The Downs is 21 Years Old! Let's celebrate!! Birthday Party for all Members

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn sighed - how long had she been confined to her quarters? She loved her home city of Minas Tirith, but she missed travelling to other parts of the realm since the world she knew had been besieged by an invisible foe. Old tales were rediscovered, old rhymes and songs chanted about the Black Breath, and though all knew that this was not the same, there was much clamour for a new kind of athelas to heal all who were affected. The air did seem to smell fresher when the leaves spread their scent...

She decided to enjoy a breath of fresh air and took a walk around the city streets. As she passed by the thick walls she espied a door that she hadn't noticed before. It looked like it hadn't been used for a long time - the stones paving the steps were moss-covered and the door handle rusty. Obviously no one had entered here recently, and curiosity overcame her normal reticence. When she pushed the handle, expecting resistance, she was astonished that it opened quite easily.

Instead of the dusty, musty room she expected to see, she was blinded by sunshine and took a deep breath of fresh air. A door on the other side was open, but the view was not of the familiar plains and mountains surrounding Minas Tirith. It seemed that many paths and errands met at this portal, and an idea came into her mind unbidden, as if a voice had spoken:

Seek for the forum unbroken:
In the Barrow-Downs it dwells;
There shall be greetings spoken
For the birthday of which it tells.

She stood in the open doorway and spread her arms wide, speaking words of invitation:

Give me your masks, your handgels, you huddled masses yearning to breathe free...

...and knew that this was a space in which all could feel safe and at ease to celebrate together. "Twenty-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable forum members," she mused. Then she hurried home to change into her favourite festive gown, dark blue with silver stars. There was nothing to prepare in the room, for it was already ready to welcome guests. Who would join her, she wondered.

[Blind Guardian]

"Happy birthday Downs! Here's to 21 more years of quotes, readings, werewolves, and Tolkien!" Said BG, bringing over ale. "It's amazing to me that I'm only 4 years older than the Barrow-Downs. "

[Inziladun]

Inziladun, as was his wont, wandered into the Downs first thing in the morning. He feared no Great Plague, as he walked under the virtue of Moderna.

Lurking about in the corners and sipping the wondrous infusion of Coffea arabica, he watched for others to appear.

[Thinlómien]

"Happy birthday to us all!" said Lommy, grabbing a welcome drink and clinking her glass against BG's. "You know what, what you said made me realise we must now have resident wights who are younger than the 'Downs themselves! A terrifying thought, but also a heartwarming one."

She paused, and waved at Esty and Inziladun, and gestured at the wights outside the barrow to come in and join the party.

[Kuruharan]

In to the throng walked a well dressed and hooded dwarf. Strangely, or perhaps not, he was followed by a large dragon of ancient and imperial lineage who appeared to be laden down with a large variety of packages. By this point, however, none seemed to remark on it.

"Where is Boromir88?" asked the dragon. "I still feel the need to give him a piece of my mind."

The dwarf pushed back his hood. He had neatly brushed light brown hair and beard, and twinkling blue-gray eyes. His clothes were very sharp. He wore a cloak of the deepest crimson with silver fringe. Under that he wore a full length coat of dark blue with gold embroidery along the edge. His tunic was as red as a cherry, with more gold embroidery. He wore a gold belt with an axe thrust into it, and his boots were impeccably polished. On a gold chain around his neck he wore a large golden dragon pendent.

"I'm sure he will be along soon," said the dwarf to the dragon, as he walked over to the hostess.

"Merisu...I mean Estelyn, where do you want the buffet set up?"

"Over there along the far wall," replied Estelyn.

"Alrighty," said the dwarf. "Who do I give the bill to?"

[Pitchwife]

Enter Pitchwife, feeling terribly underdressed next to Esty and Kuru in his jeans and sneakers, usual chequered flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a black t-shirt adorned with the Dead Moon logo which had long been his avatar on the Downs, and also, truth be told, a beer belly he had been growing for some time now and which was all too likely to gain a few more mm in the course of these celebrations.

He grabbed a mug of ale and mingled with his fellow wights. He congratulated Zil on his newly acquired immunity against the plague carried on evil winds from Angband, complimented Blind Guardian on her narrations in the recent Werewolf game and pledged a toast to Lommy for her victory. Then, thinking this party could do with a little spicing up, he climbed on a chair, began to bang on a drum which he had summoned out of thin air and burst into song to the tune of an old viking chant:

Come gather round all you Downers
And raise up your cup to our Founder!
He came and gathered the ghosts of the dead
And let us run loose over board and thread.

Here‘s to the Wight and the forum he made,
Here‘s to the Downs, home of many a Shade,
Of Spectres, of Princes and old Piles o‘ Bone
And it‘s ours for the haunting, thanks to you alone!

We‘ve played some Werewolf, it‘s true,
And many rounds of Cryptic Clue
With Legate and Might in the Quiz Room so bright,
The Palantir of Fortune shone through the night.

Here‘s to the Books and learnéd dispute,
Here‘s to the Movies coz Legolas is cute.
The bots broke in and the forum was wrecked,
But we took it all back in the green and black.

Here‘s to the Downs, home of mirth and lore,
To the Professor whose work we adore.
Here‘s to the Wight who gave us a home
And it‘s ours for the haunting, thanks to you alone.

