2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[Everdawn]

"I hope Ill see you again" Piosenniel had called to her before hurrying off.

The Everdawn closed her eyes and bowed her head once more, "Don't think on't, These last days are passing swiftly for me, and I will be gone sooner than I may know." she smiled.

She then let her strange grey eyes wander over the party until they came to rest upon passin hobbit children who were looking at her in awe. Elfsun knew that it was strange to see a Silvan elf in these parts, she meerly waved to them before passing. She came to a table away from the buzz of the general populus and decided that she would sit for a while before commencing her journey again.

Elfsun was sitting captured in her own thoughts when upon the stage infront of her a girl began to sing a very odd song indeed. The girl finished and spoke though Umbariel was still to mistified thinking about the song in question to speak praises right away.

"I though that was wonderful" she said eventually to the girl.

[Imladris]

"Ah, Imladris, I see you've also arrived. Looks like we're going to have to take a break from fighting the Mouth of Sauron at the Hills of Evendim for a few days. But hey, I'm not complaining. What do you think of the festivities?"

I turned and laughed. "Menel!" I would never admit it, but I was too lazy to say his full name. "Yes...whoever thought that fighting via the pen could be so tiring?"

He nodded, and I continued, "I don't know what I think about the festivities as I haven't really been here long enough to get involved." I craned my neck and saw a Southron in the tattoo business. "I suppose I could get a tattoo...or have a bit to eat..." I shrugged, and helped myself to some toffee shocks.

The toffee was smooth and delicious. I could feel the small bit begin to grow in my mouth, and smiled. With a sharp crack, it exploded and the inside of mouth was sprayed with shards of candy. Chewing on them, I asked, "Would you like one, Menel?"

[Aredhel Ar-Feiniel]

“Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With Silver bells and cockle shells, and Pretty Maids all in a row.” Sang the merry, merry voice of another directionless female who happened at this point of time bound into the party. Her Black hair was covered by a pink bonnet from under which dark eyes glittered.

“No knave stole these Tarts” she mentioned in passing to an elderly hobbit man who was looking hungrily at the plate which she had bought. Tapping her feet along the ground as she walked it was obvious that this girl had had too much sugar. “Hyperactivity is not a bad thing!” she shot at the same old hobbit man who was by now a fair way behind her. This had been a mistake because no sooner had she turned around, she bumped into three more hobbit women which sent her tarts flying to the ground. “Betty Crocker won’t like that now will she?” She muttered dusting herself off and leaving the tarts where they were.

“Could be worse, could be raining” she told the women and kept walking until once again she stopped dead. There was an elf at a table which she knew… “Elfsun!” she cried “It is I the ever so illustriously named Aredhel!... and I have dropped my tarts!”

[piosenniel]

Pio had made the mistake of asking the Elf with the violet eyes where she had gotten her contacts. Merisu wrinkled her brow, but barely, and with two flicks of her golden tresses had laughed quite prettily and wagged a slender, well manicured finger at Pio. ‘Silly! Gotten them, indeed! I was born with them!’

‘Yes . . .well . . .’ Pio was having trouble concentrating, entranced by the sight of the glistening strands of blond hair lifting gently in the playful breeze. It was with great restraint that she held back her hand from giving Merisu’s lovely locks a yank to see if they were indeed her own.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes focused on the toes of her boots (which were scuffed and worn – quite unlike the footwear of the Elf before her), Pio gathered her wits and invited Merisu to join her for a drink and a plate of savories. ‘You do eat and drink, do you not?’ she asked warily, thinking that perhaps the warrior-maiden had reached a state of perfection which precluded such things.

On their way to the food tables, a darkly clad, pasty skinned woman in a green scarf walked past muttering something about dwarf-tossing, ale, and Russian cures. ‘Dwarves are that way, Lush,’ called Pio as the figure passed. ‘And you are quite in luck – so is the Guinness and the vodka.’

Pio nodded at the Elf with the messy blond hair and the full, foaming tankard. Nerindel she’d heard someone call her. And it looked as if someone acquainted with Merisu had dressed the poor woman for the party. There she stood, tugging at the lacing to the bodice of her rather form-fitting dress, trying to give herself a little room to breathe. Pio watched as the Elf barely caught herself, her shoe catching on the hem of her dress as she strode along. Ale splashed down the front of her dress and she muttered an imprecation that would curl the toenails of an orc. Pio snapped her fingers and a serving wench appeared at Nerindel’s elbow with a fresh pint. ‘Over there,’ said Pio, drawing near to the wet Elf. ‘Behind the actors’ stage is dressing room and any number of much more comfortable outfits.’ She stepped back and looked at Nerindel from head to toe. ‘Breeches, I think and a soft tunic, loosely belted at the waist. And boots – find yourself something more comfortable. This is a party, not the court at Rivendell . . .’

Having reached the food at last, Pio placed a plate in Merisu’s smooth-skinned hands and bade her fill it as she wished. Pio herself picked the stuffed mushrooms and a small stack of chocolate chip cookies, topped off with a generous scoop of macaroni and cheese.

Nearby she noticed the figure of Hilde Bracegirdle, husband in tow, standing at the Party Tree, their attention engaged by the well-wishes others had affixed there. Hilde, she saw, had pulled a piece of parchment from her own pocket, and smoothing it out had pinned it up with the rest.

Another had come up to the table and then wandered off. Symestreem the young woman was called, another of the partygoers had told her. ‘And she plays a mean fiddle,’ the guest had added, nodding her head at the stage the musicians used. And apparently is quite fond of chocolate chip cookies noted Pio as she watched the young woman disappear into the crowd with a handful.

Merisu had remained quiet for some time, but now she nudged Pio’s elbow and tilted her head ever so daintily toward three newcomers who had made quite an entrance. They were in good spirits and seemed glad to have found each other. Pio sent a server over to them with pitcher of drink and mugs and a platter of savory eats.

Two hobbit lads had run up by this time, hats in hand, to tell Pio they’d repaired a hole in the side of one of the pavilions and bandaged a passerby who’d been injured in the incident. An Orc, one Kransha she learned, had eructated as beings of his sort were want to do after eating, sending his plate flying through the fabric of the tent with great force. A Dwarf had been knocked in the head and it had taken the Beorn security force to keep him from going after the orc with his ax. ‘Secure the weapon,’ ordered Pio. ‘And give the Dwarf a small cask of those special Dwarvish spirits from Erebor. And the Orc – see if the fellow will try some ‘Beano’ before he eats again.’

The two Elves found a table near the music stage and sat down to relax. Pio shook her head in quiet amusement as Merisu’s pearly white, perfectly matched and even teeth bit into an overstuffed pasty and a bit of gravy dripped onto the bodice of her gown . . .

[Dininziliel]

The tarts & toffee bits scattered upon the ground were briefly revealed by moonlight as clouds passed across the silver face above. The first day of celebration had ended. All were resting peacefully, smiling & dead to the world about them as well might properly be expected. Having made a hasty departure from her barrow in Kansas, another middle place on earth in the 7th age, she had arrived too late to join the merry-making. "I can see there has been no lack of food nor drink here!" A weary yet knowing grin appeared on the face of the traveler as she leaned against the tallest tree and surveyed the tents, banners, & clothes of the party-goers. All their bright & riotous colors were rendered now as ghostly shades of black, grey & silver. What powers she possessed to bless the snoring, snuffling, & blissfully sonorous inhabitants & fellow travelers were focused in gratitude and thanksgiving. Many happy hours were fondly recalled as she gazed on the faces of those who had welcomed her & shared their store of treasured lore as well as wisdom and erudition. "Long may their missives pour forth on the waves of ether, and humor abide in this place, boundless in source & substance!"

The hem of her dress & cloak made the only sound in the clearing, brushing the silver-tipped blades of grass as she left the spectral shade of the tree. Making her way toward the entrance of the beckoning barrow, her exhaustion diminished with every step until she came to the place where she need step no further. Here was the chief and final destination of her journey. Determined to arrive with all speed, having stopped rarely and only briefly across plain, hill, and water, she stood now before her goal. "Perhaps the gift I bring will assuage any ire or peevishness that lingers having been caused by my incessant clamoring to be restored to my original resting place, as well as my overly long and nigh unpronounceable name." To the ancient ones who lurked in the shadowy bogs nearby her words sounded as a prayer or incantation.

Although it was small, the gift was mighty. She removed the plain, soft cloth that had protected it for many leagues, and laid it near the opening to the Wight's private barrow from whence the beloved forum issued. All clouds disappeared, scattered by a sudden wind from the West. The moon sent a beam like an arcing arrow loosed from a Lorien bow. It found its target--the runes fashioned from ithildin. They erupted with a blinding light revealing the name placed upon the object: Acme Portable Gondoran MetaServer. Many spells had been cast upon it so that it neither would nor could crash; it would not waiver in service to the Wight and all the good folk for whom he labored. To her dazed and wondering mind, it seemed as if the gleaming runes had made a sudden, loud noise. Dininziliel became alarmed that the Wight would be roused and discover her swaying like one stricken over the gift that now seemed a small and mean thing to offer. Turning abruptly, she did a quick courtesy in the direction of Mod’s Hill and retreated to the safety of the tree.

Nestling into a knothole at its base, she quieted down to think. “Ah, what a ninnyhammer I am! I forgot to sign the tag! It’s probably just as well since I’m more than likely above my station to think anything I could offer would be grand enough for the Wight. He must have already been given two or three today at least! I’ll just have to face the music in the morning. No doubt there will be plenty of that to dance to. All I can hope for now is not to embarrass myself in the company of all these fine folk!” Her right hand lifted itself listlessly to stifle a yawn. Its effort was in vain. She was asleep, her head resting upon a large and fragrant mushroom, before her hand fell down to join the other one upon her lap.

