2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Hama rode up to the gates in his full general's livery, the flowing cloak blowing out behind him and an ornately hilted sword at his waist. He dismounted, drew his bow and fired an arrow at the board. It hit home, and a note unwound from it, wishing the Barrow Downs a happy Birthday.

He looked up into the sky just in time to see a firework go off, and he smiled broadly. These shireflok were indeed a great people, never in Rohan would such a show have been put on...

[Maeggaladiel]

Lady Maeggaladiel of the Four Eyes cursed softly to herself. She was positioned on the floor in a rather unladylike pose, groping under her bed with one hand for something that could not be found. Batting aside dust bunnies the size of small Wargs, she stretched her arm as far as it would reach. Cold floor and dirty socks greeted her searching fingertips.

Suddenly she felt something cold and hard. Grinning, she grasped it and pulled it out from under the bed. Her grin melted away. This was not what she was looking for.

“How did a chainsaw get under here?” she wondered to herself. Perhaps the dust bunnies were out to get her… She made a mental note to vacuum as soon as possible. She dove back under.

Suddenly her fingers brushed what felt like a wooden box. Maeggaladiel’s head lifted quickly—BANG—and hit the frame of her bed.

“D’oh!” she yelped. Rubbing the sore spot (it had better not leave a lump), Maeg drew the wooden box from its hiding place. It was coated in dust. Maeg blew a puff of air across its lid. A white cloud of dust rose from it and settled three feet away on her party dress, lying on a chair.

“I’ll deal with you later, Dust of Evil,” she told it. She hoped that the dust bunnies heard this and were shaking in their fuzzy slippers. Pull a chainsaw on her, would they?

The box was of a dark wood, with a brass lock. Maeg closed her eyes and placed her hand on the lid. Within this box lay her greatest treasure, hidden from all other eyes and protected by an ancient spell.

“Edro, edro.” She spoke the elvish word for “Open” in her most dramatic Arwen voice. The box remained locked.

“Edro!” she commanded, less Arwen and more angry this time. “Open, stupid box!” The box was motionless. Making sure no one was watching, Maeg got a hammer and pried open the lid.

Inside, nestled among red velvet and scraps of newspaper, lay the jewel of Maeg’s collection; a pair of rose-tinted glasses. Smiling, Maeg removed her old glasses and put on the extraordinary eyewear. Everything looked pinkish. She looked in the mirror.

“Maeggaladiel of the Four Eyes, Founder of the Nearsighted Elves Foundation, is ready to PAR-TEEEEE!!” She made a disco pose.
**
Maeg edged up to the Barrow Wight’s table of presents. It was uncomfortably close to a suspicious-looking mound of earth. She couldn’t help imagining a giant green hand reaching from the barrow as she slipped her gift (a “Saruman’s Magical Manicure Set for Men, Istari, and Other Things, Living or Dead”) on the table. Then she moved towards the banquet table as quickly as she could without tripping over the hem of her rose-colored party dress. There she placed a plate of her favorite pastries, Beorn Claws, and a pitcher of Miruvor-flavored Kool-Aid among the other foods.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” she sang. Fireworks exploded above her, and a variety of creatures, from an orc to a balrog to a man wearing saucepans singing songs, meandered about, talking. She looked around for someone she knew.

[Nerindel]

Nerindel remained long in the pleasant company of Mrs Bracegirdle, unable to drag herself away from the woman’s delightful anecdotes, her eyes had widened in astonishment as two hobbit children ran past, one of which unmistakably had brilliant bright green hair. An elven magic she recognised but knew was much frowned upon, as it served no relative purpose. Nevertheless, she did remark to Mrs Bracegirdle that the child’s mother would now not have a hard time spotting her daughter in the crowd.

“Unless of course she finds herself a good bush to hide in, of which in the Shire there are many.” Hilde had replied with a laugh of her own. “I only hope that it is not permanent, I do not know if the good hobbits of the Shire could get used to such an outlandish change, next thing you know they‘ll all be wanting it, can you just imagine it a rainbow of tiny bobbin heads running thought the streets!”

Nerindel laughed at the sudden image of multicolour curly heads bouncing along the four farthings shocking the quiet peaceful folks of the shire, “oh the upset!” she laughed. “But do not fear my friend like all magic it fades with the passage of time, a day perhaps two and the child hair will be as it once was.”

“Well I only hope that none of my own children get the same idea!”

“Well at least I am here to fix such a catastrophe should it could about .” she laughed, then the two sat back and stared in awe a wonderful display of fireworks that light up the evening sky.

