An Unexpected Vir(tu)al Party

[piosenniel]

“What a wordsmith the Old Fellow was! And a true inspiration for those who have come after…” The rest of Pio’s acclaim was cut off as a long drawn out wail which rose and fell like the cry of some dark and lonely creature cut a discordant swathe through the room. Brows raised, she eyed the fellow as he spun and sang. “Have mercy!” she swore aloud. “Not bad . . . not bad . . . as far as lyrics go, I’ll give him that.” She watched as the fellow, now done with song, began to express himself with his sword. Drawing a knife from each boot top, she placed them close at hand on the table.

Pio raised her half-empty mug in the direction of the whirling singer, a friendly gesture. And one to say she was keeping her eye on him.

Taking a small sip, she raised it once again, high in the air. “And here’s to Himself, The Barrow-Wight, for making such a delightful place for us misbegotten wanderers to tarry awhile in…” She drained the last of her drink and set the mug upside down on the table.

“Arry, you know this one, I think.” She hummed low, a few bars of an old story-song. Arry strummed a mix of chords, fitting them to the rhythm of her singing. Pio nodded her head and winked a smile at him. “And you, ‘Vin,’ she went on, thumping her fingers lightly on the table’s wooden top in a soft, measured rhythm, motioning him to follow along. “Keep the beat for me . . . if you will.”

Pio listened as her two friends wove a light melody.

“Now this is a long-ago song from times when magics were carried on the winds.” She smiled a little to herself. “It brings fond memories of times of my own…”

I know a window in a western tower
That opens on celestial seas,
And wind that has been blowing round the stars
Comes to nestle in its tossing draperies.
It is a white tower builded in the Twilight Isles,
Where Evening sits for ever in the shade;
It glimmers like a spike of lonely pearl
That mirrors beams forlorn and lights that fade;
And sea goes washing round the dark rock whereit stands,
And fairy boats go by to gloaming lands
All piled and twinkling in the gloom
With hoarded sparks of orient fire
That divers won in waters of the unknown Sun -
And, maybe, 'tis a throbbing silver lyre,
Or voices of grey sailors echo up
A float among the shadows of the world
In oarless shallop and with canvas furled;
For often seems there ring of feet and song,
Or the twilit twinkle of a trembling gong.

O! happy mariners upon a journey long
To those great portals on the Western shores
Where far away constellate fountains leap,
And dashed against Night's dragon-headed doors
In foam of stars fall sparkling in the deep.
While I alone look out behind the Moon.
From in my white and windy tower,
Ye bide no moment and await no hour,
But chanting snatches of a mystic tune
Go through the shadows and the dangerous seas
Past sunless lands to fairy leas
Where stars upon the jacinth wall of space
Do tangle burst and interlace.
Ye follow Earendel through the West,
The shining mariner, to Islands blest;
While only from beyond that sombre rim
A wind returns to stir these crystal panes
And murmur magically of golden rains
That fall for ever in those spaces dim.

The last echoes of voice, and strum, and wooded beats fell away into the Great Hall’s environs.

“Well, done my friends!!” Pio nodded her head, smiling widely at her two companions. “Now, what do you say for another round of the ‘Downs finest? That was a rather longish song-poem – and my throat is parched!!!”

--------------------------------------------------

“Tha Eadigan Saelidan: The Happy Mariners”
----- from the Old Fellow: J. R. R. Tolkien - The Book of Lost Tales Part Two

[Galadriel55]

Galadriel watched through her Mirror as the Day of the Downs approached. Poetry and song! How else to celebrate Twenty Years of Tolkien and friendship? Galadriel dug around on the shelves, looking for a ruffled scroll with some very old writing. One of her first writings, in fact. The handwriting is simply embarrassing, the punctuation is atrocious, and the content?! She shuddered. A less thought-out fan fiction couldn't have existed. But no matter. It's the sentiment that counts. Right?


This tale takes root in ancient times
When Sun and Moon were young.
Wise Elves thought they had tales to tell
But their tales have just begun.
In those times joy was mixed with grief
And hope was in despair.
In such a place, in such a time
Stood Gondolin the Fair.

