Picnic At The Bonfire Glade

[Mithadan]

RPG Owner: Bethberry

Picnic at the Bonfire Glade







At the time, no one had really paid much attention to the odd fellow as he made his way along the Great East Road. Later, some would argue that people were just imagining him. Others insisted it had to have been him. Some few even alleged to have seen his yellow boots. Then there were those who claimed that the meddlesome wizard was responsible. One intrepid soul even wondered if it could have been the disappearing hitchhiker. Most scoffed at that idea as ridiculous: “Huh, he doesn’t even belong in Middle Earth.” What could not be denied, however, was the appearance of the baskets themselves.

Strangely, just at dusk one night, wicker baskets and hampers had begun to appear at the entrances to smials and barrows all over the countryside. Some even found their way farther afield throughout Eriador it was said. Hobbit and ent, wight and wraith, man, dwarf and elf, even balrog, orc and troll--all received anonymous baskets. When people had had a chance to talk about it, why, it was even said that a ghost ship sailed out of the Havens laden with wicker baskets, sailing west for maiar and valar.

Of course, there was something not quite right about the baskets. Something had been left out. Indeed, in The Shire, the hobbits’ first gleeful delight with the mathoms was tempered by this discovery. The plates and cups, the cutlery, the cloths and napkins and glasses were all fine and lovely and very nice indeed, thank you very much, but the total omission of any manner of foodstuffs was quite disheartening. Hobbits the like of Miz Lobelia sniffed and turned up their noses at the irregularity of it all. They wouldn’t even consider calling on friends and discussing the finer points of the baskets. More than a few orcs were said to have thrown the baskets, wicker and dishes and all, into the fires to keep the furnaces burning. And rumours persisted that some elves looked down upon the workmanship of the baskets, saying they weren’t as good as wicker in the old days. There are those in Arda with no imagination.

More curious souls pondered the omission and decided to rummage more thoroughly into the baskets. Napkins were unrolled, tablecloths unfurled, dishes unpacked and restacked, glasses tipped over. Those who persisted were rewarded with the discovery of something cunningly hidden in the bottom folds of the wicker weaves. A small, hand-written note on parchment paper.

“Come, while the days are yet hot and the earth still warm to our feet, to a Picnic in the Bonfire Glade of the Old Forest. Let us gather to mark the waning of summer and the fellowship of the Dead. Bring your baskets that you might partake of the dinner. But mind your way in. Where Tom and Goldberry have dominion, Sauron has no might, and so there is no need to fear the disturbances of orcs and bullies. Yet remember that the Old Forest is so very much more . . . alive . . . and it harbours still grievances and grudges against all manner of two-legged (and two-winged [img]smilies/wink.gif[/img]) creatures for their foul treatment of the Earth. Those not thoughtful of how they tread should be forewarned. Best to bring as well what stories and songs, what tales and yarns you would speak forth to hold the dark at bay and to enchant the Forest as we gather ‘round the bonfire after feasting.

Meet behind the hedge at the Brandybuck Gate to the Old Forest on Tuesday, September 18 at 4 pm EDT”

Food and fright. Now, if this wasn’t something to raise the love of adventure in even the most timid of hobbits, the most jaundiced of wraiths, or even of elves mired in ennui, nothing would.

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Bêthberry]

There were those who tried to sneak in early, of course, some jostling to reach the tables first, others simply eager for adventure. A particular few were hoping to learn more about their enigmatic benefactor. These early birds met with no great misadventure, just a drenching as Goldberry's washing day cleared away the dust of summer drought in preparation for the Picnic. Weather could be unpredictable in the Old Forest.

By the appointed time, quite a crowd had gathered by the Brandybuck Gate. They looked beyond the hedge and saw the gnarled branches and twisted roots of the twinning trees and the dark shadows. Some might have had second thoughts. Yet the coolness under the branches was rewarding, invigorating, and off in the distance they heard haunting, enchanting music.

"Tolkien"--Brodbingnagian Bards

'Tis a cheating piper, come to bear us away, prophesied one voice. Wrong story, someone else muttered. But many feet began to catch the beat and the baskets suddenly seemed lighter and the Forest brighter. Besides, everyone was hungry.