[Lyta_Underhill]

Lyta Underhill had great need of escape, although she lived in what she considered the most beautiful place in all of Middle Earth, a rather vast expanse past the Withywindle, where the Barrow-wight was much known and much-avoided. However, the rumors had reached Lyta's ears through the mouths of frogs and one Tom Bombadil that time, old restraints and old rules were to be broken for a celebration feast, the likes of which has not previously been seen in all of Eriador. She decided to join in honoring the Barrow-wight, for in all her years living in a rather dangerous place, he had never caused her any distress, and in fact, did her great service by keeping out random wanderers by reputation alone!

She was ready long before, having prepared a large batch of honeysuckle wine for gift and consciousness enhancement purposes. A long ago trip to Fangorn Forest had provided her with the crucial ingredient. Months it sat at the ready; days it hung on in large skins to her trusty wagon, the Internet. Somehow, she managed to skew her path slightly east on her way to this long awaited party and ended up torn and ragged from the pathless paths of the Forest next to the Green Hills. Therefore, thanks to the kindness and keen eyes of many Tooks down in Tookland, Lyta was saved from her own bad sense of direction. (She was also relieved of a good bit of her burden by the oh-so helpful Tooks). Thus, it came to be that Lyta arrived very late, with a battered wagon drawn by a scratched up (but well-tended!) pony and a rag-tag, loudly singing group of Tooks, none of whom could remember their own or anyone else's names, and all of whom seemed a bit overtall for hobbits. Lyta sang as well, but quietly, as she was very tired. A fair store of Fangorn-honeysuckle wine remained, but she had not the strength to remove it from the wagon. (Many of the Took lads had no problem with this, however!). She sat down on the edge of the party field at last, sprawled at the feet of her black and white spotted pony, herself a vision of mudstained splendor in a once-white dress shot with gold. Her crown of honeysuckle still clung to her tangled brown hair and scented the air, only partially covering the signs of her long and wavering journey through thick forested lands. "I'm finally here..." she croaked and passed out at the feet of her pony, a cup in her hand. A random drunken Took relieved her of the cup almost instantaneously.

Cheers!
Lyta

[Bêthberry]

Bêthberry, her arm draped over her long lost twin brother Iadarion's shoulder--or was it she who was long lost? who knew what that right interpretation was?-- had caught Aman's eye and noted the merriment in it at the orc's slavering over Lush. He really did not realise that here was, absolutely without question, a True Anti-Archetype, if only they could have interpreted her right. But there you have it. Orcs always doomed to be wrong.

And Bethberry had been so very pleased to see Witchie appear even at the eleventh hour of the party, so to speak. She moved to make room for Witchie so everyone could see the wonderful fireworks. Later she would offer her song of praise and thanks to the Barrow Wight but for now she was happy to enjoy the memory of the experience if not the analysis of SaucepanMan's wonderful ditties. And, yes, Bethberry did recognise the originals there, but she was a tad confused as to whether she remembered them at the time of Saucy's rendition or in restrospect. She gave up as she did not wish to break the spell of the moment. or the encorsellant.

It was difficult to appreciate the fireworks, however, much she wanted to recognise Others here, for she found herself rather too close to the firey balrog Mr. Hedgethistle, whose light and fire quite flared at times and out shone the fireworks themselves, expertly prepared by Piosenniel, Ancalimon and HerenIstarion. She coughed to clear her throat and raised her hands to cover her eyes as she turned to towards the flashing space of nothingness with the booming voice. She wondered what he might have to say to her, a denisen of Middle earth almost as old as he.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim was delighted to find himself standing next to the ancient and reverend figure of Bêthberry. It had been many an Age since they had spoken face to face – in fact, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure that they had ever really met face to face (if he even had a face…).

Shrugging his wings(?) against the doubt and uncertainty that was now a part of his existence, Fordim bowed deeply to the reverend woman, and asked if she were enjoying the fireworks. She returned his bow with an elegant curtsy, but when she arose her face was one of deep meditation. “To be honest,” she said slowly, “I’m not sure how I feel about the fireworks. I mean, they are pretty, but the implications of my pleasure – or, rather, my implication into a network of desire, should I validate them through an interpretative act, well, it’s rather a tricky moment don’t you agree?”

Fordim’s own brow furrowed (if he even had a brow) and his wings(?) rustled slightly. “Yes yes,” he replied slowly, “I do understand what you are saying. I myself have been attempting to determine whether the fireworks are ‘merely’ pleasurable or if they are connected to me by some more necessary means. I mean, they are from the West, after all, so are they more real than the fireworks I’ve seen in this Midde-earth, or do they share the same reality as this realm?”

