just in time to hear H positing her theory on Bombadil's wings. "My dear Miss H," he said in haughty tones as he swiped a pitcher of ale and a handful of finger sandwiches from a passing servant, "still spouting that old nonsense about Bombadil, are you? Everyone knows that Bombadil's wings were just metaphorical in nature. To be sure, I don't think Bombadil really exists. He's just a story that our fearless-leader-BW made up to explain why some tasty hobbits robbed his barrow blind and got away with it. And we here all know about BW's sleeping habits. The hobbits probably wandered in while he was on the slab and too lazy to get up and take care of the problem. And who can blame them for wanting to lift a few pretty baubles? BW has quite a collection...or used to, anyway."
Some of the gathered guests gasped that he should say such insulting things about their chief, but others snickered quietly, knowing he was probably right. For her part, Estelyn/H smiled at the latecomer and offered her pale luminescent hand.
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