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Bêthberry]

Not far into the Forest, someone saw an old signpost newly painted. And an enticing announcement of the party fare. Much excited pushing and shoving ensued as the crowd sought to read the notice. Finally, one of the elders in attendance, Ioreth, all the way from the Halls of Healing at the White City, called for quiet. I shall read it aloud to you, she said, if you will all just step back a bit. The murmuring and pushing receded. Ioreth began,

Well, of course, it starts with fresh greens. These seem a bit predictable. Mixed greens with radishes, warm 'tater salad, apple and walnut salad, carrot and raisin salad Here a slight cheer went up. eight bean salad, chilled asparagus, and cucumbers with dill. That's a fair bit of fibre.

Then there's chicken and leek pies and Mobray pies and Stilton cheese and herb pies.Quite a murmur of interest went through the crowd at that news.

Ah, we're to have dishes of vegetables, too. Baked mushrooms with sausage meat, cabbage cooked with bacon, pepper and butternut squashes, cauliflower, corn on the cob, roasted potatoes.

At this point, an impatient voice was raised. What's to drink? Ioreth nodded agreement that this was significant and waved her hand to assure the crowd they would be pleased.

It says here, ginger mead and cider, a modest number of ales and lagers, wine, watermelon and strawberry punch, lemonade, and tea. And wait, there's some small print: No coffee. A groan met this news but it was quickly swallowed up by laughter.

Ioreth continued. The main dish is beef, roasted on a spit, and lamb skewers with tomatoes and mushrooms. We're to have breads white and brown, rye, and buttermilk bannock.

This is all too healthy, called another voice from the crowd. What's for treat? What're the sweets? The crowd took up a chant of Treats, sweets. Treats, sweets.

Ioreth looked back at the Notice and sighed. No chocolate. No cheesecake. Groans of disappointment ran through the crowd.

But we do get apple barley pudding, raspberry fool, and fruit pies galore--peach, cherry, buckleberry, rhubarb and strawberry, blueberry. And fresh fruit as well. And cherry meringues and hermit cookies.

Ioreth's voice was growing dry by this time. A young whip yelled out, Well, what are we waiting for? Let's find the Glade.

There was no disagreement with that sentiment. Everyone took to the road posthaste, but the route was narrow and slow going. The crowd tended to stretch out and many went off in other directions, seeking faster routes.



[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Rimbaud]

One of these, a tall, angular figure, had hopped over the low hedge and into the verdant lawns that stretched beside the meandering path. Under his arm was tucked a battered blue notebook. Dressed in sombre grey he was, although a sash of blue around his waist made a striking impression. It went well with his eyes, passers-by noted. His hair was brown and tousled and many of the hobbitry who walked past thought he looked a little vague, a little distant.

"Never can tell with the big folk," some muttered but they flashed their smiles across the hedge at him, as he ambled along.

The press of the crowd had been discomforting for our strolling poet; now that we have him to ourselves, we'll observe what he does. The poet was humming, a note per footfall, and those with the sharpest of hearing would have recognised the tune. A Baggins or two had sung the song in years past.

Occasionally he paused, opened the notebook and scribbled with his quill - dipping it into the tiny inkwell hidden in his pocket. Much of the poet's life was stored in those pockets, but that's a story for another time...

Here's some of what he wrote. No sooner had he navigated the hedge than he stopped and wrote this : What is life, if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare...Anybody watching would have seen him frown to himself and mutter. He scratched the words away and closed the book.

The sun continued its path across the sky and the party goers contnued their journey of discovery. Our poet stumbled once or twice. The reason? He kept looking upwards, at the clouds, scudding across the canvas of the sky. He stopped a little later and wrote: I wandered lonely, As a cloud... He hated this more than the last, observed some laughing hobbit children who had followed his weaving blue sash through the fields. He tore that page out and let it float away, borne by a zephyr away, over hedges, nestling finally in a patch of tall yellow flowers.

What happened next? Well, our intrepid poet and his travelling companions saw pennnants fluttering in the breeze and could hear a great commotion! The road went on and on, but more and more people chose the fields as the road curved away from the colourful banners that streamed in the lush green fields...