[Novnarwen]

Nova hurried out of the door, holding a huge plate with food in her hands. Fried potatoes (!!?!!), fried tomatoes and juicy mushrooms were the only things she had been able to make. She frowned, as she thought about what the others might have brought with them. She was a terrible cook, and she knew that. She had tried though, but still, she knew she had failed. The look of the potatoes, tomatoes and the mushrooms revealed quite a lot. Oh, how embarrassing, Nova thought, wondering if she should just leave the food at home and pretend that she had brought something. It seemed like a good idea, but she wasn't really sure. What if someone asked? What could she possibly say; that she had made something and placed it on a table? Maybe she could pretend someone else’s' dish was hers! Yes, that was a good idea . . . But what if that 'someone' told the same person, that had asked Nova about her food, that the food Nova had pointed out was his or hers?. She would be in a really tight squeeze if tha happened. That, indeed, would be embarrassing. Nova decided to bring her food, nevertheless, and stand the embarrassment. If it didn't taste very well, she would go and hide her plate, so that no one could 'mock' her for her terrible food.

As she was about to walk down the sloping path, leading to the Party Field, a new idea popped into her head. She hadn't tried tasting it, so she didn’t really know if it was that bad. She grinned, but didn't really like the idea of tasting her own food either. She dropped the idea, she was better off not tasting. If somebody fell sick after trying the fried tomatoes, the mushrooms or the potatoes, she would indeed be grateful for not trying first. After all, she wanted to attend the party.

***

The Party had already started, as assumed, when Nova, dressed like a Hobbit, showed up. Nervous and anxious about leaving her food at one of the tables, she quickly trudged over and placed it in one of the ends. Hopefully, no one would get harmed. Out of the corner of her eyes, Nova soon discovered a plate, a plate with cookies with huge chocolate chips. "Those are familiar," she muttered. She looked around, before taking one to thereafter push it into her mouth. "Yummy," she bellowed. The Hobbit wannabe realised that some people had turned to look at her, and she grew red and wandered off.

She opened her mouth to take another bite of the delicious cookie, before she realised that it was Orofaniel's work. I knew it! she thought, eating the rest of it. Well knowing that someone she really knew had arrived, she went looking for Orofaniel.

With eyes, constantly on guard; like a hawk, she wandered around at the field. She saw a whole lot of people she knew from the Role-Playing section, but also others, who she had just seen on the "Who's Online?", (which indeed was a really awesome function at the Forum.) Nova went silently by herself, admiring the gigantic Party Tree. Slowly, she found her way towards it. Nova enjoyed reading all the Birthday Greetings, which were nailed to the tree-trunk. When she found Oro, she would ask her friend if they were going to nail their birthday greetings together. Yes, that would be fun. The Hobbit, by appearance, tried not to bump into too many, but people gathering around the tree made it impossible for her to read all the notes. She would have to continue later.

She settled herself by the stage, seeing Pio, the Moderator, sit nearby.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

In search of a steaming cup of ginger tea, Hilde walked from tent to tent, eliciting strange looks from the bartenders until she happened upon one she knew and who took pity on her letting her see if she could fix something for herself. “I don’t have no ginger for ginger tea though, Miss Hilde.” he apologized.

“I’m sure there is something back here that will do”, Hilde replied eyeing the strange bottles with even stranger hued liquids within them. Just then a very tall man in a flowing black leather coat and an eye patch strode up, the bartender being busy with a large group this strange man asked Hilde for a pint of Dortmunder gold. “Dwarfmunder?” Hilde repeated rummaging around behind the table. “I’m sorry, we don’t have none o’ that. But we have plenty o’ Schaeffer…on tap no less!”

“No, Ach no!” the man protested muttering an extra comment or two about hobbits and Schaeffer that Hilde didn’t quite catch. “Rum then! You do have rum don’t you?” Quite flustered, Hilde ducked down and found a bottle of the stuff under the skirts of the table. With a nervous smile she handed the unopened bottle to the man, who gave her a mock bow with a flourish before stalking off. Hilde looked quickly to see if the barkeeper had seen this transaction, thankfully he was quite busy with his blender preparing some rather exotic concoctions.

Grabbing a cup of coffee and hastily splashing in some whiskey, for flavor, Hilde headed for the food. She saw her husband had planted himself at a table, and already had several empty glasses beside him as well as two plates. Having a lively conversation with a couple of dwarves, his loud laugh could be heard erupting with surprising frequency. Ah, he is enjoying himself, she thought.

Surveying the food spread out across several tables, Hilde picked up a few strips of lemon scented venison, setting them on her saucer, and spying a dish of toffee that was quickly disappearing, she picked one up and plopped it in her coffee before rejoining her husband. Walking back toward his table, the hobbit recognized Miss Pio by the stage. And catching the elf’s glance she raised her cup of coffee aloft for a toast, “TO THE SHIRE!” , she shouted at the top of her voice, where upon she felt an odd feeling of warmth trickle down her arm, as her coffee bubbled over and then quite unexpectedly exploded.

[symestreem]

Gliding around sleeping partygoers, symestreem noticed someone at her plate of chocolate chip cookies! Several someones- hobbits. She shook her head. It was all over now. Ah well, there would be other cookies. She must try and find the maker of these and express her gratitude. Or, she could...
Leaving a note under the plate, she resumed strolling, looking for someone to serenade. Everyone was asleep, though. Even the noises emanating from the barrow had stopped. Did wights sleep?
Stepping around a drunk dwarf, she saw a huge pile of shiny stuff on the ground. Who dumped all these pots out here? Everything from kettles to a saucepan to an exotic dwarven stewpot was in a heap. The cooks are asleep. I might as well put these away for them.
The items were surprisingly hard to pick up, and the kitchen tent was far away. She had just come back with a cart when she gasped. Under all the kitchenware was... was... a person! The cooks must have dumped their tools on top of him. He could be hurt!
"'Ere now, what are you doin' with our Mr. Pan Man?" An indignant hobbit stood behind her. "And where's all his other pots?"
She tried to get across with gestures that she thought the man needed medical attention. When that didn't work, she took out her special stick and wrote in the dirt.
The hobbit scratched his head. "Well, now, I can't read that." He saw the pots and pans in the cart and gasped. "You... you were takin' 'is pots!"
She frantically tried to assure him that this was not so, that she had had no idea there was someone making his abode under kitchenware, but he grasped her by the arm (a reach for him.) "I think you'd better come with me," he said, leading her away to a tent whose sign read 'Beorn Security'.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman sat like some watchful hawk on the sill of the topmost window of the Inn, swinging her feet gently as she watched over the pavillion on which the party was taking place. The Innkeeper had spent the last few hours rushing around attempting to give last minute orders, most of which she strongly suspected had been completely disregarded, and the peace of her high perch was very welcome. The sounds of the party wafted on the air towards her from below, sounding distant and pleasant like birdsong on the wind, the silk breeze swept her wavy brown hair from her face and she closed her eyes, sighing contentedly...

A sudden icy roar made the Innkeeper's eyes snap open and she very nearly fell off the sill, clutching it quickly with her slim fingers as her gaze shot down to the pavillion...

She relaxed and sent a scathingly raised eyebrow in the direction of the two hobbits who had disturbed the Wight. The gesture was utterly lost on the pair, of course, as they were scrambling away as fast as possible from the eerie barrow, wreathed in giggles, knocking several of the noisier mathoms from the present tree as they did. The Innkeeper recognised one as Cami Goodchild's youngest, Daisy, and the other as a possible Pimpernel Brandybuck. She was fairly sure he had been banned from the Inn, but ah well, it was a party, she was quite prepared to turn a blind eye to it.

"Miss Aman?"

Aman turned her head into the round attic window to see a sturdy hobbit tween standing a little nervously a few feet from her. He jumped when she turned, then edged forward a little to peer out of the window. With a whimper, he jumped back, then hastily tried to cover up his discomfort.

"Ah, Brando, won't you join me?" Aman teased, her green eyes glinting mischievously. Even for a hobbit, Brando Proudfoot had never been one for heights. He gave the Rohirrim woman a concerned glance, then shook his head.

"Dear me, Miz Aman, never will get used to that..." he muttered. "Anyway, 'just came to tell you that Goodwife Goodchild asks you to come down, she'd like to say good day - and I'd like you to come down and all, you're making me fair nervous here! - and that there are a few rather strange looking folk down on the pavillion..."

Aman grinned widely at Brando then turned back outside, dropping her head back onto her shoulders and closing her eyes to the wind. "Of course there are, Brando. It's the Barrowdowns party!" Opening her eyes, she caught sight of something which made her eyebrows shoot up suddenly. "Brando...When you said strange...were you referring to the southerners, wights and various elven nobility...or to Daisy Goodchild who suddenly seems to have bright green hair?"

"I think you see my point, Aman!" Brando replied triumphantly. Aman laughed, then cast a slightly worried glance at the barrow where the master of the Downs had taken up residence for the party.

"Ah Brando...of all the bars in all the world, why did he have to come to mine?"

There was an awkward silence.

"Shall I take that as a 'you'll-be-down-in-a-minute', Miz Aman?" Brando ventured carefully.

"Yes, yes, do..." Aman replied, sliding her legs back over the windowsill. "Don't know what came over me...


OCC: All characters mentioned in my post, except Cami Goodchild and Piosenniel, are free for use.

[Orofaniel]

Orofaniel had now, eventually, started to get in the party mood. She just had to find a drink, and her friends. The drink however, would be easiest to find and therefore it was also her first priority. There were also loads of delicious food that the BarrowDowners had brought with them, but Orofaniel figured that she shouldn't eat just yet. She passed the tables, but he had to admit that those lovely toffees tempted her.

After she had grabbed a drink and was sipping it cautiously, she went looking again. She walked towards the stage where she could see Piosenniel. Next to sat...Nova! "Nova!" Orofaniel cried while she hurried towards the stage. Novnarwen didn't take any notice of her at the moment, probably because she hadn't heard Orofaniel's voice among all those other voices from the other guests. I'll sneak up on her then, Orofaniel thought and smiled evilly. Hopefully I'll manage to surprise her, she continued. It wasn't hard to sneak up on her either, because it seemed like Nova paid all her attention to the stage. Besides, the crowd around her made it impossible for Nova to see anyone sneaking up on her.

