2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[Everdawn]

"I hope Ill see you again" Piosenniel had called to her before hurrying off.

The Everdawn closed her eyes and bowed her head once more, "Don't think on't, These last days are passing swiftly for me, and I will be gone sooner than I may know." she smiled.

She then let her strange grey eyes wander over the party until they came to rest upon passin hobbit children who were looking at her in awe. Elfsun knew that it was strange to see a Silvan elf in these parts, she meerly waved to them before passing. She came to a table away from the buzz of the general populus and decided that she would sit for a while before commencing her journey again.

Elfsun was sitting captured in her own thoughts when upon the stage infront of her a girl began to sing a very odd song indeed. The girl finished and spoke though Umbariel was still to mistified thinking about the song in question to speak praises right away.

"I though that was wonderful" she said eventually to the girl.

[Kransha]

So far, the party had gone rather well, despite the incident with the belching. After that, Kransha had engaged himself in a pleasant conversation with that pile of pots and pans who he splattered Turkish Delight over and left the tent feeling pleased with his social skills. Then, he’d been approached by a group of Beornings who said something about ‘watching his aim, next time,’ and headed off into the crowd. Now, he was ambling in an ambling fashion (as amblers often ambled) and trotting with brisk resolve past the buffet tables. As he strode along, his posture as fine as always, he heard a duo of calls from two directions. One was recognizably female, belonging to his friend Roa, and the other much more regal and terrible, which undoubtedly belonged to his other friend, Fordim Hedgethistle. As the monstrous being and delicate female alighted near him, he heard the deafening roar of Fordim’s question.

“Balrogs have wings, Fordim? Why, isn’t that sort of obvious? I mean; what sort of a question is that anyway? Do elves often have blonde hair and now how to surf? Are wargs actually hyena lemming hybrids? Are Dunharrow’s Dead Men green? I should say so…I mean, I should say not…or so…or, well, I’m not entirely sure what I should say, but I know what I will say, and that is ‘I have no idea.’”

The orc just realized that he’d completely and utterly dodged the question, but he didn’t care. Looking at Fordim Hedgesthistle, he really couldn’t perceive whether the shadowy silhouette, wreathed in crackling flames, had wings, stylish epaulets, a billowing cloak, or an up winded skirt, so he never even pondered a guess as to what those 'appendages' sprouting from Fordim really were.

Kransha had always thought Hedgethistle was a funny name for a balrog, but he never dared question the screen nom de perre his cohort had chosen. He’d seen, or at least heard what balrogs could do from his estranged second cousin, Raksha, a Moria sort of fellow, who’d told him several painfully excruciating and detailed stories about Durin’s Bane. They were a scary lot, though Kransha had eventually lost the perception that Fordim was scary, since many considered Kransha himself rather intimidating (he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was an orc, or the fact that he was an orc who wore trimmed tuxedoes on a regular basis and enjoyed vodka martinis). At the moment, Kransha just stuck out his hand, still contemplated Fordim’s apparent scariness, and shook the huge, almost shapeless mass of shadow and flame that was Fordim’s hand with his own rough, clawed, gnarled one. He ignored the incredible heat, grimacing to himself as he masked that same grimace with a smile and extracted his smaller hand (still big by human standards) from the heated grasp of his quite-possibly-winged-but-not-entirely-sure-about-that friend. He turned, with an only semi-confident grin plastered on his face, towards the Wight’s barrow nearby as some person who Kransha didn’t know made a very loud, very noticeable announcement about a robbery.

“My, my, my, a gift stolen from the Wight. Now that’ bad news if I ever heard it…and I’ve heard it…a lot…Well, regardless, that’s very unfortunate. Fordim, why don’t you just fly up into the sky and see if you can spot that rapscallion who appropriated the old fellow’s trinket, hmm?” Kransha laughed an orcy laugh, which eventually degenerated into nervous chuckling as he saw a slightly disapproving look on Fordim’s face (if it could even be called a face).

[Nuranar]

Nuranar was pacing forth and back, trying to compose a suitable…something…for writing on her brand-spanking-new parchment note cards. To write a note, one must first salute the addressee. But how do you address a web site? This conundrum, unanswerable for the time being, was starting to annoy her, so as usual she decided to skip the introduction. She always maintained that introductions were much easier written last, anyway, because then she knew what it would be introducing.