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[The Fifth]

There was a scream, as various hobbits ran from the clomping of hooves. However, they were also a bit curious. A black, menacing steed trotted towards the hedge. Upon a ragged saddle sat a Ringwraith. The wraith held a familiar sight in one of its gauntleted hands: A wicker basket. It looked out of place and a bit comical from the black, tattered robes he wore. He had travelled all the way from the land of Mordor. Why the other Nazgûl didn't get one as well, he didn't know, but he supposed that only one was enough. As not to cause too much chaos, the sheath under the folds of his robes were but vacant of the cruel blad that was once fitted snugly inside. In his other hand he helds the reins to the horse.

He tugged on the reins, the horse stopping with a snort and a whinny. The other hobbits, men, elves, and dwarves were making their way towards a path to the forest and conversing merrily on the way, although some races left each other alone. Many pairs of eyes looked at the Ringwraith curiously as he observed at where they were going. Pulling on the reins again and tapping the horse's sides with a metal boot, the Ringwraith galloped towards the Glade. But, alas! he knew that Sauron had no power in this place; but he did not care, he wanted his curiousity sated.

Following the banners, he soon reached an open, green field, wild and untameable. A line of people, a bit more scattered than the crowd at the Brandybuck Gate, continued to walk and to make their way. The children clutched onto their mother's blouses and dresses as the wraith's constant aura of fear passed them by. After that, they continued to giggle and play.

[Alkanoonion]

A tall figure walked out from under the trees and stepped onto the path; looking back he saw a large crowed stretched out along the road. The Elf was dressed in bright blue pants and a classing yellow top. The yellow in his top went well with his blond hair and the blue pants went with his eyes.

In his hands he carried the picnic basket that had appeared strangely one night, He had almost chucked the basket way believing that is was some kind of joke but curiosity made him look deeper into the basket to find and invitation to a picnic at the Bonfire Glade.

Looking back down the path he noticed that the crowed had begun to get closer so he moved on.
Some time later he noticed pennants fluttering in the breeze and he could hear a great commotion!

Not wanting to be crushed in the growing crowed Alkanoonion decided to leave the path and moved on into the lush green fields to investigate the commotion....

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Alkanoonion ]

[Ransom]

As the crowd streamed toward the Glade, a stooped figure on a small, ragged pony slowly trotted with them, trying to avioud drawing any attention to himself and failing miserably. He gazed with some ammusement at the antics of the little creatures that ran underfoot. They gazed back at him. None of the hobbits had ever seen anyone like him, and he had never seen a hobbit. Ransom belonged to a tribe of nomadic people that lived in the far east, beyond the weak tribes that had allied with Saurun. His face was wrinkled and leathery, sporting a short beard and dark eyes. He had lived most of his life outdoors and the sun had left a brownish mark on his normally yellow. For his people spent most of his time outdoors.

He wore a suit of leather and iron armor over chain mail, suggesting an elevated social status. Indeed, his father ruled over one of the larger tribes that annually tormented the tribes that dwelt near the Rhun. On one of these raids, he had discovered a strange basked in his personal belongings. He had pondered the message on the bottum of the basket, going so far as to consult one of the tribal shamans. The elder had mumbled something about the gods before directing him to the land of the Stunted People (dwarves). There, a friendly dwarf directed him to a caravan of dwarfs seeking the source of these strange baskets.

He ran a hand through his pony’s main, and unconciously checked for the three quivers that his people always traveled with and the straight sword that his father had taken from the bodies of a group of fair-haired riders. He held a strung composite bow in his left hand to allay his fears, and the reigns in his right hand. The sacred basked hung from the sadle, bumping gently against his supplies.

Most of the crowd avoided him, and he had taken care to give any possible enemies a wide berth. Ahead, he saw penants and banners floating in the wind, reminding him of the tents that his people lived in. He rode on, seeking the great being that had sent the basket to his people.

[VanimaEdhel]

Menelduliniel and Estelarion had dismounted and walked with their horses when they heard the revelry...

"Ai! What is happening in this glade?" Estelarion, the tall, dark-haired Elf asked Menelduliniel as they approached.

Menelduliniel, clearly the shorter of the two by at least 4 inches, looked at Estelarion and her face broke into a grin, "Why, have you been in the wild so long you have forgotten what a party looks like?"