"Boo!" Orofaniel cried as she was standing right behind Nova. Nova jumped in her seat and turned. "You scared me like....Oro!" She said when she saw that the face was familiar. Then Nova slapped her teasingly on the shoulder. "You're so mean!" She said and grinned. Orofaniel laughed and said;” Well, you know me..."

"Ooo, I see you've dressed like a Hobbit," Orofaniel said and looked at Nova's outfit. It was very pretty and it had earthy colours. "Yes, it is a Hobbit dress," Nova said proudly. "I see that you have dressed in your best eleven cloak…Nova continued now smiling widely. "Yes, dear," Oro nodded; “Only the best for such a merry occasion….”

"Um..is that the cookies I made?" Orofaniel asked suddenly when she noticed that Nova was holding something, that probably had been a cookie a while a go, in her left hand. "Yes, it is indeed. You baked them right?" Nova asked and took the last final bite of it. She chewed it carefully and swallowed. "Yes, I did bake them," Orofaniel confirmed. "They tasted really good," Nova assured her, but Orofaniel wasn't convinced. "And they are popular too," Nova said while she looked over at the tables. There were many people gathered around the tables, and Orofaniel could only get a short glimpse of her own plate; it was almost empty.

"I expect we have to nail something up on that Party Tree," Nova said and looked at it. There were many people gathered around it, and all of them wanted to give their birthday wishes. It was only natural that they, Orofaniel and Nova, would do the same. "Absolutely!" Orofaniel said enthusiastically. "I just have to finish my drink here," She continued and drank until the mug was empty.

Before they left the stage to nail some kind of Birthday wish on the party tree they talked to Pio for a moment. "It such a wonderful party," Orofaniel said and smiled. "Oh, thanks...Yes, it is wonderful that so many people have made it," Pio started. "And, I can't believe that they brought so much good food with them!" She continued now laughing.

"Oh well, we better get going; the birthday wishes are waiting," Nova said finally. "Yes, of course," Pio said and smiled. "As a matter of fact, I should take a little walk around here myself," Pio continued and waved.

"Have a good time then, you two!" She said as she went into the crowd and disappeared.

[Nerindel]

Nerindel exited the actors tent a bright smile on her elven features and in more comfortable attire, the dark breeches and soft green tunic made her feel more like herself, but still smartly dressed that her friend Lespheria would have no cause to be disappointed. Her cheery mood had also been increased by the pleasant company of the singers and actors she had met in her hunt for the clothes she now wore. In fact she had spent the whole night in their company exchanging tales and songs spanning all four ages of this world and the southron dancing women had even help her to tame her unruly mop of golden hair, but still old habits would not die and she pulled it back, tying it in place with a leather band.

As she crossed the grassy field to find some breakfast, she spotted the red headed woman who had directed her towards the pleasant company and the less constricting attire. With an appreciative smile she nodded her thanks, gapping as the red locks slip forwards to reveal the woman’s delicate elven ears, once over the initial shock and once the elf had lifted the wig enough for her to see that it wasn’t real she laughed shaking her head. It seemed she was not the only out of character elf at the party! What would Lady Lespheria of Rivendell think! She wondered with a knowing smile.

Finally finding her way to the buffet table, she loaded a plate, to the approving looks of all the hobbits present, 'It's good to see at least one elf that knows how to eat' one hobbit woman smiled.

'How can I not with so much wonderful delicacies on offer?" she smiled in reply.
The hobbit woman laughed in agreement then put out her hand, "Mrs Bracegirdle, Hilde to my friends." She smiled warmly.

'Nerindel,' she smiled wiping her free hand down her breeches before taking the hobbit woman's out stretched hand and shaking it firmly. "And well met,” she added remembering her manners, at the last instance.

"Are you enjoying the party?" the woman asked striking up a conversation, "I am now she smiled taking a seat next to the woman and telling her that she was looking forward to the fireworks display. Telling Hilde that someone had told the bar man who had told the actor who had told the dancer who told her that the fire works where to be of the calibre and like of those said to have been made by Gandalf himself."

An excited glint came to the woman’s eyes and she leaned in and whispered, "Well I heard, from a cousin of a friend of a cousin, that the old wizard himself had been seen coming down the greenway!" She finished nodding at Nerindels anticipated surprise reaction.

"Then it is sure to be a party of most excellence!" she laughed, "But what of you Mrs Bracegirdle, how are you finding the celebrations?" she asked stuffing a mouthful of deliciously seasoned mushrooms into her mouth.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami looked at her younger daughter aghast and wagged an accusing finger at her. “Daisy, how could you do this? Shock toffee is one thing, but emerald green hair? . Miz Aman was the one who noticed it and let me know. Even your Aunt Pio didn’t go that far!”

Daisy showed no signs of backing down in front of her mother. She put a hand to her unruly green mop and defiantly pushed it through her curls in an effort to show off to everyone around her.

“Ima, stop worrying! The Elf at the booth said it would wash out, or at least he thought so. It’s some sort of minor Elvish spell, the kind we’re not supposed to use in the Shire.”

“He’d better be right!” Cami retorted. “Or you’ll be the only Hobbit in Middle-earth with permanent green hair! And what were you doing with that awful Pimpernel Brandybuck? He’s always getting in trouble. Miz Aman and I saw the two of you over near the mathoms and the gift table sorting through some things.” At this point, Cami abruptly closed her mouth as she saw Pimpernel approaching.

Daisy stood on tiptoe, whispering into her mother's ear. “Ima, he’s nice, really nice. You just don’t know him.”

“Well, maybe so.” Cami sighed in resignation and bent down to give her daughter a kiss, being very careful not to touch those awful green curls. “Alright then, I give up. Go have some fun together. But you’d best mind your manners. I don’t want to hear you’ve gotten into trouble!”

With that the two Hobbits scampered off. Once they were safely out of Cami’s earshot, Pimpernel stopped and tugged two items out of his pocket. One was the Acme Portable Gondorian Metaserver and the other a statuette of a green dragon. Both had been sitting on the gift table. Neither had a tag on it, but everyone had seen that the Gondorian Metaserver was presented by Dininziliel. Daisy’s eyes widened in surprise, “You told me you were going to put those things back. We could get in a lot of trouble. There’s one of those dark creatures making a list of all the things that folk gave the Wight and, if any are missing, they’ll track us down and have our hides.”

Pimpernel looked furtively at Daisy, “I tried, I really tried. But they’ve got guards stationed at the table now so that it’s impossible for me to slip it back.”

“So what are we going to do? You told me you were just ‘borrowing’ them for a minute. What happens when the guards realize they're gone. That green hand thing will kill us…..”

Pimpernel shook his head, "I have no idea! Anyways, do you know what this thing is?" Daisy examined the Metaserver closely, shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head, while still turning the strange item over in her hand.

*************************

OOC Moderator's comment: Anyone is welcome to pick up on Pimpernel and the guards and the missing dragon statue. You can carry along Cami’s daughter. Just don’t get her killed, please! But please don't use the Wight in your posts, at least not yet.... Signed: Cami Goodchild

[Bêthberry]

A creaky, battered old wheel barrow clattered and rocked over the mossy green of the Party Field. Like all parts of Middle-earth, the Party Field had been seeded, howed and rowed by hand, in ages so long ago that its true origins were known only in myth and legends. Some said it was the work of one Gardener; others insisted that the work of all other gardeners labouring over the field should also be remembered and acknowledged. Indeed, it was difficult at times to tell what the original plan of the Party Field had been, so overworked was it with winding old paths from previous parties, stumps of trees that had decayed and fallen now used as seats and legs for table planks, large patches of grass worn down by dancing feet and then reseeded by later hands. Still and all, whether this was an archetypal Party Field or some enchanted grass land, there was no denying that mobs of party goers were having a great deal of fun experiencing the Party rather than attaching any particular meaning to it.

However, the result of all this seeding and reseeding was a bumpy field even though the finest Gardener had attempted consciously so in the reweeding to clear a straight and narrow path through it. So it was that a wheel became stuck, and no matter which way the woman pushed or pulled, the wheel remained rutted in place, the heavy contents of the wheel barrow making it too difficult to lift up and out. It was full, piled high with mathoms, perennial plants that the woman had divided and dug up from her garden.

"Whew and humpft," said the woman. With that stupendously critical comment, Bêthberry paused to look around and put the barrow down.

[Guinevere]

Slowly a slender woman in a light grey cloak approached, hesitating at the entrance to the partyfield. Pushing back her hood she revealed shoulder long brown hair and a rather worried face. Shyly she peeped round the gate and nearly turned back. Such a crowd and bustle! So many witty and eloquent people!
Guinevere hesitated. She couldn't make up her mind whether to enter or to turn back. She had never been to the Shire before and had no experience in RPG's whatsoever, and felt wholly inadequate. Should she dare join the merry crowd all the same? It would be wonderful to meet some of the people she had come to know and to like and admire from afar. And of course she really, really wanted to congratulate the Barrowwight and express her heartfelt thanks for the wonderful place which she had frequented for almost 2 years now.
At last, she took a deep breath and entered, glancing around with wide eyes.

[Durelin]

The lane was too quiet and much too empty. She was late. The sound of joyful laughter and loud chatter, along with a few screams, came from the field just around the bend. It had not been that long since Durelin had last been here, and it was near impossible to forget where the Party Field was. It was just around the bend. It did feel good to be back, as she had been too lazy to venture from her home in Bree. At least, she hadn't since her return from Rohan, and that was a good while ago.

Rake, the mount beneath her, had slowed down considerably since the beginning of the trip. Durelin only gave it an encouraging pat, knowing that attempting to stir it to a livelier pace would only worsen the situation. Such was the temperament of such a mule. But it was certainly better than no mount at all. Imagining how much her feet would be hurting her at the moment, and how damaged her Shish kabobs would have been. Perhaps it was not so smart to bring your favorite food to a pot luck, but she was feeling very nice today, and very generous. Only secretly did she hope that no one else shared her belief that anything was good grilled.