That was when she started pacing. Looking picturesque and pretty, perched on a tree stump, was all very well, but the creative juices couldn’t flow without being stirred. Pacing kept her mind enough occupied to prevent it from being distracted by the seriously spellbinding scene of a party precipitately progressing toward peril.

She was just triumphantly sorting out the meter of the first couplet when a red and green blur appeared right under her nose, her ankles flew out from under her, and WHAM! she measured her five feet eight on the grassy but, as previously noted, thoroughly uneven ground.

Her first thought decidedly resentful thought was that Halladan had chosen this ill-advised manner in which to announce his early return from, and the consequent emptiness of, the banqueting tables. So already she was preparing to spring to her feet and flatten all seventy-nine bony inches of him when “I am so sorry!” a decidedly feminine voice said.

Quickly squelching the impulse to attack, Nuranar instead rolled over and accepted the offered hand up. The other was already dusting her gown off before she shook her head and realized that (a) someone besides her brother had tripped her and (b) that someone, a girl with suspiciously bright red hair, was right in front of her. That out of the way, her manners returned. “Oh, don’t worry about it! I’m never watching where I’m going anyway.”

The girl looked up for the first time. “Nuranar!” she cried, then embraced her. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry. How have you been?”

The lady so addressed looked closely, then gasped. “Orual! My goodness, it’s been such a long time! Oh yes, I’m fine. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the Green Dragon! For most of the last year I’ve still been working in the Shire. But I don’t get out much, I’m afraid,” she admitted, blushing. “I hope to soon, though. My concerns will never end, but they change from season to season, and I hope to have more time to travel from place to place. Maybe I’ll come back into the Inn sometime soon, or even travel to Rohan. What have you been up to?”

[Arestevana]

It was a fine horse, as befit a lady of the Mark. Of course, the rider was not truly of the Mark, but it does not do to dwell on such things. She was certainly taller than could be expected, and her hair was dark, not the golden color of the Rohirrim. Her eyes were dark as well, hinting at elven heritage. Her garb was not elven, though: a plain grey skirt, slit up the side to show a hint of the muslin beneath, and a simple white blouse. Swinging down from her saddle, the woman gave her horse an affectionate pat and turned it loose, pulling one saddlebag over her shoulder before the animal ran off. She turned and made her way up the path, toward the sounds of festivities further on. Arestevana shifted the saddle bag to her other hand, looking around and enjoying the bright colors of the pavilions and banners. She caught sight of the party tree over the heads of the jubilant crowd, and made her way toward it. She saw that people seemed to be keeping their distance, and the reason soon became apparent. The sinister shadow of a barrow created an ominous tone in the surrounding area.

Deciding it would be wise to keep her distance as well, Arestevana set her burden down several yards from the barrow. She reached into the saddle bag and pulled out the gift she had brought. A traveler chance-met on the road had told her what it was. She rolled the name in her mind. Mathom. Edging around the barrow, Arestevana set the gift on a table which held many such items. She crept slightly closer, mustered her courage, and yelled, “Happy Birthday!” before darting away again. Returning to the place where she had set her bag, she noted with relief that no one had bothered it. She picked it up and moved farther from the barrow, trying not to notice the small noises that hinted at a presence inside. An especially loud rumble sounded behind her and she risked a backward glance. Something caught her eye, and turning, she was shocked to see a hobbit woman and two young girls lying in the shadow of the barrow, pale and unmoving. Walking quickly away, she listened to conversations around her, gleaning information. Suddenly she remembered that she had not yet given a greeting.

There were stages set up all around the party field. Arestevana crossed to one of these and hoisted her bag up on the platform, climbing up after it. For a moment she wondered if her performance would be permitted, but at that moment a child with bright green hair raced by, and her doubts were assuaged. She reached into her bag and pulled out a large wooden instrument, which she rested on her lap. Then she pulled out two delicate wooden hammers wrapped in cloth. Taking loosely hold of a hammer in each hand, she gently struck several the strings that crisscrossed the wooden surface of the instrument. A sustained, harp-like note sounded from each one, blending into a gentle melody as more strings were played. Soon the woman’s voice merged with the music, flowing smoothly in several languages. She began in the rich language of the Rohirrim, followed by a more halting verse in Quenya interspersed with the Common speech.