Estelarion gave her a look and said warningly, "Menelduliniel: no. Every time we join a party or a group, we end up fighting. And, generally, I end up getting shot for you. So: no: no parties."

Menelduliniel's looked at Estelarion pleadingly, with a laugh still in her eyes, "Come on! I never get to have any fun! Please?!"

"Elbereth Gilthoniel! No fun? You must be jesting!"

"Estelarion!" Menelduliniel took Estelarion's hand and held it between hers, "Please. I promise: no adventures! I mean: these are Hobbits! What trouble could these sweet, peaceful creatures get into?"

Estelarion sighed and shifted his weight. She always got her way with him. He sighed again, and took her hands off of his, "All right. Fine. But: at the first sign of fighting, I am leaving."

Menelduliniel shrieked in joy, clasped Estelarion around the neck, kissed his cheek, then ran ahead to the party. Estelarion patted the horses, Salkadome and Amanroch, and left them. He knew that, unless there was danger, they would remain there. And, if there was danger, the horses would seek Menelduliniel and him out.

He trotted up and caught up to Menelduliniel as she was introducing herself to some Hobbits and already smiling. He knew that smile...

Ai! I am getting shot or stabbed before we leave here. I can feel it! Estelarion said grumpily to himself. He then put on a smile and laughed with Menelduliniel...

A figure watched the crowd move steadily towards the glade.
Kuero was high up in a redwood tree watching silently. She had been sitting there since the early morning, waiting.
Her long hair was braided and her quiver and bow securly fastened on her back. Kuero watched interesting folk go by. Hobbits, elves a wizard and even a human, who seemed to be writing then would tear it out of his book with disgust. The hobbit children would then run after the loose paper, catch it and begin to read it aloud, then giggle. The lone human took no notice however.
Kuero's family had recieved one of the baskets. Her father said it was nonsence and was about to throw it out when Kuero had said she wanted to keep it. She had dissembled it out of curiosity's sake and found the peice of paper. It wasn't hard to see the little peice of paper with her keen elfish eyes.
Suddenly her pointed ears made out the sound of a running horse. And sure enough ten minutes later there sat a Nazgul. He cluched in his hand one of the wicker baskets. Noiselessly Kuero jumped from tree to tree trying to get a better look. All of a sudden the wraith looked up at her. She was just about to jump to another branch, so she had one arm extended and her knees bent. She didn't know what to do, so she waved at it. The wraith looked shocked then angry. But Kuero remembered that the forces of evil did not work here.
Kuero jumped down and started to walk towards the wraith, she was facinated with it. Since she was looking up at the wraith on horse-back, she didn't see the Young-elf that had bent down to retie his boot. She tripped over his leg and fell to the ground with a thud.
Slowly she picked herself up and tried to look not too embarressed. Which she failed miserably, her face was bright red [img]smilies/redface.gif[/img]. She looked up at the wraith, she swore if Nazgul could laugh he'd be howling. She scowled at it and turned toward the elf she had tripped over.

[piosenniel]

She was late. It had been a long trip, and somewhere along the way she had dropped the basket. Now what would her Lady think of that!

Lassiël stood at the gate and looked down the path, a few stragglers hastily making their ways down it, leaving a haze of dust in the air.

Under the trees, it was cool and more inviting. The air thick with old murmurings. She stepped onto the leaf carpeted floor, and felt the hum and rustle of the leaves increase in intensity about her. She smiled and made her way surely toward the appointed place.

Branches, leafed and bare, young and old, reached down to touch her green robes as she passed.

[The Fifth]

The wraith looked down upon the elf-girl who apologized to the other. Although none else could see, he grinned to himself. Foolish elves! he thought. He pulled upon the horse's reins. The horse, at first bending its neck down to chomp at some grass, pricked its ears bak in annoyance; but one of the lessons that the horse had learned earilier is to never disobey the Nazgûl, its master.

So it reared up, its eyes white-ringed, kicking some dust at the elves, as the Nazgûl wanted to mock them, and soon galloped off towards the glade.