Finding herself at the gate, she tethered the mule to a nearby tree, which seemed to be serving as a parking lot. Noticing a horse wandering on a nearby hill, with a shining coat, either white or gold in color, without harness or saddle, Durelin stared in amazement. Was it the same horse that had bore the most beautiful, most astonishing, most intelligent woman-quester who had graced Bree with her presence only a short time ago? Durelin had heard only few of her great tales of adventure, and had not the chance to meet the Lady before she discovered that this woman of greatest esteem was also attending the party. In her excitement, Durelin rushed in her tying Rake to the parking tree, and almost forgot her Shish kabobs and Barrow gift.

Rushing in through the gate, her eyes scanned the area for the woman, and she immediately spotted her. The gorgeous Lady was even more beautiful than she had heard. And all the stories of elves were true! This woman did glow, shine with a soft light that filled the air around her with wonder and warmth! She shined all the more brightly among such rough company that crowded curiously around her, with hobbits and men, farmers and blacksmiths, as lowly as Durelin was in comparison to her. Durelin was drawn to her, but a pushy looking ghostly-spectre seemed to be awaiting her gift. Somewhere, this ghostly-spectre was looking upon her and all the partygoers. Quickly then she found the mathom table and pulled out a long, thin noodle. Inscribed upon the noodle were runes, letters of the Old Tongue. In the Common Tongue it read: "Scourge of the Wight Upon the Poster Who Has Posted A Previously Discussed Topic". Perhaps it would be a useless gift after the completion of the Forum Index, but Durelin highly doubted that.

Now that her respects had been paid -- respects that would be lasting and that would put an end to any of her urges to post a new topic, hopefully -- Durelin rushed over to her. When she reached her, she immediately curtseyed, a little awkwardly, as she was embarrassed to face this woman in her plain village-maiden dress (complete with an apron). "Dear Lady, your beauty and strength only adds to your majesty as one of Elvish kind, and though I be but a lowly village-girl of Bree, I have heard the stories, I know of your greatness. And now I beg of you that I may be you humble servant. I beseech you, tell me that I may aid you."

The beautiful Lady smiled down at her in great kindness, her face glowing brighter. Durelin lowered her eyes, unable to hold the woman's powerful gaze. "Rise, my child," she then said, and Durelin immediately obeyed. The beautiful Lady then looked at the large dish that Durelin held again in her hands (she had had to put it down to curtsy, of course). "Are those Shish-kabobs?" she asked. Durelin nodded vigorously. The beautiful Lady then dutifully pulled off the plastic wrap with her long, slender, nimble fingers, and picked out the kabob with the most mushrooms.

(OOC: Forgive me, Estelyn. I thought your Mary Sue was a terrible thing to waste!)

[The Saucepan Man]

The Saucepan Man awoke to find himself nestled amongst a pile of cushions in one of the tents placed at the outskirts of the Party Field, for use by those who might wish to catch forty winks. Saucepan suspected that he had probably caught more like four hundred. Looking around, he saw others sleeping in the tent, similarly recuperating after the delights of the previous night. One of the Hobbit attendants sat nearby, watching him closely.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Pan Man sir,” said the Hobbit. “But you fell asleep slap bang in the middle of the field last night. And I happened across a young lady trying to make away with your pots and pans, like. So I took it upon myself to have you brought here and thought that I’d best stay here to watch over you and the others here while you slept.”

“You are most kind, Master Hobbit,” replied Saucepan, checking his kitchenwear and finding to his relief that all was present and correct. “Although I am sure that she meant no harm.”

“Mayhaps you’re right, sir. I believe that them Beorn security guards reached the same conclusion.”

Saucepan gratefully drank down a large glass of water that the Hobbit handed to him, as he mulled over the events of the previous night. After passing a happy half hour showing some young Hobbit children how to get maximum noise and effect from banging on his pans with sticks, his attention had been drawn by the alarming table manners of the Orc sitting at the bar next to him. Ignoring the loud and windy manner in which the Orc had signalled the end of his feast, Saucepan had engaged him in conversation. The pleasant discussion which ensued had caused Saucepan to revise his opinion of Orcs considerably.

He had then drifted through the party, mingling with the other guests, every so often replenishing his glass (and those of others) from his kettle, which seemed to hold a never-ending supply of the clear fragrant liquid. He had enjoyed discussing with Merisuwyniel the antics of the Entish Bow Questors, with which he seemed to be strangely familiar. Later, he had ended up in a vodka speed-drinking contest with Lush, the likely cause of his impromptu collapse in the middle of the field. Somehow, he suspected that Lush had been the victor.

Shielding his eyes from the sunshine as he left the tent, Saucepan surveyed the Party Field. Crowds of people were still present, enjoying the entertainers, stalls and side-shows. He waved cheerfully at Bêthberry as she arrived with a well-stocked wheelbarrow. Then he noticed someone else who he recognised standing nervously by the entrance.

“Guinevere!” he shouted (although his pounding head immediately regretted it), and clattered over to welcome her to the party.

[Lush]

"Amateurs," Lush thought as she saw Saucy stagger to greet a few lovelies, the naughty Bêthberry and a dish named Guinevere among them. He clearly had the hangover of a lifetime. Lush beamed proudly. Might as well show off her drinking skills, if nothing else. Well, perhaps her legs too. And academic skills...

Nah, the legs and the drinkage will do.

Pio's advise about the beer did come in handy last night.

Lush stretched like a cat in the sun. A light, golden tan was appearing on her skin. She was beginning to look more and more like a sorority girl. All she needed was a slightly more expensive handbag, uglier shoes, and a lout in tow.

In the absence of any louts nearby, Lush made her way over to bawdy Bêthberry to invite her to smoke a hookah she had recently discovered in one of the tents (Lush's tastes, as of late, had been decidedly Middlea Eastern in nature; must have been the Easterlings looking so Arab in that Peter Jackson movie), or say hello, at least.

[symestreem]

After fleeing from the security guards when they let her go, symestreem hid among the beer barrels while she regained her courage. It was too early for dancing, but there were other strolling minstrels like herself. She joined two pipers and played a couple of trios with them, then excused herself with signs and went for some juice.
On her way back, she overheard two women talking about the cookies.
"Yes, I did bake them," one said. The elusive master cook!
Symestreem grabbed her paper and pen that she was never without, and wrote a note of appreciation for the cookies. She caught up with the pair at the Party Tree, and deftly pinned the note to the woman's cloak. She'd find it when she next used that item of clothing. Then symestreem looked for the pipers, but they were gone.
She strolled around the field. What were all the bales of hay over here for? They made a pit at least twenty feet square. And why was there a target in the middle?
"Incoming!" an elf yelled. She ducked as a dwarf flew over her head to land in the hay by the target. "That was closer than any of yours!" the elf said to his companions. Meanwhile, the dwarf was picking himself up out of the hay.
"I told you not to do that!" the short creature fairly bristled with indignation. Actually, his beard really was bristling. "Now you'll have to answer to my axe!" He started chasing the elf, seemingly not realizing that his axe was still in the hay.
Symestreem raised her glass in a toast to the competitors and walked on.
Two hobbit-children were deep in conversation ahead of her. She did a double-take. Did the lass have green hair?! Or had there been something in that juice? No, the child's hair was definitely a verdant shade of green.
The hobbit-lad was holding a small dragon statuette in his palm. Symestreem could have sworn that had been on the mathom table earlier. When she walked forward for a closer look, the hobbit saw her and hid his hand behind his back. He smiled innocently at her, but his eyes brimmed with mischief. She smiled back just as innocently and walked on by.

[Roa_Aoife]

Roa strode up to the party gates, present and soda bread in tow. She had traveled non-stop from her college, and she was sure her friends there would be wondering, but it was just another of her many dissapearing acts. She fell in line to place her bobble on the gift table, her blue-green eyes scanning for her friends. Roa adjusted her bun before placing her gift on the table and walking off. She had worn her regular slacks and and a somewhat nice shirt. Roa was hoping for some games and she didn't want to be overly hindered.

A she walked over the hill she spied a familiar, if odd, form. "Kransha!" Roa called out, and began running in his direction.

[Novnarwen]

Nova and Orofaniel hurried over to the Party Tree. It was not so crowdy now, and Nova thought it an excellent opportunity to finally write a Birthday Greeting. The two of them stood still, silently watching some of the other notes. (Nova went ahead and read those she had previously missed.)

"So, what are we going to write?" Nova asked curiously. She found two pens and some paper, of which she shared with Orofaniel.

"Happy Birthday?!" Orofaniel said questioningly, her tune revealing a strong sense of sarcasm. Nova looked disappointingly at her friend in the Elven Cloak.

"But..." she started, hesitating. "We need something new, something special."

Orofaniel didn't say anything.

"We need something which is.. extraordinary.. something which takes the breath from people!" Nova explained.

Orofaniel nodded, rolling her eyes at the same time. Nova ignored her, continuing:

"We need something which will make people think: Ah! Why didn't I write that? Or: This is a really nice Birthday Greeting, I wish I had come up with such a greeting as well . . Are you following me?" she asked Orofaniel. Her friend nodded again, while growing impatient.

Still, Nova continued:

"You see, my dear friend, Orofaniel . . . This is a special day, it's precious. This is an amazing event, of which we, or at least I, am very happy to be a part of!" Nova bellowed.

Orofaniel sighed, muttering under her breath: "You aren't a part of the party, you are rambling."

Nova gave no heed to Orofaniel. This Birthday Greeting was important to her; she would have to find the 'right' thing to write. She thought for a while, before opening her mouth again, seeing Orofaniel at her side trying to escape the insanity. Nova, however, grabbed her arm and started talking again:

"You see, a greeting is a personal thing. It's a way a person can express herself or himself. It's something that you give, it's therefore important that we take time to think about this. Now, if we try to drain our brains of all useful or un-useful thoughts, we might be able to think clearly . . . " She felt Orofaniel trying to make Nova let go of her arm, but she kept her hand firmly around it.