Yéni avánier, lissi yéni,
Utúlie’n aurë, mi oro-mardi,
This is the day when we gather together,
In the spring’s forgiving weather,
To celebrate this land we love,
Watched by sun and stars above,
To bring our gifts with deep respect,
As memories we recollect,
Of another year gone by,
Yéni avánier, forever doomed to die.
Still we linger, still we laugh,
With good nature dealing chaff,
In the company of dearest friends,
Which fate in gentle kindness sends
Hurry! We come to celebrate,
Fearing justly to be late,
On the road we mustn’t stall,
Sí vanwa tenn’lumbulë ná i kal.
Yes, lost to shadow is the light,
We wish you well, great Barrow-Wight.

There was a scattering of applause as she finished her song. A crowd had gathered while she played. Rising, she returned her instrument to the saddle bag as the crowd dispersed itself. Picking up the bag, she jumped neatly down from the elevated stage and wandered off toward a pavilion, looking for a familiar face.

[Firondoiel]

Firi sat with Ala, Leo, Elbie, Éowyn, and Keld talking merrily. It was wonderful to be with her friends at the Downies. She served them all tea and lembas then excused herself to the Party Tree. A parchment and a roll of super duper extra strong scotch tape was produced and fastened to the tree. Firi took a step back to look over her work.

Dearest Barrow-Wight,

Congratulations on the loftiest forum ever and best wishes that the coming year will be very spiffyful. I’m not one for rhymes and witty sayings but I should very much like to say thank you for all the work you put into this forum!

~Firi (Firondoiel)

P.S. Save the Trees!

Satisfied, Firi headed back towards her friends. Just a few feet ahead of her were Oro and Nova talking together. Firi hurried towards them smiling happily. “Nova! Oro!” she called.

[symestreem]

A soaked symestreem was playing for the dancers again. She was careful not to drip water on her fiddle. When the song was over, she ran her hands through her hair to get out the excess water and wiped them on her breeches.
She had had the misfortune of standing too close to a dwarf who was smoking a pipe and drinking beer at the same time. When water was thrown on the resulting explosion, they were both soaked. Now, she was trying to remember where she'd put her cloak.
A new set started, and she had to continually jerk her fiddle away from the droplets of water rolling off her nose. A casual observer would have thought she was having fits. This would never do.
She left the dance floor, nodding her apologies to the other musicians. She'd left her pack under a tree, but which one? It had been near the cookies... As she wove through the tables, she noticed the macaroni and cheese was half-gone. Good, these people were all too skinny anyway.
Was that a Balrog in the pavilion? As she watched, massive wings flickered in and out of existence on his shoulders. She considered standing in his shadow to dry herself, but thought better of it.
After finding her cloak, she was on her way back to the dance floor when she heard the tones of an unfamiliar instrument. A dark-haired woman was accompanying herself on the stage with some sort of wooden box. Ever the musician, symestreem stopped to watch.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Just as soon as she could, Aylwen arrived at the Barrow Down’s Birthday party. Having just run a two-mile race at a previous engagement, Aylwen was unusually frazzled. Her usually tame, straight auburn hair had been haphazardly put in a crooked, sideways horsetail and was tangling. Her fair skin was burned from the sun, and her cheeks were red as she still struggled to get her breath back. Aylwen had changed quickly out of a mandatory running uniform and into her party apparel. Her wine red dress nearly matched her flushed cheeks, but this did not daunt Aylwen. While she did not plan on staying long, she still wanted to look half decent for her birthday well wishes.

Time was of the essence, Aylwen being a busy girl and all. In fact, she felt rather happy that she’d made it in time to beat even two pages of birthday partying. Aylwen did not even make the party last year! All Aylwen needed was time to send a birthday wish to the place at which she had spent so much time for nearly two years. Four years of merrymaking, and despite all the hardships and many sudden changes and makeovers, Aylwen was proud to know the Barrow-Downs had survived to be four years old.

Arriving at the Party Tree, Aylwen scribbled down her note.

Here’s to four wonderful years of intellect, comedy, wisdom, learning, and fun. I hope -

(Aylwen scribbled this out, replacing it)

- I am sure four more years of intellect, comedy, wisdom, learning, fun, and so much more are in store for us here at the Barrow-Downs. Happy birthday to the Barrow-Downs.