Soon the wraith arrived. The horse was extremely exhausted, for it had galloped hard and madly towards the Glade. The Ringwraith dismounted the beast and allowed it to collapse onto the ground, its armored chest heaving up and down. The wraith abandoned the black horse and trotted down towards the Glade.

Already, a few people were gathered there. It was a peaceful-looking place, glowing bright green from all of the foilage, trees, and the grass. Even with the wraith's foul presence, the place seemed wholesome. There were was plenty of space for people of all sorts to place blankets on the floor and spread out the dishes. There was a long wooden table at the end.

[Ransom]

Ransom dismounted in a patch of grass where several other guests had left their horses. Barebacked steeds of the elves and the heavy chargers of the Gondorian knights grazed alongside several ponies and a lonely black horse. He set about making himself presentable in the fasion of his people. Ransom pulled out a fourth quiver, filled to the brim with arrows, and clipped it to the wide belt that encircled his waist. His sword was slung over his shoulder, and the long feathers on his helm received a minute amount of attention.

Finally satisfied that he was presentable, he reverently removed the basket. A quick peek inside assured him that the offering for the hosts was still inside. And so, holding his bow in his left hand and the basket in his right, Ransom left his horse and continued on foot to the Glade, stopping every so often to gaze at other visitors.

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[Eol]

The winds was soft and sweet, much as summer always did. Every hobbit, elf and Man had crossed up the leaves to a glade far beyond the sycamore that stood not too far away. Beneath it was quite an unsual sight. Amusing was the plight, not of the fallen elf, but of the rags upon its steed. In one hand the reins and in the other a basket of wicker, made not more then two winter nights since. ' I remember those reeds ' The oak thought, ' Those reeds spoke of the waters that helped them grow, of the sorrows and of the woes of plight of those not in Aman'.
Children giggled while the women laughed, it was not a day of sorrow, but of glee. Even the jays and the swallows echo them in their whistles and tweets. The oak laughed, the branches rattled and knocked, the jays remained while the swallows flew away. ' Am I to bring my own pain and not seek after this parade? '

[Bêthberry]

Suddenly a strange gust of wind came blowing down upon the assembled guests, but at the last it rounded in upon itself, turning and twisting in its path, so that none was touched.

Well, none but one. The Wraith found himself (itself?)turned upside down, spiralling up, up, and into an ancient yew tree, where he hung, cloak twisted around the needled branches. The same gust shook an apple tree nearby, and several apples rolled over the ground, to rest at the mouth of the panting steed. Then the wind strangely assumed an echoing cheer, so that people swore they could hear:

Yes, gallop, do gallop, do gallop you may,
But slacken the stirrup and loosen the bit,
For in the Old Forest even horses do play.

The steed shook its head and helped itself to the apples, snorting up at the Wraith caught in the tree. Another strange burst of wind shook the yew and the Wraith tumbled free, unhurt but dishelved and somewhat chagrined. [img]smilies/wink.gif[/img]

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Gandalf_theGrey]

* Meanwhile, a Cloaked Guest carrying a basket came riding bareback. Strangely enough, he was on a black horse very much resembling the wraith's. Though the horse was still a bit lean from having been underfed until just recently, a shining jet black mane and coat indicated otherwise glowing health. *

* Since the Cloaked Guest had changed his plans to attend what was sure to become a Picnic of Legend, he was only now just coming upon Crickhollow. The Cloaked Guest squinted under furrowed brows as he passed a house there, for wasn't that the pony cart of that fat, gaudy merchant Podo Cotton of Overhill parked outside? The Cloaked Guest was certain he recognized the pony and cart from the stables at the Trade Inn of Sarn Ford, though no Hobbits were to be seen. A faint aroma of coffee beans rose up from the cart on the wind. *

* The Cloaked Guest shrugged it off, lit a fresh bowl of pipeweed, and continued on to the Gate at the edge of the Old Forest. The ends of fireworks protruded from his picnic basket. The basket was marked with a "G" ... for "Guest," perhaps. * [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]

[Marileangorifurnimaluim]

In the deep shade beyond the glade, a pair of eyes watched the gathering.