"See! You're trying to avoid this. You're trying to pretend that this doesn't matter. Orofaniel, try expressing yourself !!! . . . Drain your brain . . " Nova said, concentrating, closing her eyes . . . "That rhymed, by the way," she said merrily, still having her eyes closed.

This, obviously, was the last bit of insanity Orofaniel could handle. She made Nova let go of her arm, and stepped backwards. Nova didn't care, she just continued rambling.

Orofaniel grew redder and redder.

"What about just: Happy Birthday BARROWDOWNS!!!" Orofaniel asked aggressively.

Stunned by the brilliant idea for a Birthday Greeting, Nova jumped into the air (which she is very good at) and shouted: "THAT'S IT!! THAT'S IT!!!"

Nova frowned:"Tis much better than your first suggestion," she added.

They wrote in a hurry. (Nova added a whole lot of exclaimation marks and wrote in caps, just to get this effect Orofaniel had so nicely expressed.)

Nova was pleased by the Birthday Greeting, which was brilliant, and thanked Orofaniel for draining her brain. "Let's go eat, shall we?" Nova asked, taking orofaniel's arm again.

"Let go of my arm, will you?"

[Nuranar]

Two figures strode briskly through the wide-open gate into the Party Field. A random hobbit boy took one glance – then stood more motionless than an ice sculpture on Forochal, his eyes as big as saucers as he stared.

It wasn’t the first figure that had flabbergasted him: a young woman, clad in a long gown of lightweight rose-colored wool. Her deep honey-colored hair fell in a thick wavy curtain to her waist, and she was carrying a large, heavy willow basket. She was a little tall, certainly, even for the race of Men; but still she was only 5’8”, and her soft, brown leather shoes added no height. Furthermore, she was talking and smiling in the friendliest manner.

But her companion was definitely out of the ordinary. He was tall, even among Men, standing a full 6 feet and 7 inches about the ground. And it wasn’t merely his height. This man – or was it boy? – seemed nearly skin and bones, his considerable height all in his extremely long legs. He wore a long tunic of green over slim trousers which on him still managed to bag. Their length might have been sufficient, but his tall boots (of which the feet seemed impossibly long) concealed any deficiencies. His short, light brown hair was uncovered, and a carefully carved wooden sword hung at his side. He too was grinning, and walked with a slight stoop to hear what his sister said more clearly. A drawstring bag of striped mattress ticking dangled from one hand.

For Nuranar, the young woman, was his sister. Despite their obvious differences in build, their features were strikingly similar, and their smiles nearly identical.

The hobbit boy’s immobility caught her eye, and for an instant she looked at him in puzzled curiosity, then glancing (up) at her brother, she laughed in comprehension. “Halladan, you’d think the hobbits would be used to the sight of Big People by now, but I guess they still don’t see people quite like you very often!”

The boy grinned bashfully, then gestured to a (human) girl off to one side. “Hobbits aren’t the only ones,” he pointed out. The girl’s stunned expression showed all too clearly that she was not accustomed to giants, skinny or no.

Nuranar shook her head. “Well now, we’re just used to it. Growing up with a father an inch taller than you, it’s hardly surprising that my recognition of height is a bit skewed from the rest of the world’s!” she concluded, chuckling at herself. “Now, where do we go?” She paused in front of the scroll still displayed on the gate.

“Names, check. Dress, check. Food, check – right?” At the deafening silence beside her, she spun round with a killer eyebrow arched in suspicion. “Ok pal, if you – I’ll –”

“Naw, it’s here.” Holding out the still-heavy bag, he grinned at her just-you-wait look.

“Watch yourself, tall man. Now where was I?” She deliberately turned her back. “Birthday greeting – Botheration! I knew I forgot something. Now I’ll have to write,” she growled. “Ok. Mathom, yep. Entertainment – oh yes, that’ll be fun,” she said, glancing at Halladan in pleased anticipation.

“I’ve got lots of ideas,” he declared impressively. “But can I get rid of this first?” he continued plaintively, hefting the sack once more.

“Fine, if you find where to put it.” Nuranar turned abruptly round in her characteristically decided manner, intending to head to the food tables, but instead nearly stumbled over a tiny hobbit girl. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I kick you?”

The girl gathered herself up, grinned wordlessly, and took off running, picking up the now-recovered hobbit boy on her way. Nuranar, still kneeling, gazed after her, shaking her head in amusement and puzzlement. The little thing’s hair had undoubtedly been green. “Goodness, what are the Downs coming to?” she tsk-tsked to her brother.

They reached the tables without further incident/accident/collision and deposited safely thereupon two goodly pans of homemade cinnamon rolls. Beside them, Nuranar set out butter in a little crockery “bell” and a knife, not silver. Halladan, freed from his burden, promptly headed toward the pile of plates. Nuranar barely caught the back of his belt in time.

“Oh, no you don’t! We need to finish our duties first. Then you can stuff your face – or fill that empty leg, more like it. You can deliver the gift to the table by the barrow over there, or you can write something to put on the Party Tree. Your choice.”

Halladan pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness, glanced at the barrow, at the tree, at his sister, and the grin broke out again. “I shall relieve you of the matchless mathom, dearest sister!” he announced, bowing magnificently.

Nuranar snorted. (Yes – sad to say, but ladylike Barrow-Downers do snort, at least when goaded by one or more brothers.) “Here it is,” taking a parcel wrapped in a checked cloth out of her basket. “And please don’t antagonize the Wight! I’ve had a clean if somewhat undistinguished record til now, and you’d better not louse it up.”

“Fear not!” he said grandiloquently, and began marching toward the barrow as if into battle. Nuranar called after him, “Meet me by one of the stages after you eat!” He turned and saluted, still walking backwards and nearly running over a matronly hobbit lady.

Nuranar snickered, then absently grabbing a tortilla chip, wandered away, crunching thoughtfully and trying to come up with a verse worthy with which to bedeck the Party Tree.

[Bombadil]

He had made it. Noone saw him coming, for his movements were like the wind. Merrily he strolled into the celebration, catching many strange glances from curious onlookers. A short, stocky man he was, that's if he even was a man, with long blonde hair. He wore a green robe and as he walked one could catch glimpses of his yellow boots.

Some hobbits, a little tipsy from all the ale, laughed at his attire and at his strange appearance. Noone could tell who or what he was. He had bright blue eyes, which were skimming the crowd for any acquaintances. Then they fell upon one of his parents' old friends - Piosenniel! She was leaving the food tables, and he wished to catch her before she got too far away, so perhaps he could grab some food as well as talk to her.

"Hello! Pionsenniel!" he exclaimed. She turned gracefully to a face she didn't recall, but nonetheless replied, "Call me Pio friend!"

"Why hullo, Pio! I am known to the elves as Iadarion, and you don't know me, but I know you!" But Pio knew who he was now, for she knew the elvish language and that Iadarion meant "Son of the Father." (Not to mention she noticed his vibrant yellow boots!) "So this is the son of the lovely Lady Goldberry and merry old Tom!?" Pio said excitedly. For she was aquainted with the two.

So the two talked for long of things such as the Old Forest - and of course the Barrow-Downs - and eventually Iardarion was welcomed to some food and ale by his good friend Pio, who also introduced him to many more friends at the party.

[Guinevere]

Guinevere's face brightened when she saw Saucepanman advancing. She smiled broadly as she went forward to greet him "Soo nice to meet you! " She shook his hand enthusiastically, so his pans clanged. "What's the matter?" she exclaimed as she noticed his pained expression "have you got a headache?" When he nodded, she looked around. "Isn't there a healer for emergencies in one of those tents? They ought to have some medicine..."
She wanted to go on to the tables with the food and gifts to deposit what she had brought. But on the way there she came across Bethberry whose wheel was still stuck. "Can I help you ?" she asked. "Perhaps we ought to unload some of the things, so the barrow becomes lighter to pull out?" she suggested.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisu daintily downed the last mushroom of her shish-kebab and smiled at Durelin. "No need for apologies," she said, "your name is not unfamiliar to me, and I should thank you for the wonderful food!"

She saw another familiar face approaching and called out, "All´s well..."

"...as ends better!" Guinevere answered, grinning.

"How nice to see you here - perhaps you will find this location enticing for future journeys," Merisu exclaimed.

A blinding, shiny object drew nearer, clattering loudly, horribly so for her delicate Elven ears, but she was of course much too polite to say so. She greeted The Saucepan Man briefly before wandering on to speak with Bethberry and Lush. Unfortunately, she found that time flew with the speed of coins in a machine, so that she could not talk at length, but she eagerly looked forward to the next opportunity.

[piosenniel]

She was having a very pleasant conversation with Old Tom’s son, Iardarion, when slim green band on her wrist glowed ominously, chilling her arm to the bone with its cold light. Pio excused herself and walking away a bit, held her wrist to her ear causing a few odd stares. A tinny voice squeaked out its frantic message, a garble of word salad dressed with barely suppressed fear. And there in the background she could hear a low, out of tune hum just revving up.

‘Muddy Bells!’ she swore to herself as she dashed toward the mound by the Party Tree. As she raced closer she could see the partiers nearest the Wight’s barrow beginning to get a rather glazed look in their eyes. Worse yet, some were beginning to shuffle toward the dark doorway of the mound as the humming turned into coldly spoken words. A line of Beorning guards had ringed the mound and were trying to turn them back.

Pio waved frantically at the chief guard and shouted some instructions to them. He wrinkled his brow at her and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Take your ear plugs out, you overgrown lap rug,’ she yelled yanking the wads of rubbery material from his ears. ‘Get the crate of these we had sent from Khand and start passing them round.’ He nodded dumbly at her, his own eyes beginning to glaze over as the Wight’s dark ditty reached out for him. She stuffed the plugs back in his ears and sent him on his way.

