2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[Roa_Aoife]

Roa strode up to the party gates, present and soda bread in tow. She had traveled non-stop from her college, and she was sure her friends there would be wondering, but it was just another of her many dissapearing acts. She fell in line to place her bobble on the gift table, her blue-green eyes scanning for her friends. Roa adjusted her bun before placing her gift on the table and walking off. She had worn her regular slacks and and a somewhat nice shirt. Roa was hoping for some games and she didn't want to be overly hindered.

A she walked over the hill she spied a familiar, if odd, form. "Kransha!" Roa called out, and began running in his direction.

[Novnarwen]

Nova and Orofaniel hurried over to the Party Tree. It was not so crowdy now, and Nova thought it an excellent opportunity to finally write a Birthday Greeting. The two of them stood still, silently watching some of the other notes. (Nova went ahead and read those she had previously missed.)

"So, what are we going to write?" Nova asked curiously. She found two pens and some paper, of which she shared with Orofaniel.

"Happy Birthday?!" Orofaniel said questioningly, her tune revealing a strong sense of sarcasm. Nova looked disappointingly at her friend in the Elven Cloak.

"But..." she started, hesitating. "We need something new, something special."

Orofaniel didn't say anything.

"We need something which is.. extraordinary.. something which takes the breath from people!" Nova explained.

Orofaniel nodded, rolling her eyes at the same time. Nova ignored her, continuing:

"We need something which will make people think: Ah! Why didn't I write that? Or: This is a really nice Birthday Greeting, I wish I had come up with such a greeting as well . . Are you following me?" she asked Orofaniel. Her friend nodded again, while growing impatient.

Still, Nova continued:

"You see, my dear friend, Orofaniel . . . This is a special day, it's precious. This is an amazing event, of which we, or at least I, am very happy to be a part of!" Nova bellowed.

Orofaniel sighed, muttering under her breath: "You aren't a part of the party, you are rambling."

Nova gave no heed to Orofaniel. This Birthday Greeting was important to her; she would have to find the 'right' thing to write. She thought for a while, before opening her mouth again, seeing Orofaniel at her side trying to escape the insanity. Nova, however, grabbed her arm and started talking again:

"You see, a greeting is a personal thing. It's a way a person can express herself or himself. It's something that you give, it's therefore important that we take time to think about this. Now, if we try to drain our brains of all useful or un-useful thoughts, we might be able to think clearly . . . " She felt Orofaniel trying to make Nova let go of her arm, but she kept her hand firmly around it.

"See! You're trying to avoid this. You're trying to pretend that this doesn't matter. Orofaniel, try expressing yourself !!! . . . Drain your brain . . " Nova said, concentrating, closing her eyes . . . "That rhymed, by the way," she said merrily, still having her eyes closed.

This, obviously, was the last bit of insanity Orofaniel could handle. She made Nova let go of her arm, and stepped backwards. Nova didn't care, she just continued rambling.

Orofaniel grew redder and redder.

"What about just: Happy Birthday BARROWDOWNS!!!" Orofaniel asked aggressively.

Stunned by the brilliant idea for a Birthday Greeting, Nova jumped into the air (which she is very good at) and shouted: "THAT'S IT!! THAT'S IT!!!"

Nova frowned:"Tis much better than your first suggestion," she added.

They wrote in a hurry. (Nova added a whole lot of exclaimation marks and wrote in caps, just to get this effect Orofaniel had so nicely expressed.)

Nova was pleased by the Birthday Greeting, which was brilliant, and thanked Orofaniel for draining her brain. "Let's go eat, shall we?" Nova asked, taking orofaniel's arm again.

"Let go of my arm, will you?"

[Nuranar]

Two figures strode briskly through the wide-open gate into the Party Field. A random hobbit boy took one glance – then stood more motionless than an ice sculpture on Forochal, his eyes as big as saucers as he stared.

It wasn’t the first figure that had flabbergasted him: a young woman, clad in a long gown of lightweight rose-colored wool. Her deep honey-colored hair fell in a thick wavy curtain to her waist, and she was carrying a large, heavy willow basket. She was a little tall, certainly, even for the race of Men; but still she was only 5’8”, and her soft, brown leather shoes added no height. Furthermore, she was talking and smiling in the friendliest manner.

But her companion was definitely out of the ordinary. He was tall, even among Men, standing a full 6 feet and 7 inches about the ground. And it wasn’t merely his height. This man – or was it boy? – seemed nearly skin and bones, his considerable height all in his extremely long legs. He wore a long tunic of green over slim trousers which on him still managed to bag. Their length might have been sufficient, but his tall boots (of which the feet seemed impossibly long) concealed any deficiencies. His short, light brown hair was uncovered, and a carefully carved wooden sword hung at his side. He too was grinning, and walked with a slight stoop to hear what his sister said more clearly. A drawstring bag of striped mattress ticking dangled from one hand.