Solemn they were, and patient. They took in the little people, already laughing and dancing, chattering like birds on a summer's morning. And the elves, ah, yes, the glistening elves, shimmering like stars, their voices like rainfall! The eyes widened briefly at the Nazgul, looked thoughtful at the curious barbarian, reverently handling his simple basket as if it were made of spun gold. Hmmm.

Those eyes watched, waiting still. They had grown very doubtful about this party, once it was read there would be no coffee. Or chocolate for that matter. Hm.

A piece of paper fluttered into the trees in the direction of those eyes, catching in the branches. Odd, how only one tree of so many was stirred by that breeze...

[The Fifth]

The wraith landed on the ground, making a few leaves crunch. He eventually stood up, shaking off some leaves from his cloak and robes, straightening out his hood as well. He glanced at the steed, munching happily at the apples.

The Ringwraith looked up. "Curse thee, forest-wind!" was all that was heard, a hissing and thin, cold voice.

He was angry now that he had left his blade at the Dark Tower to rust, so that he may hew all of the trees, one by one. That would teach them not to mess with the Nazgûl! However, he remained silent. When the hobbit-children giggled at his misadventure, he let out a horrible screech that could be heard all the way from Bag End.

[Susan Delgado]

The large white dog trotted leisurely through the gathering crowd. Everywhere he went, people stopped and stared. It wasn't taht he was unusual; on the contrary, he was a very ordinary dog, it was simply the context of seeing a dog wandering through the crowd as if he belonged. In fact, he did. His name was Feaer, and he was no ordinary dog.

As he moved through the crowd, he wasn't looking for anything in particular; he was scouting for his mistress, an elf maid named Elenachliel, who was waiting in the trees beyond the glade for his word. After surveying the party for a few minutes more, Feaer sat down, lolling his tongue in a doggy grin. He seemed the epitome of canine contentment.
Mistress, this is a good place. It's full of all the people!
Elenachlieil emerged from her hiding place, wondering exactly what the dog had meant by "all the people". When she came in view of the Glade, she smiled in understanding. She'd never seen so many different races together in one place before. Still grinning, she rushed to join the festivities, clutching her basket to her.

[Bêthberry]

A smaller breeze, gentler, wafted on the air. The Wraith snifted, tense and angry at first, but then watched as three white rose petals floated onto his cloak.

The hobbit children watched in wide-eyed amazement. They would have liked the flower petals, too, and were envious of the Wraith, but that voice warned them away.

The dishelved poet, unnoticed by most, had watched the proceedings with baited curiosity from the side. The white rose petals, however, drew forth his interest and he quickly turned to another white, a blank page, and proceeded to scribble something franticly on it. "The air is like a white, white rose..." No, that wasn't right. He sighed and turned to a new page.

[ September 18, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Gandalf_theGrey]

* Coming upon the Gate, both Gandalf and his steed stiffened at the sound of an all-too-familiar screech. Alerted, the wizard instinctively steeled himself to be on his guard, though yet trusting full well in the wholesomeness of Bombadil to keep the peace on his land. For he could not say with certainty whether the Ringwraith was well within the bounds of Bombadil's realm, or hovering dangerously near a border. *

[piosenniel]

'By the One!' said the figure in green just stepping from the trees. 'His children still have no manners!'

[The Fifth]

The Ringwraith stepped back as the flower petals wafted into his hood, into the black emptyness that was his face. He snorted, a bit like a horse, but seemed to take this as a gift from the wind.

He plucked out a couple of the petals, and cast them away, watching them float off and gently touch the hobbit childrens' noses, who shouted in glee at them and tried to catch them, but they drifted back towards the wraith.

His steed stood up now, fully rested. The horse turned its head and trotted off to join the other horses who played merrily, glancing at its undead master for a moment.

[Belin]

With the white rose petals, another flower drifted into the glade, or at any rate a hobbit named for one. Barely too old to chase the petals, she watched them float away with a peculiar grin that almost erased the shyness from her face. This would be a party, indeed! Her sisters didn't know what they were missing, refusing to enter the Old Forest.

She turned indignantly at the sound of a low and immeasurably sweet voice making a rather sour remark. As the voice would have it, she, Pervinca Took, had no manners! The figure in green was only a few steps away, so Pervinca drew herself up to her full height of 3'2", took one or two steps forward, and put on her sternest frown. She didn't notice that the lady's mouth twitched slightly in amusement, because she had already begun her lecture.