~*~

‘By the One!’ The rank odor of rotted things and old sweat socks assailed her nose as she stepped beneath the mouldy lintel. ‘I set him up with a cleaning lady. Now where has she got off to?’ Pio stood in the half-light for a moment her eyes adjusting to the dimness. There to her right, on a small stone slab lay Mistress Chubb and her two daughters, hands folded across their chests, a long, stained sword resting across the three of them. Pale as ghosts, she noted, but still breathing.

‘Hostages . . .’ she heard the familiar rumbling voice hiss from the darkest corner. ‘Someone’s taken one of my treasures, Elf . . . and I’m about to start canceling accounts, so to speak, if I don’t get it back . . .’

If only we could have the party without Himself being here! she thought to herself. Things would go much easier if he would just stay in the background. Always wanting something . . . This line of thought being pointless and dangerous should he get wind of it, she snapped out of her wanderings and offered him a compromise.

‘I shall find your treasure for you, my dear Wight. Keep the Hobbits if you wish but don’t harm them. And please no more singing and swirling your naturally green eyes at the rest of the guests. Rest up. There are fireworks tonight. I can have another ream of paper delivered to you with some fresh quills and ink. Work on your book – you have a quota to meet, do you not? And Aman will send round a barrel of the Dragon’s best ale to get the creative juices flowing.’

She took the ensuing silence as a tenuous agreement and sprinted out the door, into the bright sun. Blinking her eyes like an owl, she bellowed to the nearest security person.

‘Make the announcement that a gift has been stolen from the Wight’s table. I want the offender found and brought to me as quickly as possible.’

‘Oh,’ she said turning toward the crowd who stood pressed against the security line. ‘You can all take out your earplugs, but keep them near.’ They shrugged of course as she mouthed her announcement, and she in turn sighed as she mimed what she wanted them to do . . .

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

OOC (Out Of Character) - The Wight is in a tizzy. Someone has 'borrowed' one of his treasures from the table. A young Hobbit lad, accompanied by a Hobbit lass sporting bright green hair. Let's have some spottings of the offenders, but don't catch them yet. Yell for security if you wish to give chase to the slippery young'uns.

~*~ Pio

[Orual]

Every thud of hooves against the road brought Orual one step closer to the party. She whipped her green hat off of her head, revealing a wind-tangled mass of bright red hair (with brown roots) above brighter green eyes. She looked inside the hat and was disappointed to note that some of the henna colouring her hair had rubbed off. Alas.

She dismounted and put her horse in the stable, then went to join the party. She adjusted her green tunic, smoothing it over her hips, and dusted off her brown breeches. She was travel-worn, but not entirely unpresentable, so she was happy. She just hoped it didn't rain, because she just knew that her hair wouldn't stay red if it did...

She passed through the crowd, talking to people here and there. As she was bidding one farewell, walking backwards, she tripped over something--someone--and went head over heels.

"I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, picking herself up and helping the other person up. She started dusting her victim off when she finally looked at the other person's face.

"Nuranar!" she cried, embracing her old friend. "Are you okay? I'm really sorry. How have you been?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

“Oh, this is a fine party, by all counts!” Hilde said with enthusiasm. “No falling bits of ceiling plaster, or wild animals, the orcs even seem to be on their best behavior! Barring hail and high winds this should be a right good weekending!” the hobbit said eyeing the elf’s plate to see it’s contents. “Try this,” she said pointing at a pale golden mass. “I don’t know who made it, but it is very good.”

“They do say hobbits know how to carry off a good party, you know,” Nerindel said politely sampling the macaroni and cheese.

“Well, I won’t say anything about that, but we certainly practice a lot!” Hilde laughed. “And from what I hear elves throw a pretty fair celebration themselves. Leastways those in Rivendell do.”

“Have you been in Rivendell then?” Nerindel queried, her interest sparked.

“Oh no not me, but a dear friend by the name of Gilly has told me of it. Ah, but that brings me back to speaking of carrying things off, I once was at a party right here in this same field you know, where a strong gust came up and all the pavilions pulled up their stakes and when skipping down Hill Lane one after another like a bunch of pinwheels! That was something to see! Only happened once to my knowledge, but it was great fun to see the children running after them.”

And as if on que, two young hobbits sailed past in front of them.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim Hedgethistle arrived late for the Party – but then, it had been a long time since he had been above ground in the light of the sun and it had taken him a while to get used to it again. The land had changed too since he had last seen it, but he had stumbled across a couple of helpful trolls and they had been more than happy – or, well, at least willing – to tell him all that he needed to know. He had flown (or had he?) as quickly as he could across the long leagues from the Misty Mountains to the Shire in order to make it here in time to pay tribute to the Barrow Wight.

The Party Tree was decorated and all about the field there were tables laden with food and drink. Fordim looked about for anyone he knew, but his eyes had still not fully adjusted to the light. He did notice a few odd characters about who looked vaguely familiar but most who saw him immediately looked away. Two figures did stand out almost immediately. As soon as he saw them Fordim swirled away, cloaking himself once more in darkness, for he did not relish the idea of having to face either Fingon or Olorin. He’d never really liked either of those characters, particularly Olorin. “Ridiculous fellow” Fordim muttered to himself, belching black smoke as he did so, “Always insisting that we sing along with the chorus instead of making up a little ditty of our own…” He snorted and a trickle of flame that he had not intended scorched a nearby bush. One of the small folk shook a tiny fist at him and told him to read the Party Rules, pointing at a sheet of paper tacked to the tree.

Fordim read the notice and was happy to see that he met most of the criteria. The last two, however, gave him a moment’s pause:

“6.) No violence, swearing, or sexual innuendoes in the Party thread.”

The injunction against violence would be a hard one to obey, but he could probably manage it for a day. As to sexual innuendoes…he chuckled slightly, and as he did so the sky grew dark and the ground shook, once more drawing some disapproving looks. Well, he could behave.

“7.) You may bend the canon somewhat, just try not to shatter it into pieces.”

This one caused some real worry, but as luck would have it (if luck it was) at that moment a green-eyed, red-haired Elf walked by. Fordim relaxed immediately.

He moved through the crowd with ease, for those who looked upon him gave way immediately, the Elves crying “Ai” with despair, while the Men and Dwarves glared with open dislike and fear. There was another race there, much smaller than Men but like them. For the most part, they merely looked at him with open shock, not knowing what to make of him. Fordim had only been out of his deep place in the earth for a few days, but he had already become used to this from the folk he met, and he merely shrugged the vast shadows that spread from him like wings and moved on.

He quickly reached a dark hole in the ground in front of which there were piled a number of brightly wrapped presents. He removed a small package from somewhere about his form and placed it on the pile. He hoped that the Wight would like it, for it was especially dear to him: the shrunken head of the very first Elf he had slain at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He quickly moved away from the hole, looking for someone with whom to talk – for he had a problem, and he had finally decided that he needed help with it. For an Age he had lain in his dark place in the earth, brooding on the problem but to no avail. But of late, rumour had come to him of a place where problems such as his were considered challenges that people welcomed. It was a place where answers could be sought to supposedly insoluble questions. He saw a person clad head to toe in pans and pots who looked as though he could help him, but as Fordim approached the man disappeared in a clatter and a clank.

Fordim frowned and looked about once more. Off in one corner of the field he saw two figures who looked even more familiar than those he had seen earlier. One of them was a woman, clad simply and with her hair pulled up atop her head. The other was an oddly dressed Orc. “Roa!” he bellowed, nearly setting the Party Tree alight, “Kransha, you old rogue!” he roared. With a burst of flame and smoke he rushed (or did he fly?) across the field to them, waving his flaming sword above his head in one hand and cracking his whip with the other for the pure joy of seeing his friends. As soon as they were within earshot, he bellowed out, for he could not contain his question any longer: “DO EITHER OF YOU KNOW IF BALROGS HAVE WINGS?”

[Kransha]

So far, the party had gone rather well, despite the incident with the belching. After that, Kransha had engaged himself in a pleasant conversation with that pile of pots and pans who he splattered Turkish Delight over and left the tent feeling pleased with his social skills. Then, he’d been approached by a group of Beornings who said something about ‘watching his aim, next time,’ and headed off into the crowd. Now, he was ambling in an ambling fashion (as amblers often ambled) and trotting with brisk resolve past the buffet tables. As he strode along, his posture as fine as always, he heard a duo of calls from two directions. One was recognizably female, belonging to his friend Roa, and the other much more regal and terrible, which undoubtedly belonged to his other friend, Fordim Hedgethistle. As the monstrous being and delicate female alighted near him, he heard the deafening roar of Fordim’s question.

“Balrogs have wings, Fordim? Why, isn’t that sort of obvious? I mean; what sort of a question is that anyway? Do elves often have blonde hair and now how to surf? Are wargs actually hyena lemming hybrids? Are Dunharrow’s Dead Men green? I should say so…I mean, I should say not…or so…or, well, I’m not entirely sure what I should say, but I know what I will say, and that is ‘I have no idea.’”

The orc just realized that he’d completely and utterly dodged the question, but he didn’t care. Looking at Fordim Hedgesthistle, he really couldn’t perceive whether the shadowy silhouette, wreathed in crackling flames, had wings, stylish epaulets, a billowing cloak, or an up winded skirt, so he never even pondered a guess as to what those 'appendages' sprouting from Fordim really were.

Kransha had always thought Hedgethistle was a funny name for a balrog, but he never dared question the screen nom de perre his cohort had chosen. He’d seen, or at least heard what balrogs could do from his estranged second cousin, Raksha, a Moria sort of fellow, who’d told him several painfully excruciating and detailed stories about Durin’s Bane. They were a scary lot, though Kransha had eventually lost the perception that Fordim was scary, since many considered Kransha himself rather intimidating (he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was an orc, or the fact that he was an orc who wore trimmed tuxedoes on a regular basis and enjoyed vodka martinis). At the moment, Kransha just stuck out his hand, still contemplated Fordim’s apparent scariness, and shook the huge, almost shapeless mass of shadow and flame that was Fordim’s hand with his own rough, clawed, gnarled one. He ignored the incredible heat, grimacing to himself as he masked that same grimace with a smile and extracted his smaller hand (still big by human standards) from the heated grasp of his quite-possibly-winged-but-not-entirely-sure-about-that friend. He turned, with an only semi-confident grin plastered on his face, towards the Wight’s barrow nearby as some person who Kransha didn’t know made a very loud, very noticeable announcement about a robbery.