For Nuranar, the young woman, was his sister. Despite their obvious differences in build, their features were strikingly similar, and their smiles nearly identical.

The hobbit boy’s immobility caught her eye, and for an instant she looked at him in puzzled curiosity, then glancing (up) at her brother, she laughed in comprehension. “Halladan, you’d think the hobbits would be used to the sight of Big People by now, but I guess they still don’t see people quite like you very often!”

The boy grinned bashfully, then gestured to a (human) girl off to one side. “Hobbits aren’t the only ones,” he pointed out. The girl’s stunned expression showed all too clearly that she was not accustomed to giants, skinny or no.

Nuranar shook her head. “Well now, we’re just used to it. Growing up with a father an inch taller than you, it’s hardly surprising that my recognition of height is a bit skewed from the rest of the world’s!” she concluded, chuckling at herself. “Now, where do we go?” She paused in front of the scroll still displayed on the gate.

“Names, check. Dress, check. Food, check – right?” At the deafening silence beside her, she spun round with a killer eyebrow arched in suspicion. “Ok pal, if you – I’ll –”

“Naw, it’s here.” Holding out the still-heavy bag, he grinned at her just-you-wait look.

“Watch yourself, tall man. Now where was I?” She deliberately turned her back. “Birthday greeting – Botheration! I knew I forgot something. Now I’ll have to write,” she growled. “Ok. Mathom, yep. Entertainment – oh yes, that’ll be fun,” she said, glancing at Halladan in pleased anticipation.

“I’ve got lots of ideas,” he declared impressively. “But can I get rid of this first?” he continued plaintively, hefting the sack once more.

“Fine, if you find where to put it.” Nuranar turned abruptly round in her characteristically decided manner, intending to head to the food tables, but instead nearly stumbled over a tiny hobbit girl. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I kick you?”

The girl gathered herself up, grinned wordlessly, and took off running, picking up the now-recovered hobbit boy on her way. Nuranar, still kneeling, gazed after her, shaking her head in amusement and puzzlement. The little thing’s hair had undoubtedly been green. “Goodness, what are the Downs coming to?” she tsk-tsked to her brother.

They reached the tables without further incident/accident/collision and deposited safely thereupon two goodly pans of homemade cinnamon rolls. Beside them, Nuranar set out butter in a little crockery “bell” and a knife, not silver. Halladan, freed from his burden, promptly headed toward the pile of plates. Nuranar barely caught the back of his belt in time.

“Oh, no you don’t! We need to finish our duties first. Then you can stuff your face – or fill that empty leg, more like it. You can deliver the gift to the table by the barrow over there, or you can write something to put on the Party Tree. Your choice.”

Halladan pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness, glanced at the barrow, at the tree, at his sister, and the grin broke out again. “I shall relieve you of the matchless mathom, dearest sister!” he announced, bowing magnificently.

Nuranar snorted. (Yes – sad to say, but ladylike Barrow-Downers do snort, at least when goaded by one or more brothers.) “Here it is,” taking a parcel wrapped in a checked cloth out of her basket. “And please don’t antagonize the Wight! I’ve had a clean if somewhat undistinguished record til now, and you’d better not louse it up.”

“Fear not!” he said grandiloquently, and began marching toward the barrow as if into battle. Nuranar called after him, “Meet me by one of the stages after you eat!” He turned and saluted, still walking backwards and nearly running over a matronly hobbit lady.

Nuranar snickered, then absently grabbing a tortilla chip, wandered away, crunching thoughtfully and trying to come up with a verse worthy with which to bedeck the Party Tree.

[Bombadil]

He had made it. Noone saw him coming, for his movements were like the wind. Merrily he strolled into the celebration, catching many strange glances from curious onlookers. A short, stocky man he was, that's if he even was a man, with long blonde hair. He wore a green robe and as he walked one could catch glimpses of his yellow boots.

Some hobbits, a little tipsy from all the ale, laughed at his attire and at his strange appearance. Noone could tell who or what he was. He had bright blue eyes, which were skimming the crowd for any acquaintances. Then they fell upon one of his parents' old friends - Piosenniel! She was leaving the food tables, and he wished to catch her before she got too far away, so perhaps he could grab some food as well as talk to her.

"Hello! Pionsenniel!" he exclaimed. She turned gracefully to a face she didn't recall, but nonetheless replied, "Call me Pio friend!"

"Why hullo, Pio! I am known to the elves as Iadarion, and you don't know me, but I know you!" But Pio knew who he was now, for she knew the elvish language and that Iadarion meant "Son of the Father." (Not to mention she noticed his vibrant yellow boots!) "So this is the son of the lovely Lady Goldberry and merry old Tom!?" Pio said excitedly. For she was aquainted with the two.

So the two talked for long of things such as the Old Forest - and of course the Barrow-Downs - and eventually Iardarion was welcomed to some food and ale by his good friend Pio, who also introduced him to many more friends at the party.