In that white city, proud and tall,
A blacksmith, proud and skilled,
Wrought three bright Elven blades of steel:
Those blades were wrought to kill.
Two kingly swords, like brothers, but
One older than the other,
And one sharp knife - a deadly knife,
He was the youngest brother.

And these three blades enchanted were,
A blessing was bestowed:
When orcs or other foes were near
They with blue fire glowed.
And special hatred for all foes
Was sown in them at start;
More deadly they have proved to orcs
Than axe or club or dart.

On silent night, when darkness ruled,
The thralls of Morgoth crept.
O'er high passes the entered in
When guards, unwary, slept.
They took the city by surprise,
Great treachery befell.
The few survivors who escaped
Now had their tale to tell.

The blades were buried under stone
And under ruins deep,
Until the waters of the sea
Between the mountains seeped.
They stormed and ravaged in the halls
By enemy laid bare.
Since then no man has trod the soil
Of Gondolin the Fair.

But not for water, not for loss
Were these blades shaped by Elves.
Their fate was greater than the fish
And salt sea-water wells.
The Lord of Waters did not wish
For skill to go to waste.
Upon the crests of his great waves
He brought the blades in haste

To shore, where they would one day be
By wary traveler found
Whose errand lead him to the Sea,
Who came by journey bound.
And men have come, and found the blades,
Though secret it remained
If this man just and honest was
Or with foul thieving stained.

The blades hid from searching eye,
They passed from hands to hands
Until by merry company found
With trolls in northern lands.
A sagely wizard took the first,
A Dwarven King - another,
A little hobbit with them came
And took the youngest brother.

Many were the battles fought,
Countless the foes slain;
Many orcs, alas, found out
That these blades were their bane.
When peace had settled on the land
And weapons put away
The middle brother on a tomb
Beneath the Mountain lay,

The eldest and the youngest blades
Have left the Hither Shore
And with their keepers they remain
In golden Valinor.
And through the Ages, from all years,
The blades enchanted hold
The tales and stories of the past
And memories of old.
...The grief and glory of the past
...And memories of old.

[Brinniel]

Brinn stepped through her door into the deep depths of The Barrow-Downs. It had been many years since she had explored this realm and yet it felt like coming home. In her last visit, it had been so quiet - but that was no longer the case. The rooms were teeming with life (so to speak), visited both old and new friends alike. The mood was joyful and full of song. One could almost forget that we have been living through such dark times these past weeks.

Twenty years The Barrow-Downs has existed - in the world of the interweb, that is no small feat! So much has changed in that time; after all, Brinn had only been a young lass when she had joined the ranks of the dead and now she was all grown up. And yet little has seemedto change here. The black walls and glowing green and gold remained the same. It was all so familiar that it almost felt like Brinn had stepped into a portal through time.

Not another moment to waste! Brinn made her way through and joined in on the celebrations. While some Downers were dressed festively, she opted for comfort and wore her special shirt to commemorate the occasion instead. As the others made the rounds reciting poetry and songs, Brinn felt a tad embarrassed that she had come ill-prepared. "I have not prepared anything original for a long time, nor have I done much research," she thought. "But then again, what better time to share words from the Great Professor himself - a poem we all know well."

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with weary feet,

Until it joins some larger way,

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

[Envinyatar]

Envinyatar poured half his mug into a bowl and offered it to the dragon. In turn, Angara dipped her snout gracefully into the dark, foamy liquid and sipped up a generous measure of the ale. Her tongue flicked out as she finished and swiped the faint line of foam delicately from round her lips. He watched her, fascinated by the agility of her long tongue. And catching a glimpse of her sharp teeth, wondered if she ever cut the soft-looking skin on the under side of that tongue as it withdrew back into her mouth.

“Ahh, the things one does not know about dragons,” he thought. “And best not ask about, either.” Angara, he had noted, could be quite sharp in her reaction and quick to be vexed. Envinyatar chuckled softly to himself. “But then she doesn’t know me, either.”

As if she had caught the drift of his meandering thoughts, Angara turned her head toward him and narrowed her gaze. Before she could say a word, Envinyatar turned his full attention on her and gave her his own toothy grin.

“You know,” he began, wagging his finger at her. “I think I have a song, poem really, you just might like. I heard it from a fellow some time ago who’d just passed through the Withered Heath.” He shook his head, as the dragon cocked her head at him. “Yes, that very valley where old Smaug once dwelt.”