“My, my, my, a gift stolen from the Wight. Now that’ bad news if I ever heard it…and I’ve heard it…a lot…Well, regardless, that’s very unfortunate. Fordim, why don’t you just fly up into the sky and see if you can spot that rapscallion who appropriated the old fellow’s trinket, hmm?” Kransha laughed an orcy laugh, which eventually degenerated into nervous chuckling as he saw a slightly disapproving look on Fordim’s face (if it could even be called a face).

[ElberethVarda]

As Elbereth stood uncertainly at the entrance, she heard her name being called. "Elbereth! Elbereth Varda!" it called. She looked around confusedly. Then she saw Eowyn Skywalker's familiar face. "Eoywn!" she cried and threw her arms around her friend. Eowyn laughed and hugged her back. "I'm so glad you found me! What do I do first?" she questioned anxiously, pushing her hair out of her face. Eowyn directed her towards the gift table and explained what to do. "I'll see you later," Eowyn said, and ran off to talk to another friend.

Elbereth made her way through the crowd to the table. It was already covered with presents of all shapes and sizes. Elbereth rumaged around in her basket for her gift. It has to be here somewhere... she thought. Finally, she pulled it out. I know it's the perfect gift, she thought proudly. She laid it on the table and looked admiringly at the three foot long sqeaky hammer, autographed by none other than Agent Lofty himself. It was a necessary tool for every forum owner, not to mention very rare.

Elbereth fought her way over to the table of food, and carefully set down her plate of delicate cookies, shaped like small One Rings. It had taken her hours to make them, and she was very proud of them. She looked up from the plate and looked around for her friends.

There was Keld! And right next to her was Firi, waving her arms in the air like a crazy person, which, of course, she was. It looked like the whole group was there already! Elbereth waved crazily back and ran over to them.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Dig faster!" Daisy commanded. "If we get caught with these things, they'll be trouble to pay!"

"I'm digging as fast as I can! Stop complaining and get down here and help me!" Pimpernel threw a wicked look in Daisy's direction. Rory Zaragamba was also beside him clawing at the dirt.

When the guards began combing the crowd and looking for the culprit, Daisy had scampered off to get her older brother Rory to ask his advice. The three Hobbits had put their heads together and considered tossing the presents in a remote corner of the party field. Then they would run off on their own, pretending that they'd had nothing to do with them. But Rory had nixed that idea. "The Wight has a great guard dog who can sniff out anything. I saw him pacing in front of the barrow, growling at passersby to keep everyone away. He'll turn the dog loose. And that will be the end of us. One whiff and our accounts will be as dead as we are."

"So... what should we do?"

"We do what Hobbits always do in bad situations. We dig. We dig a hole and stuff the presents in. Nobody will find them, not even the Green Man's dog."

"But I still don't know what this Gondorian thing is," his sister fumbled at the strange looking device.

"Whatever it is, a little dirt won't hurt it."

The three had quietly retreated to the far end of the field, which was fringed with a number of bushes, making a cozy and private spot to do their dirty deed. For the next thirty minutes, the two lads put their elbows into it and dug a large hole in the ground.

One time, Daisy objected. "Maybe we should just go and tell the truth. We only meant to look at them. We were going to put them back."

"Yeah, but do you think that Green thing will ever believe us?" The three looked at each other and began digging even more ferociously. Finally, Pimpernel stuffed the dragon statuette into the hole, and right next to it the Acme Portable Gondorian Metaserver .

[Nuranar]

Nuranar was pacing forth and back, trying to compose a suitable…something…for writing on her brand-spanking-new parchment note cards. To write a note, one must first salute the addressee. But how do you address a web site? This conundrum, unanswerable for the time being, was starting to annoy her, so as usual she decided to skip the introduction. She always maintained that introductions were much easier written last, anyway, because then she knew what it would be introducing.

That was when she started pacing. Looking picturesque and pretty, perched on a tree stump, was all very well, but the creative juices couldn’t flow without being stirred. Pacing kept her mind enough occupied to prevent it from being distracted by the seriously spellbinding scene of a party precipitately progressing toward peril.

She was just triumphantly sorting out the meter of the first couplet when a red and green blur appeared right under her nose, her ankles flew out from under her, and WHAM! she measured her five feet eight on the grassy but, as previously noted, thoroughly uneven ground.

Her first thought decidedly resentful thought was that Halladan had chosen this ill-advised manner in which to announce his early return from, and the consequent emptiness of, the banqueting tables. So already she was preparing to spring to her feet and flatten all seventy-nine bony inches of him when “I am so sorry!” a decidedly feminine voice said.

Quickly squelching the impulse to attack, Nuranar instead rolled over and accepted the offered hand up. The other was already dusting her gown off before she shook her head and realized that (a) someone besides her brother had tripped her and (b) that someone, a girl with suspiciously bright red hair, was right in front of her. That out of the way, her manners returned. “Oh, don’t worry about it! I’m never watching where I’m going anyway.”

The girl looked up for the first time. “Nuranar!” she cried, then embraced her. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry. How have you been?”

The lady so addressed looked closely, then gasped. “Orual! My goodness, it’s been such a long time! Oh yes, I’m fine. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the Green Dragon! For most of the last year I’ve still been working in the Shire. But I don’t get out much, I’m afraid,” she admitted, blushing. “I hope to soon, though. My concerns will never end, but they change from season to season, and I hope to have more time to travel from place to place. Maybe I’ll come back into the Inn sometime soon, or even travel to Rohan. What have you been up to?”

[Arestevana]

It was a fine horse, as befit a lady of the Mark. Of course, the rider was not truly of the Mark, but it does not do to dwell on such things. She was certainly taller than could be expected, and her hair was dark, not the golden color of the Rohirrim. Her eyes were dark as well, hinting at elven heritage. Her garb was not elven, though: a plain grey skirt, slit up the side to show a hint of the muslin beneath, and a simple white blouse. Swinging down from her saddle, the woman gave her horse an affectionate pat and turned it loose, pulling one saddlebag over her shoulder before the animal ran off. She turned and made her way up the path, toward the sounds of festivities further on. Arestevana shifted the saddle bag to her other hand, looking around and enjoying the bright colors of the pavilions and banners. She caught sight of the party tree over the heads of the jubilant crowd, and made her way toward it. She saw that people seemed to be keeping their distance, and the reason soon became apparent. The sinister shadow of a barrow created an ominous tone in the surrounding area.

Deciding it would be wise to keep her distance as well, Arestevana set her burden down several yards from the barrow. She reached into the saddle bag and pulled out the gift she had brought. A traveler chance-met on the road had told her what it was. She rolled the name in her mind. Mathom. Edging around the barrow, Arestevana set the gift on a table which held many such items. She crept slightly closer, mustered her courage, and yelled, “Happy Birthday!” before darting away again. Returning to the place where she had set her bag, she noted with relief that no one had bothered it. She picked it up and moved farther from the barrow, trying not to notice the small noises that hinted at a presence inside. An especially loud rumble sounded behind her and she risked a backward glance. Something caught her eye, and turning, she was shocked to see a hobbit woman and two young girls lying in the shadow of the barrow, pale and unmoving. Walking quickly away, she listened to conversations around her, gleaning information. Suddenly she remembered that she had not yet given a greeting.

There were stages set up all around the party field. Arestevana crossed to one of these and hoisted her bag up on the platform, climbing up after it. For a moment she wondered if her performance would be permitted, but at that moment a child with bright green hair raced by, and her doubts were assuaged. She reached into her bag and pulled out a large wooden instrument, which she rested on her lap. Then she pulled out two delicate wooden hammers wrapped in cloth. Taking loosely hold of a hammer in each hand, she gently struck several the strings that crisscrossed the wooden surface of the instrument. A sustained, harp-like note sounded from each one, blending into a gentle melody as more strings were played. Soon the woman’s voice merged with the music, flowing smoothly in several languages. She began in the rich language of the Rohirrim, followed by a more halting verse in Quenya interspersed with the Common speech.

Yéni avánier, lissi yéni,
Utúlie’n aurë, mi oro-mardi,
This is the day when we gather together,
In the spring’s forgiving weather,
To celebrate this land we love,
Watched by sun and stars above,
To bring our gifts with deep respect,
As memories we recollect,
Of another year gone by,
Yéni avánier, forever doomed to die.
Still we linger, still we laugh,
With good nature dealing chaff,
In the company of dearest friends,
Which fate in gentle kindness sends
Hurry! We come to celebrate,
Fearing justly to be late,
On the road we mustn’t stall,
Sí vanwa tenn’lumbulë ná i kal.
Yes, lost to shadow is the light,
We wish you well, great Barrow-Wight.

There was a scattering of applause as she finished her song. A crowd had gathered while she played. Rising, she returned her instrument to the saddle bag as the crowd dispersed itself. Picking up the bag, she jumped neatly down from the elevated stage and wandered off toward a pavilion, looking for a familiar face.

[Firondoiel]

Firi sat with Ala, Leo, Elbie, Éowyn, and Keld talking merrily. It was wonderful to be with her friends at the Downies. She served them all tea and lembas then excused herself to the Party Tree. A parchment and a roll of super duper extra strong scotch tape was produced and fastened to the tree. Firi took a step back to look over her work.

Dearest Barrow-Wight,

Congratulations on the loftiest forum ever and best wishes that the coming year will be very spiffyful. I’m not one for rhymes and witty sayings but I should very much like to say thank you for all the work you put into this forum!

~Firi (Firondoiel)

P.S. Save the Trees!

Satisfied, Firi headed back towards her friends. Just a few feet ahead of her were Oro and Nova talking together. Firi hurried towards them smiling happily. “Nova! Oro!” she called.

