2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim Hedgethistle was so happy to see Roa that he flapped his wings…or spread out his vast shadowy form in the shape of wings…or loomed about as a great shape…in joy. His encounter earlier with the…person…who had mistaken him for a lowly Orc had left him in a particularly foul mood, and it was only with the greatest of diplomacy that Kransha had been able to prevent him from blasting the insolent being from the face of Middle-earth. (As a matter of fact, Kransha had not really done much at all to prevent his friend from going into a full Thangbadorian fury. On the contrary, the fellow’s Orcish nature had seemed to relish the prospect of a bit of a toss-up, but the darned rules that Pio had put in place prevented them from having any real fun.)

The three friends moved off to find a quiet place for a chat, pausing only long enough to listen to Saucepan Man’s song, but as good a tune as it was, it only served to deepen Fordim’s abiding existential crisis, for throughout the duration of the performance all he could think was, “Do Balrog’s even like music?”

For a while he was able to make some small talk with his friends, but as Roa asked him more and more questions about his life to which he did not know the answers he finally broke down and began to cry. Huge tears rolled down the smoke and shadow where his face should be, turning to things of slime by the time they hit the grass where they smoked and emitted a foul odour. Covering her nose delicately, Roa cried out “Why, Fordim, whatever is wrong?” Kransha merely busied himself inspecting the slime (and did Fordim actually see him taste a bit of it?!)

Through his great blubbering tears Fordim gabbled out his woes. “Oh Roa! Oh Kransha –stop eating my slime! – I can’t tell you how miserable I am. I have so many questions about my life! About my self!! Whether these are even wings or not” and he shrugged the vast shadows “is the least of my concerns. I spend most of my days with Orcs, and I don’t even know if they are descended of Elves, or Men or some other race entirely! And my fate – what of my fate!? Sometimes, you see, I think it might be nice to go back to Valinor. You know, apologise to the Big Chiefs and settle down in a nice little house near Aule – he was always so much fun to go out hunting with! But can I even go back? Do I have the option to repent? Sometimes, I try to figure these sorts of things out and I’m lead to remember the very earliest days…but even then I get confused. Were the heavens made when Eru hung lamps from the dome of the sky, or did they alight when He sang? And is Eru in charge of my decisions, or is there something else going on?? And, and, and…” here his words came in huge rasping gurgles of agony, “what does it all mean anyway? And does it mean anything to me, or only to the people in the stories I remember? Or is it all meaningless? Or, or, or…” He broke down and wept like a pitiable babe.

At that moment a helpful hobbit ran up to them bearing in his hands a large volume with “The Red Book of Westmarch” written in gold leaf on the cover. “Here,” he said, “read this, it has all the answers!” But then another hobbit ran up with another book that said “The Lord of the Rings” on the cover. “No no” this hobbit said, “read this book!” Then another person arrived with something called “The Silmarillion,” claiming that it had the truth, but soon there were three others who claimed that this book had been badly edited and they were compiling a truly definitive edition of the book, which they were also calling “The Silmarillion”. The next to arrive, with a clank and a bang, was that nice Saucepan Man but rather than resolving the issue he flung a book called “The Letters” atop the increasingly disorderly pile and said that it had some interesting nuggets.

From here, things got steadily worse. Some people suggested that he did not need to bother reading any of the books, but some of those suggested they did not really matter, while others said he could write his own book with his own answers. Then there was a small but determined group who argued that he shouldn’t really be bothering with asking the questions at all. “Just sit back,” they said soothingly. “Relax, enjoy the stories for what they are.” But then someone said, “But how can we know what they are intended to be?” and this set off a new round of questions and answers.

Fordim turned to his friends once more. He was well beyond tears now, having settled into a profound resignation to his fate. “You know,” he said in his loudest voice possible – and all those about him fell silent. “I think I just want to have some fun for the moment. This place is really quite wonderful. THANK YOU MR WIGHT!” he bellowed. He looked down at the people about him, and the stared up at him in shocked silence.

But then they all began to talk once more, and Fordim smiled, and listened, and learned.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker got rather bored of wandering around the fields rather fast, as she never had liked wandering randomly that greatly. So, as the wind rustled around her, and shadows seemed to grow longer, the shortish, slightly elven human walked back to the main scene of the party, though there was really nothing there for her either.

She carried a droll face as she walked back to the food tables, and nearly fainted, as her garlic pizzas were rather strong sented, as it were. The yong woman took a slice of the pizza, and munched on it, as she oversaw the party from her place at the food tables, not that it did much for her, as she was rather short. "I suppose that 152763 pizzas was a little much," Eowyn Skywalker reflected on her third slice of pizza. She snrked. So what if no one liked garlic pizzas? It reflacted her personality, if nothing else.

After munching down 456 slices of pizza, Eowyn Skywalker decided that it was pointless to resist. She stood up, and screamed, "WE ALL KNOW THAT THERE ARE ORCS, BUT WHERE DO THE LITTLE ORCS COME FROM?! ARE THERE FEMALE ORCS OUT THERE?!" She coughed. "Akk... must.. not... shout... so... loud. Think of the voice box..."