Envinyatar nodded at the recollection of the rough, old fellow who’d shared his camp fire one cold, dark, windy night. “Now he sang it fine, but no, I’m really not the singing sort. For the life of me, I cannot carry a tune.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But, I’ve a good memory and do love the flow of the rhythm of well placed words.” “It’s like a stream running over and ‘round and even under things,” he went on, “carrying those different water sounds, blending them in a such a way as to be pleasant to the ear and spirit.”

Pulling his chair closer to where Angara perched on the table’s top, Envinyatar began reciting in a low, cadenced rhythm.

The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf:
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold,
and like a tide it roared and rolled;
the branches groaned, the forest moaned,
and leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East;
all movement in the forest ceased,
but shrill and harsh across the marsh
its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
the reeds were rattling—on it went
o'er shaken pool under heavens cool
where racing clouds were torn and rent.

It passed the lonely Mountain bare
and swept above the dragon's lair:
there black and dark lay boulders stark
and flying smoke was in the air.

It left the world and took its flight
over the wide seas of the night.
The moon set sail upon the gale,
and stars were fanned to leaping light.



“Hmmm,” Envinyatar murmured as the last words faded from hearing, the desolate image dissolving, too. “Still brings a shiver to my spine,” he said quietly.

He shook off the chill as he raised his mug up high, above his head.

“And here’s to The Barrow-Wight – the author of this night’s celebration. May his life be long, his glass never empty, and his patience deep for us passing strangers in his realm!”

[mark12_30]

Lindo, who had climbed back into the rocking chair with the quilt, remained quiet for a while longer, except for the occasional sniffle. But ere long, he clambered down out of the rocker and went softly to Galadriel. It took her a moment to notice him. “Hello?” She said.

He bowed. “Lady, I am a minstrel myself. And I was born under the walls of Gondolin.”

Her eyebrows raised. “A halfling?”

“Indeed,” he replied, his eyes sad and quiet. “The blacksmith you sing of was a bold and fierce fighter, and he fell, so it is said among us, by the fountain defending the king. But the blades passed from our knowledge. Indeed we knew little but hunger in Ladros, until Ancalimon came. But no matter,” he said. “I only wanted to thank you for your song. I felt that I was standing by the King’s fountain in happier days.”

She stared at the slender grey-haired hobbit and the tear that yet to fall. “You, a halfling, were born in Gondolin...?” she whispered, her eyes narrowing.

He bowed again, deeper this time. “An honor that perhaps I did not deserve. But if you would like to hear the tale,” he nodded at the black and white dragon and the grey Haired Dunadan watching Gravloc, “He knows the whole tale, of which I played small part. Ask him.”

Lindo bowed yet a third time, and then returned to the quiet corner, the rocker, and the quilt.

[Arry]

“So be it!” cried Arry, foam spilling down the side of his mug as he clinked it against Envinyatar’s raised cup. “May the Old Wight walk unseen among us for as long as he pleases!” But under his breath he murmured a low entreaty to whatever bright spirits might be gathered round about. “And may he never lay eyes on the likes of me.” His left hand crept to the small leather pouch that hung round his neck by a thin braided string and grasped it tightly.

His old Gran had made the pouch and added to it a few charms to keep him safe when far from home – a tiny twig from the Hawthorne tree outside her cottage; a sage leaf, a bit of rosemary from her garden; and a wee pinch of dirt from the very path as went to and from her door. Small comforts to quiet a case of the shudders and goose-bumps.

‘Thanks, Gran,” he whispered to himself.

Arry tucked his leather pouch inside his shirt and took a long pull at his ale. “Say, Pio,” he said, setting his drink on the table. “I just remembered an old song I learned to play in the Shire.” He picked up his guitar and strummed a few chords. “I think you know it, too. There’s a tipsy cat. And a dog, and a cow, too! And those dishes – they ran away with the spoon!!” He laughed, his fingers nimbly picking out the tune as he smiled at her.

“Reminds me of the time we worked together at the Green Dragon.” His foot tapped out the beat. “Come on, join in!”