[Guinevere]

Guinevere's face brightened when she saw Saucepanman advancing. She smiled broadly as she went forward to greet him "Soo nice to meet you! " She shook his hand enthusiastically, so his pans clanged. "What's the matter?" she exclaimed as she noticed his pained expression "have you got a headache?" When he nodded, she looked around. "Isn't there a healer for emergencies in one of those tents? They ought to have some medicine..."
She wanted to go on to the tables with the food and gifts to deposit what she had brought. But on the way there she came across Bethberry whose wheel was still stuck. "Can I help you ?" she asked. "Perhaps we ought to unload some of the things, so the barrow becomes lighter to pull out?" she suggested.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisu daintily downed the last mushroom of her shish-kebab and smiled at Durelin. "No need for apologies," she said, "your name is not unfamiliar to me, and I should thank you for the wonderful food!"

She saw another familiar face approaching and called out, "All´s well..."

"...as ends better!" Guinevere answered, grinning.

"How nice to see you here - perhaps you will find this location enticing for future journeys," Merisu exclaimed.

A blinding, shiny object drew nearer, clattering loudly, horribly so for her delicate Elven ears, but she was of course much too polite to say so. She greeted The Saucepan Man briefly before wandering on to speak with Bethberry and Lush. Unfortunately, she found that time flew with the speed of coins in a machine, so that she could not talk at length, but she eagerly looked forward to the next opportunity.

[piosenniel]

She was having a very pleasant conversation with Old Tom’s son, Iardarion, when slim green band on her wrist glowed ominously, chilling her arm to the bone with its cold light. Pio excused herself and walking away a bit, held her wrist to her ear causing a few odd stares. A tinny voice squeaked out its frantic message, a garble of word salad dressed with barely suppressed fear. And there in the background she could hear a low, out of tune hum just revving up.

‘Muddy Bells!’ she swore to herself as she dashed toward the mound by the Party Tree. As she raced closer she could see the partiers nearest the Wight’s barrow beginning to get a rather glazed look in their eyes. Worse yet, some were beginning to shuffle toward the dark doorway of the mound as the humming turned into coldly spoken words. A line of Beorning guards had ringed the mound and were trying to turn them back.

Pio waved frantically at the chief guard and shouted some instructions to them. He wrinkled his brow at her and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Take your ear plugs out, you overgrown lap rug,’ she yelled yanking the wads of rubbery material from his ears. ‘Get the crate of these we had sent from Khand and start passing them round.’ He nodded dumbly at her, his own eyes beginning to glaze over as the Wight’s dark ditty reached out for him. She stuffed the plugs back in his ears and sent him on his way.

~*~

‘By the One!’ The rank odor of rotted things and old sweat socks assailed her nose as she stepped beneath the mouldy lintel. ‘I set him up with a cleaning lady. Now where has she got off to?’ Pio stood in the half-light for a moment her eyes adjusting to the dimness. There to her right, on a small stone slab lay Mistress Chubb and her two daughters, hands folded across their chests, a long, stained sword resting across the three of them. Pale as ghosts, she noted, but still breathing.

‘Hostages . . .’ she heard the familiar rumbling voice hiss from the darkest corner. ‘Someone’s taken one of my treasures, Elf . . . and I’m about to start canceling accounts, so to speak, if I don’t get it back . . .’

If only we could have the party without Himself being here! she thought to herself. Things would go much easier if he would just stay in the background. Always wanting something . . . This line of thought being pointless and dangerous should he get wind of it, she snapped out of her wanderings and offered him a compromise.

‘I shall find your treasure for you, my dear Wight. Keep the Hobbits if you wish but don’t harm them. And please no more singing and swirling your naturally green eyes at the rest of the guests. Rest up. There are fireworks tonight. I can have another ream of paper delivered to you with some fresh quills and ink. Work on your book – you have a quota to meet, do you not? And Aman will send round a barrel of the Dragon’s best ale to get the creative juices flowing.’

She took the ensuing silence as a tenuous agreement and sprinted out the door, into the bright sun. Blinking her eyes like an owl, she bellowed to the nearest security person.

‘Make the announcement that a gift has been stolen from the Wight’s table. I want the offender found and brought to me as quickly as possible.’

‘Oh,’ she said turning toward the crowd who stood pressed against the security line. ‘You can all take out your earplugs, but keep them near.’ They shrugged of course as she mouthed her announcement, and she in turn sighed as she mimed what she wanted them to do . . .

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OOC (Out Of Character) - The Wight is in a tizzy. Someone has 'borrowed' one of his treasures from the table. A young Hobbit lad, accompanied by a Hobbit lass sporting bright green hair. Let's have some spottings of the offenders, but don't catch them yet. Yell for security if you wish to give chase to the slippery young'uns.

~*~ Pio