Everyone turned to stare at her. "It was inevitable," she muttered, and screamed again, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BARROW-DOWNS!!!"

[Saraphim]

Saraphim had downed her third ale, and had started in on a fourth and a slice of garlic-infested pizza. She listened appreciativly to the Saucepan Man's music, and to Fordim Hedgethistle's speech about the great Downs.

Suddenly, however, Saraph remembered something. It seemed as good a time as any, as she noticed a hobbit playing a fiddle near the stage.

Downig her pizza and drink, Saraph stood up and walked over to the musical hobbit. Bending down, she whispered to him. He smiled and struck up a spirited tune on the fiddle.

Saraph jumped onto the stage and sang the old Barrow-Song with slight differences:

Cold be keyboard and monitor and mouse,
Cold be your skin when you reside in your house,
But nevermore will you rise from stony bed,
Without logging on and checking the Dead.

Everyone had heard that verse before, of course, but there was more Saraph had prepared for this very event:

On the black screen some threads may die,
But still discussing the reasons why,
Until the Dark Mod lifts a hand,
Over thier books held together by a rubber band.

Grabbing a mug of ale from a passing tray, Saraph cried: "To the Barrow-Downs! May our books never fall apart beyond recognition!"

She drank deeply to the health of the Barrow-Wight, the Mods, and all her fellow members.

[HerenIstarion]

Third day of feasting was well on when grey-clad figure approached the party field. Taking a closer look, if an onlooker not busy with merrymaking may have been found, it may have been noticed that garments the figure has been wearing were rather blue, but dust-covered to the extent it was hard to place a bet on it. H-I was late for the party and knew it. He was away on pressing business of his own to the Havens, and, however eager he was to join the celebration, could not help coming up belatedly. "I'll find them all snoring when I get there, whatever may be said about wizards being never late" he reflected as he was approaching the party field. But whatever his thoughts on the subject, decent amount of din were radiating in every direction. "After all, some snack maybe left for weary traveler too" he laughed heartily and turned to the gate.

But prior to taking the step in, H-I took care to beat some of the dust off, adjusted his hat and scarf and dropped his knapsack by the post. "The wizard must appear in a proper fashion, otherwise who'd be awed?" He raised his staff, which exploded into the night with the golden fountain of a firework. H-I seemed quite pleased with the effect. 'I have written HerenIstarion is here in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin.' he murmured into his beard as he moved forward. 'I may be less good than Olorin was, but now that he's back to Aman, I'm the best this side of the sea"

But, to his displeasure, not many took heed of the mounting flames at the entrance. "They are all drunk, as I should have expected." he grunted. "Should I blow up some piece of after-the-feast garbage that is to be found in plenty around here to draw their attention?" By now he turned his gaze to the party tree, "Hum, what a waste of parchment, all stuck up the trunk and the very branches of it. But let us take a closer look and learn what it is all about" For a while, he was reading birthday wishes, smiling now and again as pieces of good poetry caught his sight, and eventually noticed quite a large scroll titled Rules for the Partygoers, almost entirely covered under all sorts of leaflets and posters. "Kind of spelling contest, is it? Let us see, let us see… I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs that was ever used for such a purpose. But now I must dash off on the spot, seemingly. But I can do better than nailing it to the tree" he chuckled, "Am I not the Deadnight Chanter?"

The wizard turned to the field, raised both his arms and started to rock gently, than faster and faster, spinning, revolving, now squatting, now kneeling, making complex moves with his arms and hands, fingers held tightly together. He was engaged in a dance unnoticed, until he began to chant, softly at first, but as the dance quickened, the chant too gained strength and sound:

Be ye cheerful, be ye mirthful
Ale be flowing, sing ye gleeful
Rare be anger, beef be roasting
Real be made yer table boasting
Oft be singing, rare be weeping
Wood be burning, bones be heaping
Dark be fearless, stars be shining
Oft together ye'll be dining
Wights be feasting, minstrels derry
Night be dancing, morn be merry
Sing ye joyful, sing together!

One by one, as the chant filled the field, guest and host alike, the faces were turning to the tree, lips were moving almost unwittingly, as here and there people were starting to sing, and hundred of voices uttered concurrent sigh: 'HerenIstarion is here!'

[Evisse the Blue]

The Deadnight's Chanter's rousing song was still echoing round the field when Evisse the Blue managed to finally join the party, descending ungracefully from a tired eagle, her blue gown rumpled and her hat askew. 'Well, if wizards are never late, half-breed witches most certainly are, and fashionably so, too', she replied to anyone who questioned her about her late arrival, refraining from giving any reasons. And wisely so, since it was entirely her fault for confusing the meeting place at the Party Tree in the Shire, with the White Tree in Minas Tirith. Anyway, here she was now, saved by the eagle whom she intended to repay with hobbit-food and ale. Staightening her garments, she smiled broadly, imagining the feast and merriment that was to come. After all, she was in the Shire. What could possibly go wrong?