[Blind Guardian]

"Hear, hear!" Blind Guardian cheered, as she danced to Pitchwife's chant and became progressively more drunk. "And hear to Galadrial55, for her brilliant werewolf game! And of course, Boro and Urwen who keep up an excellent game of Palantir of Fortune!"

[Formendacil]

'Tis custom, they say, once a year, for the Wights and and Corpses of the Barrow-downs to gather and toast good health (an oxymoron--or a paradox) to the black niche they name their home, each one referring to theirself in the third person in a narrative of disjointed fancy.

It was then sixteen years since Formendacil of the North had become ensorcelled by that dark haunt, and never might he untwine himself from it, not though the roots of Downs were uprooted by Aulë or Melkor cast Grond upon it. He had departed from his own northern kin (nigh to the Lossoth, so the ignorant said) and wedded a southern lass first glimpsed betwixt the standing stone and the headwaters of the Withywindle. A son already was born to him and another presaged to follow.

Even so, it had been a long year or more of isolation since Formendacil had last mooted with the others of his kind, and though there was a stir with the spring of excitement not seen in many months, still he remembered the golden days of his youth, when many a Ghost Prince of Cardolin haunted that land, and he recalled also the arcane arts they had practiced: AOL, MSN, LJ--mere letters now, but magic once.

"To those remembered but missed," he raised a toast--thinking of the likes of Lhunardawen or Saucepan Man--"and to those who are but names now graven at the heads of their posts, forgotten by me but of the weft and warp of that time."

He drained his drink solemnly, then went in search of Rune, who needed to be told Marx was wrong, or [b]Boro[b], who needed to be told Bill was right.

[Morthoron]

The Dark Elf, in a fey mood as ever, shuddered as he entered and beheld the garish throng; but he shook off the grim foreboding of having to lounge with the overly cheery Hobbits for yet another anniversary, and decided for his own sanity that he must keep his mind occupied with something other than halfling merry-making. Thus, from a satin sack he produced a wondrous lute with a black lebethron fret board and bridge, and a body of fine-grained ancient willow (which he had gotten after hacking down a particularly obnoxious tree along the Withywindle River a few years' previous).

Without further ado, the Dark Elf plucked the strings, and announced: "Here is a song from a famous minstrel of the North Country, Bard Dylan. I am certain he will not mind that I have altered his lyrics for this august occasion -- as I am equally certain he does not slum about in this neighborhood." He then began to sing....

Come gather ‘round Downers wherever you roam
And admit you got old like a troll turned to stone
And accept it that soon you’ll have creaks in your bones
Like a Barrow Wight creepily aging
Not immortal like elves, you’ll soon be called home
For the Downs they are a-changing.

Come role-playing Werewolves throughout the land
You died elventy times and you’ll soon die again
Cos’ the villagers with pitchforks just don’t understand
The game on the forum you’re playing
Will soon wake the zombies and wreck all your plans
For the Downs they are a-changing.

You’ve carefully posted on each single thread
You’ve ranted and raved and gone off of your head
And shot like a cannon when canon is read
Out of order from Tolkien’s arranging
“It’s fan-fic!” you cry with your face turning red
For the Downs they are a-changing.

Happy Birthday! you type (because we can’t hear you sing)
As silent as Gollum underground with his Ring
But the sentiment still applies, and that’s the thing
No matter how far off-key you are ranging
Because you mean it as surely as Balrogs have wings
That the Downs they are a-changing.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Estelyn smiled to see familiar faces as she looked about the room, but she sighed to realize that there was so much space for more party guests. She walked over to the portal and gazed out hopefully...

[Galadriel55]

Galadriel did not have far to go. After all, she pretty much lived in the black and green land for several years now. But she was late. She was always fashionably late to parties.

Now, having arrived, she was ready in equal measure to lynch some werewolves, or spout bilingual First Age poetry, or set a cryptic riddle, whatever the demands of the party may be. Seeing that it was unlikely that anyone would need to be lynched, she quickly stuffed the two +s inside her pockets.

"Hey everyone! Here's to all of you - old faces and new, regular haunters and visitors, and even distant lurkers! In such company, the ten years I've spent here have flown by. It is hard to imagine that for the eldest wights, this place is nearly as old as I am. To the green and black!"

[Snowdog]

The old weatherworn Ranger came riding in and dismounted when he heard the festivities.

"It be twenty one years? My first grandchild was born in those days, and she is a beautiful and wonderful university student now. Where has the time gone in my wanderings??? Maybe one day I will reach a thousand posts here."

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Rune suddenly realised that he had completely neglected to greet most of Barrow Downers attending the party, as he had been waylaid by Formendacil almost as soon as he had arrived at the premises.

He had always been easily distracted, and even though he had only a superficial knowledge of the finer points of dialectical materialism, being told Marx was wrong was too tasty a distraction to be ignored.

Wanting to make his presence known, and realising he had a reputation to uphold Rune raised his drinking horn containing mead and beer, and spoke loudly.

“Hail the victorious dead! Words cannot describe how privileged I am to spend this cold and clammy eternity among such admirable wights. If you will excuse me, I will now go and shout at a faint-hearted member bourgeoisie”