There is an inn, a merry old inn
Beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
One night to drink his fill.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Far away, in a remote area of Elvenhome in Muddled-Mirth, the strains of a mournful song echoed:

Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
Our story's sound asleep, wake up, MeriSusie, and weep,
The RPG's over, it's twenty-twenty, and we're in caverns deep.
Wake up, MeriSusie
Wake up, MeriSusie, well...

Whatta we gonna tell Estelyn,
Whatta we gonna tell Mith'dan,
Whatta we gonna tell our readers when they say "Where and when"?
Wake up, MeriSusie.

I told your creator that you'd write Quest Three,
Well Susie baby, too ambitious were we,
Wake up, MeriSusie
Wake up, MeriSusie, we gotta go on.

Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
Wake up, MeriSusie, wake up,
The RPG wasn't so hot, it didn't have much of a plot,
We fell asleep, our loose ends lost, our reputation's shot.
Wake up, MeriSusie,
Wake up, MeriSusie, we gotta go on.


And lo, the lay was heard, and two perfect, shell-like ears twitched, then a shapely head was raised, long golden tresses trailed behind with only as much tousledness as to be extremely attractive, and a shapely body rose from its long forgotten resting place. "The voice of my beloved has called me!" Merisuwyniel (for indeed it was she, being immortal) exclaimed. "But where is he?" In the back of her memory she realised that she had not finished the last quest upon which she had embarked, but this new quest was irresistable. She chose her most becoming raiment (to be described later) and embarked upon the search for Gravlox.

[piosenniel]

Pio pulled her chair about so that she faced the table. Crossing her arms on the table’s top she scrunched down and rested her chin on them. The fingers of her left hand drew lazy little spirals in the rings of ale condensed there from their many mugs.

Angara stretched out her neck and came snout to nose with the Elf.

“I had some doubts about this party,’ the dragon remarked, her head nodding slightly. Her tail swished lightly across the wooden surface, coming to rest as it curled beneath her chin. “But I must say the food offerings are quite tasty. And I applaud the resident barrel-master on the excellent wine, not to mention that ambrosial brew – the dark ale, especially.” As if to punctuate her approval, Angara gave a toothy grin.

“Glad it’s come up to your standards, Old One!” Pio returned. Noticing a half full plate of beef ribs nestled alongside a small mound of crisped tater slices, she reached out and pulled it nearer her companion. “Might as well polish these off, my dear – other wise they’ll be relegated to the slops bucket and it’s the pigs that will be enjoying them.”

“Hmmph!” Angara snorted. “I hope you are not comparing me to a pig!” She eyed the proffered plate and took in the scent of meat and taters. “For one thing, pigs cannot fly. And for another, they are my tasty morsels – I am not theirs.” The last few words of her declaration were muffled and she munched of the beef, her strong jaws crunching through the bone as if it were nothing. “Say,” she went on having swallowed the first mouthful. “Don’t we know that fellow over there?” She raised her head up high and nodded toward a table across the way.

Pio raised up in her chair, surveying the area of the room her companion indicated.

He was turned away from her, so she just caught a small portion of his face. His black hair was unremarkable, and if she narrowed her gaze she caught a few glints of silvered grey tucked in among the ebon. He wore a grey velvety sort of jerkin, white shirt, and the loudest pair of royal blue breeches she had seen in a very long time. He looked well nourished, at least from the back – his jerkin showed some tight creases in the back as he moved in his chair. “Hmmmm… seems familiar,” she murmured. His companion, she noted, was a well attired Uruk.

But wait. Who’s that?” Her eyes had caught a small black and silvered dragon resting near the man.

Angara snorted, giving a sly grin followed closely by a rumbly chuckle. “Mastered that form, hasn’t she?”

“You didn’t think to tell me Bird was here?” Pio asked, her eyes narrowing at her companion.

“We dragons don’t intrude on each other. And besides – where’s that keen elvish eyesight that misses nothing? If you hadn’t been throwing back those mugs of ale and showing off your singing, you’d no doubt have noticed. And furthermore…” The remainder of Angara’s comment was cut off as Pio began laughing.

“And so that fellow you first pointed out - the one in the bright blue pants. That’s Mith, isn’t it?” She stood up, hands on hips, and gave him an appraising once over.

“By the One, I wondered what he’d got in to. “