[Bêthberry]

With Guinevere's help Bêthberry had been able to unload her mathoms on the Wight's table. Growing perennials in the dark of his barrow would be a trick but Bêthberry was sure he could fix up his eerie green glow to work some kind of perilous magic. As luck would have it, though, they had missed the spectacular theft by turning their backs upon the table to pull the wheel up.

"Now isn't it just like a hobbit to do that!' exclaimed the healer, who reached into her pocket for some betony chewing gum and handed it to SaucepanMan to cure what appeared to be a hangover, the result most likely of Lush's careful ministrations.

"Why, they claim to be the truest sort of people most resistant to the dark powers but mark my word. There are those who tell of Bilbo's stealing and still other who tell of the terrible attack on the trees in the Bonfire Glade. Truly, these hole builders should not be left to interpret stories themselves. Just ask Kransha here for the orcs' side of the story. I am sure if we all dig hard enough we will uncover truths as to their treachery and thievery and other nefarious deeds."

Nova and Oro overheard this speech with a mixture of sarcasm and misbelief and offense. "Hobbits thieves?" they said. "Might as well expect elven children to run off and get taken by orcs or tied up by spiders in Mirkwood."

Bêthberry laughed at this and then thanked Guinevere for her help. "Shall I bring my potluck dish to the food table? Barbequed Balrog's Wings."

In the distance she heard Fordim Hedgethistle snort with disgust and not a little firey expostulation. She was sure that MeriSue would enjoy them, though, for the fair damsel had oft displayed a keen delight in the sort of wrong interpretations called Páhrôdie in the Fáirie tongue.

By then Bêthberry had caught up with Lush herself in time to hear her described as 'naughty Bethberry.'

"No, no, my dear Lushious. I am simply dirty Bethberry. It is all this weeding you see in the garden of perilous delight. I have been trying to determine if the Party Tree is actually the Tree of the Knowledge of Primary and Secondary Worlds but I think thought has floundered on who has an innie or an outie vision."

With that remark, Bêthberry overheard Piosenniel say something about Old Tom's son, Iadarion. "Boy," she thought to herself, "have I ever been away from home for a long time. I didn't know I had a brother. This longevity certainly makes it hard for siblings to stay in touch."

[symestreem]

A soaked symestreem was playing for the dancers again. She was careful not to drip water on her fiddle. When the song was over, she ran her hands through her hair to get out the excess water and wiped them on her breeches.
She had had the misfortune of standing too close to a dwarf who was smoking a pipe and drinking beer at the same time. When water was thrown on the resulting explosion, they were both soaked. Now, she was trying to remember where she'd put her cloak.
A new set started, and she had to continually jerk her fiddle away from the droplets of water rolling off her nose. A casual observer would have thought she was having fits. This would never do.
She left the dance floor, nodding her apologies to the other musicians. She'd left her pack under a tree, but which one? It had been near the cookies... As she wove through the tables, she noticed the macaroni and cheese was half-gone. Good, these people were all too skinny anyway.
Was that a Balrog in the pavilion? As she watched, massive wings flickered in and out of existence on his shoulders. She considered standing in his shadow to dry herself, but thought better of it.
After finding her cloak, she was on her way back to the dance floor when she heard the tones of an unfamiliar instrument. A dark-haired woman was accompanying herself on the stage with some sort of wooden box. Ever the musician, symestreem stopped to watch.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker left Elbereth to her own devieces, as the other female had not yet payed her respects to the wight. After explaining what she had to do, she left Elbereth, and went to walk around randomly, and contamplate what to do, and whether medal poles were mathoms.

They are rather useful... I wonder whther the fact that beyond whacking people on the heads, they are useless makes them into a mathom? Eowyn Skywalker wondered, walking around randomly. Without Luke Skywalker to torment (she had to leave him in Middle-earth, as the Barrow-downs was more Lord of the Rings then other things, so he wasn't allowed in), she was... bored. Eowyn shook her head. And that's unlikely?!

Wandering on over to the food, she was shocked to realize that she hadn't brought in her dish. She dug around in her pockets-- which seemingly, were bigger then they looked-- at least they held everything, anyhow. After studying the tables intently, Eowyn Skywalker realized that there was no way that all 152763 garlic pizzas would fit on the tables. "It's a conspiracy!" she cursed. "Why can't they make tables that'll hold all these pizzas?!" Each pizza had 'Happy birthday, Barrow-downs' spelt out in garlic on the cheesy toppings.

She suceeded in getting 58 of the pizzas piled on the table before she gave up, and stacked the rest on the ground. The smell of garlic wafted around the field, and they were lucky to be outside, or all would've fainted. The smell of garlic was, after all, quite strong!

Eowyn Skywalker left the garlic pizzas, complete with the birthday message, and went to wander around some more, as she knew almost no one that was there. So she went off, and wandered around aimlessly, as there was nothing left really for her to do, as was mentioned hitherto, Luke wasn't there for her to torment, and neither was Anakin, or she would've found something to do...

She snrked. Jandalf had banned her from seeing Anakin because every time they met, something happened... usually regarding neon pink dye, garlic flavored gum, or laundry chutes. They were a rather... unique pair at times.

But that was why Eowyn Skywalker wandered the party field aimlessly, taking care to avoid the barrow, and well, wandered.

The trees whispered in the light wind, and birds could be heard singing on the breeze. The day was fair, the elements calm while Eowyn Skywalker walked the grass of the Shire.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Just as soon as she could, Aylwen arrived at the Barrow Down’s Birthday party. Having just run a two-mile race at a previous engagement, Aylwen was unusually frazzled. Her usually tame, straight auburn hair had been haphazardly put in a crooked, sideways horsetail and was tangling. Her fair skin was burned from the sun, and her cheeks were red as she still struggled to get her breath back. Aylwen had changed quickly out of a mandatory running uniform and into her party apparel. Her wine red dress nearly matched her flushed cheeks, but this did not daunt Aylwen. While she did not plan on staying long, she still wanted to look half decent for her birthday well wishes.

Time was of the essence, Aylwen being a busy girl and all. In fact, she felt rather happy that she’d made it in time to beat even two pages of birthday partying. Aylwen did not even make the party last year! All Aylwen needed was time to send a birthday wish to the place at which she had spent so much time for nearly two years. Four years of merrymaking, and despite all the hardships and many sudden changes and makeovers, Aylwen was proud to know the Barrow-Downs had survived to be four years old.

Arriving at the Party Tree, Aylwen scribbled down her note.

Here’s to four wonderful years of intellect, comedy, wisdom, learning, and fun. I hope -

(Aylwen scribbled this out, replacing it)

- I am sure four more years of intellect, comedy, wisdom, learning, fun, and so much more are in store for us here at the Barrow-Downs. Happy birthday to the Barrow-Downs.

Feeling that her work at the party was complete and that there was still more work to attend to, Aylwen took her leave from the party.

[Ithaeliel]

Ithaeliel arrived in the party field and searched around for a hint of instruction for newcomers. As she noticed the numerous guests trying to edge their way around her, she turned around to see what they were getting at, and she saw the large tree behind her which was now nearly covered with signs, posters and other such things. She read one and stepped back, furrowing her brow. "This is all in celebration of a barrow-wight! Why, how could people celebrate such a deadly, fell creature? If this isn't the most obscene thing I've ever--"

"Why, he's really a very nice man once you get to know him." Ithaeliel turned around to see two smiling orcs standing casually side by side. One was speaking to her. "He's got a cheerful disposition if I ever saw one."

The scream that came from the throat of that young elf made several pairs of ears reluctant to work, and many more heads than that were turned in the direction of Ithaeliel, whose face was now the color of the White Tree of Gondor. The two orcs blinked and fell back in genuine surprise while Ithaeliel stood frozen to her spot. After a few minutes, she managed to croak out a few words. "But... you're... orcs!" she spat the last word.

"Yes'm, we're orcs, as orcish as they come. Name's Kransha," said one.

"And I'm Fordim Hedgethistle. It's a pleasure," the other said as he bowed awkwardly.

Ithaeliel swallowed. "Well... yes, er, pleasure's all mine." She curtsyed politely and ran away quickly. It was best for her to just forget she'd seen them... she didn't take well with orcs.

The next place she found herself was at a dark hole beside a table was piled with gifts. "This must be where the wight is..."

A voice from the inside of the hole took Ithaeliel by surprise. "Why, yes, it is! Please feel free to leave whatever, and enjoy the party!"

The young elf maiden nodded and placed her mithril pendant on top of the pile. "Enjoy yourself as well, Mister... Wight."

Passing by the table stacked with all different kinds of food, Ith paused. "I didn't know this was a potluck. Oh, dear... all I have is lembas." She put down several nicely wrapped squares of lembas and moved on.

There was a stage nearby, and another performer had just come off of it. Ithaeliel smiled. "I'll bet no one else here knows how to sing gospel..."

Gliding up onto the stage, Ith looked out upon the crowd. It was larger than she'd thought, but she had no problem singing in front of people. She opened her mouth, and the notes overtook the noise as she gave her tribute to the Barrow-Wight:

If there is Wight... If there is Wight!
If there is Wight in the soul, there will be beauty in the person.
If there is beauty... If there is beauty!
If there is beauty in the person, there will be harmony in the thread.
And if there's harmony in the thread, there will be order in the forum.
And with order in the forum, there will be peace in all the 'site.
If there is Wight... If there is Wight!
If there is Wight in the soul, there will be peace in all the 'site!

Everyone was dancing by now, and they cheered for the gospel elf as she bowed and ran off the stage. Ith had made her presence known at the party!

[starkat]

Kat stepped into the party area and looked around. Dressed in dark blue with a grey cloak, she watched as people left gifts on one table and got food at another. As a newcomer to the Barrow Downs and fairly shy, she didn't say much as she walked over to the gift table left a Happy Birthday note and walked over to a tree and settled down to watch. After spending several hours watching the others, she decided to head home.