Bêthberry shook her wise head and began to quote from some learned men and women of old with whom Fordim had but a passing acquaintance. He looked polite and nodded in what he hoped were the right places. Bethberry saw that she was losing him and gave him a grandmotherly smile, patting his hand (very) lightly. “Oh well,” she said, “I suppose, in the end, it doesn’t really matter…does it?”

“I certainly hope not,” Fordim replied, noncommittally. Bethberry saw the book in Fordim’s vast shadowy ‘hand’ – The Lord of the Rings.

“Oh,” she said with delight, “Do you like that book?”

Fordim grinned and a renewed flame ran up his back with pleasure. “Oh yes, very much indeed. It’s positively enchanting.”

“Well, that’s good,” she replied, and they both turned to watch the fireworks.

[piosenniel]

It was at this point that a small stray rocket, launched from an unfortunately overturned wine bottle, found its way hissing and zinging toward the ancient pair as they perused the leaves of a mildly scorched book.

To the dark, smoky Flame-of-Udun boy it was naught but a small fiery midge to be flicked away with a flaming thump of finger and thumb. But as misfortune would have it, a stray ember or two found purchase on the cloth of Bethberry's gown. And she swatted at then to put them out.

The Hobbiton brigade of the Volunteer Fire Department ran lickety-split to throw a bucket of water on the burning lady - her own efforts inneffective in the face of Fordim's attempt to help her with swats from his own flaming hands.

'Stand back, if you please Master Balrog!' cried Hamfast Greenburrow. 'You're turning our efforts all to steam!' The embers were put out at last - the damage minimal.

Hamfast, as he had been directed, followed the scorched landing path of the rocket and brought it back to Pio.

'It's one of those Acme Absolute Rockets,' said the Elf, peering closely at the charred cylinder. 'On of those that reflect well against the dark night sky.'

'Shouldn't a' really burned her then, should it?' commented Hamfast, who was well known at the Green Dragon for his deep thinking, deep pockets, and the ability to hold his ale.

'Shouldn't have burned her?' echoed Pio, waving the still smoking missile under the Hobbit's nose.

'All smoke and mirrors it is,' said Hamfast, taking hold of the errant rocket. 'It's like this, Mistress Piosenniel . . .'

But before he could enlighten her, the cry of 'Buckets Here!' rang out and he scrambled off to a a nearby forsythia into which one of the candle lanterns from an overhanging tree had dropped . . . leaving Pio to wonder what he had meant by his metaphor . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami had been enjoying herself immensely at the party. Merimac and the older boys had sent their last minute regrets, while the younger trio had managed to run off searching for fun on their own. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, she had been free to wander, waving her hand in greeting to a number of friends, some of whom she'd known for years and others she'd recently met.

Bethberry had been there and also Witchie . The latter, she conjectured, must have earned some time off from Marcho on the arduous march they were making towards Michel Delving. Cami was especially pleased to see Lyta Underhill pulling up with a whole passel of Tooks in tow. For some time, she had been coaxing Lyta to step into the Green Dragon and have a flagon of ale. Lyta had indeed made it to the Shire, but had apparently done a bit of tippling on the road even prior to her arrival at the party field! Even the less reputable in the crowd such as the Orc and Balrog, both of whom looked vaguely familiar from one tale or another, had been on their best behavior.

Cami beamed happily as her three children came bounding up; Daisy and Rory were talking so quickly that she could barely understand a word they were saying, "Oh, Ima, it was all so scary! We were just looking at it. We really were! And the great men guarding the table wouldn't let us put it back. We were afraid the Green Man would eat us, and then a giant Elf nearly put us in jail, but Ancalimon came and rescued us from a tree!"

Cami could not understand a word of this. Like most good mothers, Cami assumed her children were taking everyday happenings and embroidering them a bit to make an interesting presentation for her personal benefit. She patted Rory's curly tresses and confided, "That's nice dears. I'm glad you had fun. Now you did behave, didn't you? Just like I said?"

Daisy turned innocent eyes up towards her mother and smiled. "For sure, Ima, just like you said." Rory eagerly nodded his head.

At the exact moment of that exchange, Aman happened to stroll by. Cami ran over to extend her greetings, but by the time she got there she found the Innkeeper keeling over in laughter, totally unable to respond.

Was it something I did or said? Cami wondered, as she watched Aman go off in the distance, holding her sides to keep from splitting. Cami noticed that one of the Innkeeper's hands was apparently banadaged; she wondered what misfortune had befallen her on this festive night.