An Unexpected Vir(tu)al Party

[Lalaith]

Originally Posted by Encaitare

I I think I feel a song coming on! Who's with me?"

"I am, I am!"
Lalaith waved her glass wildly in the air, with the bubbles frothing over and unfortunately splashing poor Morthoron, not improving his mood.

[Encaitare]

"I am, I am!"
Lalaith waved her glass wildly in the air, with the bubbles frothing over and unfortunately splashing poor Morthoron, not improving his mood.

"Whoa, whoa, careful there!" Encai said. "Come, sing with me. But hold your glass steady around my instruments!"

She picked up her ukulele and strummed a jaunty, cheerful series of chords, and sang:

"It's been an age since we were here
Now friends have come from far and near
Friendship shall not fade nor break
When times are hard, make no mistake!
These halls shall always house your friends
We Downers all together again!"

[Mithadan]

*knock, knock.

Mithadan groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. What was that sound? The sun was barely up, and he had not even had any coffee. Heed no nightly noises, he thought, and rolled over.

*knock, knock.

Mithadan sat up in his bed and shook his head. Groggily, he took account of his protesting joints. Low back pain, check. Creaking knees…. Then the springtime pollen did its magic and he sneezed. In response, a small dragon curled atop a bookshelf hissed quietly. Then, having ascertained that nothing justified her attention, the dragon hid her head under a wing.

“Good morning, Bird,” Mithadan muttered.

*knock, knock.

Shambling across the room, he entered the foyer and cracked open the door. On his doorstep stood a short (height-challenged, he corrected in an automatic and well-ingrained spasm of political correctness), bearded figure, dressed in a brown tunic and breeches, with a blue cape and matching hood.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the Dwarf said. “Special delivery for you, sir.” Mithadan accepted the packet and passed a coin to the messenger. With a bow, the Dwarf trudged off. Mithadan noted that his pouch was bulging with similar packages. He squinted at the parcel in his hands, but it revealed no secrets. He took up a knife, opened the envelope, and began to read.

“Estelyn?” he mused. “I’ve not spoken to her in years.” Then he frowned as he read the balance of the message. “A party?” he exclaimed. “She knows that I vowed never to do such a thing again after the Downie Awards. When was that?”

He walked over to a wall covered with pictures and framed papers. Among them was a picture of several figures standing upon a red carpet, waving to a crowd. There he stood, with Piosenniel, Cami and Bethberry. Underneath was a small bronze label which read “Downie Awards, May, 2003.”

“2003?” he exclaimed? “That long ago?” His gaze returned to the picture and he smiled. Next to it was a picture of Kuruharan and Gravlox the Uruk discussing something of great importance with Barrow-Wight, Squatter, and Saucepan Man. In the background were Diamond, Lush, Amanaduial, Maikadilwen and Mark12_30. His smile grew broader as other names came to his mind unbidden. Then his gaze was drawn to a set of newspaper clippings and his smile vanished.

“The Hobbiton Garden Club to Protest Marileangorifurnimaluim's 'Hobbit Sex Ed' Article” read one. “Half-Elves to Sue for Equal Rights,” read another. He read on among the succession of headlines. “Shield Maidens Rise Up; RPG Management Unfair!; Admins Discriminate Against Legofans!; Too Strict; Not Strict Enough; Gay Sub-text, Yes or No?”

Mithadan shut his eyes as a flood of less-pleasant memories arrived. The cliques, the rivalries, the protests, the lawsuits, the spam, the bot attacks all replayed in his mind. The old weariness settled in again. His shoulders slumped and the corners of his mouth tilted downward.

“Nope!” he cried. “Not me. Not again. Good morning! No parties needed here, thank you.” He let the invitation drop to the floor and turned away, planning to stalk off to the kitchen and put up a pot of coffee, only to jump in surprise. There, hovering before his face, was the tiny dragon, Bird, with eyes ablaze and trails of smoke trickling from her nostrils.

“Coward,” she hissed. “A little adversity and you slink away with your tail between your legs.”

“I have no tail,” he replied, stepping past the wyrm.

“No spine either!”