Feeling that her work at the party was complete and that there was still more work to attend to, Aylwen took her leave from the party.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker left Elbereth to her own devieces, as the other female had not yet payed her respects to the wight. After explaining what she had to do, she left Elbereth, and went to walk around randomly, and contamplate what to do, and whether medal poles were mathoms.

They are rather useful... I wonder whther the fact that beyond whacking people on the heads, they are useless makes them into a mathom? Eowyn Skywalker wondered, walking around randomly. Without Luke Skywalker to torment (she had to leave him in Middle-earth, as the Barrow-downs was more Lord of the Rings then other things, so he wasn't allowed in), she was... bored. Eowyn shook her head. And that's unlikely?!

Wandering on over to the food, she was shocked to realize that she hadn't brought in her dish. She dug around in her pockets-- which seemingly, were bigger then they looked-- at least they held everything, anyhow. After studying the tables intently, Eowyn Skywalker realized that there was no way that all 152763 garlic pizzas would fit on the tables. "It's a conspiracy!" she cursed. "Why can't they make tables that'll hold all these pizzas?!" Each pizza had 'Happy birthday, Barrow-downs' spelt out in garlic on the cheesy toppings.

She suceeded in getting 58 of the pizzas piled on the table before she gave up, and stacked the rest on the ground. The smell of garlic wafted around the field, and they were lucky to be outside, or all would've fainted. The smell of garlic was, after all, quite strong!

Eowyn Skywalker left the garlic pizzas, complete with the birthday message, and went to wander around some more, as she knew almost no one that was there. So she went off, and wandered around aimlessly, as there was nothing left really for her to do, as was mentioned hitherto, Luke wasn't there for her to torment, and neither was Anakin, or she would've found something to do...

She snrked. Jandalf had banned her from seeing Anakin because every time they met, something happened... usually regarding neon pink dye, garlic flavored gum, or laundry chutes. They were a rather... unique pair at times.

But that was why Eowyn Skywalker wandered the party field aimlessly, taking care to avoid the barrow, and well, wandered.

The trees whispered in the light wind, and birds could be heard singing on the breeze. The day was fair, the elements calm while Eowyn Skywalker walked the grass of the Shire.

[Bêthberry]

With Guinevere's help Bêthberry had been able to unload her mathoms on the Wight's table. Growing perennials in the dark of his barrow would be a trick but Bêthberry was sure he could fix up his eerie green glow to work some kind of perilous magic. As luck would have it, though, they had missed the spectacular theft by turning their backs upon the table to pull the wheel up.

"Now isn't it just like a hobbit to do that!' exclaimed the healer, who reached into her pocket for some betony chewing gum and handed it to SaucepanMan to cure what appeared to be a hangover, the result most likely of Lush's careful ministrations.

"Why, they claim to be the truest sort of people most resistant to the dark powers but mark my word. There are those who tell of Bilbo's stealing and still other who tell of the terrible attack on the trees in the Bonfire Glade. Truly, these hole builders should not be left to interpret stories themselves. Just ask Kransha here for the orcs' side of the story. I am sure if we all dig hard enough we will uncover truths as to their treachery and thievery and other nefarious deeds."

Nova and Oro overheard this speech with a mixture of sarcasm and misbelief and offense. "Hobbits thieves?" they said. "Might as well expect elven children to run off and get taken by orcs or tied up by spiders in Mirkwood."

Bêthberry laughed at this and then thanked Guinevere for her help. "Shall I bring my potluck dish to the food table? Barbequed Balrog's Wings."

In the distance she heard Fordim Hedgethistle snort with disgust and not a little firey expostulation. She was sure that MeriSue would enjoy them, though, for the fair damsel had oft displayed a keen delight in the sort of wrong interpretations called Páhrôdie in the Fáirie tongue.

By then Bêthberry had caught up with Lush herself in time to hear her described as 'naughty Bethberry.'

"No, no, my dear Lushious. I am simply dirty Bethberry. It is all this weeding you see in the garden of perilous delight. I have been trying to determine if the Party Tree is actually the Tree of the Knowledge of Primary and Secondary Worlds but I think thought has floundered on who has an innie or an outie vision."

With that remark, Bêthberry overheard Piosenniel say something about Old Tom's son, Iadarion. "Boy," she thought to herself, "have I ever been away from home for a long time. I didn't know I had a brother. This longevity certainly makes it hard for siblings to stay in touch."