“I got tired!” he exclaimed. “I had other things to do; other concerns. I didn’t have time for it anymore! And I still don’t!”

“This isn’t 2003,” she replied. “The movies are over. The fair-weather fans are gone. Those that remain are those who care.”

Mithadan scowled. “Have you seen how few there are? There’s nothing new under the sun. Everything has been discussed.”

The dragon perched upon his shoulder. “Hmpph,” Bird grunted. “I seem to recall you issuing a challenge a while back. ‘Open the books to any page! Within a few paragraphs, you’ll find something to discuss! Open a new topic!’”

“That was years ago,” he responded. “Before the social media explosion. Before everyone had better things to do.”

“What about you?” she hissed. “Do you have anything better to do? Yes, I know you have other things to do, but anything better?” She took the collar of his tunic in her teeth and dragged him back to the wall. “Look! Look here!”

In a frame was a piece of fine parchment covered with elegant writing. It read:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BARROW-DOWNS!

On May 1, 2002, the forums at the Barrow-Downs reached the ripe (and I do mean ripe!) old age of TWO! While the site itself is a bit older, the second anniversary of the opening of the forums is a cause to CELEBRATE!!!!! Therefore, we will have a PARTY in celebration of the second birthday (uh, deathday?) of the Barrow-Downs forums and all members are invited!!!!!

PLACE: The Fields of Cormallen (the Freestyle RPG Room in a thread to be opened there).

TIME: Monday, May 20, 2002 beginning at 9:00am until ????

DRESS: Formal Middle Earth Wear.

There will be an open bar, and meals will be served buffet style.

COME CELEBRATE THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE BARROW-WIGHT AND THE BARROW-DOWNS!

RSVP


“Twenty years?” he whispered. “TWENTY YEARS!”

He rushed back into his bedroom, opened a chest and removed a carefully wrapped parcel. Placing it on his bench, he unwrapped it. Mithadan smiled as a grey velvet jerkin, a white ruffled shirt and a royal blue pair of breeches were revealed. “Good thing I had them laundered,” he said with a grin.

“Think they’ll still fit?” smirked Bird. “You’ve been a bit over-fond of your ale and porter recently…”

[Pitchwife]

Pitchwife was sitting on a sunlit stone bench in Rath Celerdain, at his feet a somewhat diminutive sheepdog, its coat black, white and amber; a large grey cat was curled around the palantír on his lap, and a somewhat smaller reddish one rubbing its head against his elbow. The Minas Tirith University Library (formerly Steward‘s Library) was closed for the duration, due to a plague that had spread across the land on the wings of a foul wind from Far Rhûn, but fortunately the palantír allowed him to work from home, or indeed anywhere. He was grateful for the skill of those ingenious jewel-smiths of the Seventh Age who had rediscovered the secret of making Seeing Stones a few decades back; less powerful these new Stones were than those wrought by the Noldor in days of old, but also far lighter and less vulnerable to Sauronic infiltration.


In early spring the air was still rather cool, even in the sun, and Pitch was just considering whether to retire to his study, a warm fireplace and a hot cup of tea when a faint green light in the palantír caught his attention. He gently nudged the protesting cat aside and, grabbing the Stone in both hands, brought the image into focus.


„Why, I‘d never - !“ he exclaimed. „A party on the Downs? Gosh, it‘s been ages! We‘ve all turned rather treeish in our middle age, haven‘t we? Well, most of us. I wonder who will be coming?“


„Wiff,“ said the dog (a bitch) in a tone that was half question, half appeal (and just the tiniest bit insolent).


„I know,“ Pitch agreed. „Only one way to find out.“ He jumped up suddenly, threw the palantír up into the air and caught it in his hands before tucking it away in a spacious coat pocket. „Come on then, Esty, it‘s high time anyway you met your godmother! You too, Simon and Garfuncil,“ he added, addressing the bewildered cats. „We‘re going to a party!“


Followed by his animal companions, he betook himself to Pelennor Central Station, and less than an hour later they were all sitting in a comfortable compartment of the Great North-Western Express bound for Fornost Erain and stopping at Isengart, New Tharbad and Bree.