"No manners? Is it manners, I ask you, to lurk in the bushes at a party? Is it manners not to introduce yourself? Would it be manners, then, to make remarks about the manners of others? Is it? ...oh," she added, suddenly dropping her voice to a whisper as she finally noticed that the person she was addressing had a light in her face, and a grace in her bearing, that the hobbit girl had never seen before. "Are you an elf?"

It was at that moment that Lassiël began to laugh, but quietly, and with a certain merriment that managed to escape being offensive. "Truly I apologize," she said, in a voice that was itself recompense.

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Belin ]

[GreatWarg]

The fox moved forward cautiously, pausing every once in a while to sit. The Master had told him to watch Old Man Willow, and keep him from causing any trouble to travellers, but simply the reason why he had posted a beast to watch the cranky old willow was a wonder to the fox. Lady Goldberry and the Master were gathering many plants and honey and fruits in the past day, and that aroused curiousity of any good beast living in the lands. After all, it seemed like a feast was going on, if the fox knew anything! And as any wayfarer knows, foxes are quick to curiousity and excitement.

Coming to the hedge, the fox could hear a raucous. There was a clammering of hungry Dwarves complaning, a collection of hobbits from Bree and the Shire laughing and merrymaking, a Ringwraith (How strange indeed! the fox had thought) Men from Rohan and Gondor, an odd Man constantly staring around and then quickly writing in a book eventually tearing out many pages, and even old Gandalf! Gandalf! Now this is a surprise! What would a wizard be doing in such merrymaking! the fox wondered again. But he was becoming impatient, and wanted to go take a closer inspection at the horses prancing and dancing around the field. Several deer were also gathered there, and many birds in the trees.

It seems I have not come too late for the merrymaking! the fox thought, sitting down and watching the growing excitement with keen eyes.

Many hobbit children were now dancing around the Ringwraith, singing merry songs, and the poor Ringwraith looked very embaressed indeed, in a ring of hobbit children, all laughing and singing and merrymaking. Several of the hobbit grown-ups were now joining in, mouths wide with laughter. A good collection of Men from Bree were also watching with interest, occasionally bursting in laughter and applause when some jest was made.

The mostly kept to themselves, watching everything happening around them. The odd Man which the fox had noticed before was now watching the hobbit children and scribbling something down into his peculiar book. A few moments later he was again ripping the page out, letting it fall to the ground, where an inquisitive hobbit lass or lad would pick it up and read it aloud to his or her friends, all of them giggling.

A strange little white dog barked, dancing with his mistress, a tall maiden. The fox's red plume-like tail swayed in time to the music of a pipe. The very odd Man, whom the fox seemed to think was quite likeable really, was again scribbling in his large book. The fox raised a mud-brown paw, licked it, then fidgeted with his whiskers. All this merrymaking was making the fox in a mood to dance.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The child rode to the edge of the glade. Her blonde curls bounced against her back as she raced her pony as fast as she dared. She was a human child, about thirteen years of age, and evidently from a family of some repute. Her gown was made of the finest silk. Her green eyes widened with mirth as she saw the pennants waving, and the tables filled with food.

She cocked her head behind her shoulder to see if her nursemaid had caught up with her yet. A small hobbit called out to the girl, "Pearl, your mother will kill me if I lose you! So hold in those reins until I can ride beside you." Cami bumped and thumped up and down on her small grey cob, the wicker basket with its invitation banging against the pony's withers.

Pearl's laughter rang out like a bell, "Mistress Cami, I promise not to run away. Only I was so excited to see all these fine folk. For we've ridden long and far from the coast of Lindon to come to this party today."

Then she dismounted and looked about in wonder at the Elves, and Dwarves, and hobbit kin who filled the glade to overflowing.

[ColletteTook]

Collette smiled happily from a table.
What a rare and splendid occasion this was! She had wild and tangled curls that had been pulled back into a rather ugly ribbon that was an unrecogniable shade of brown or perhaps indigo.
She had a plain hobbit face and plain hobbit clothes, indeed the only idividual feature she would ever pride herself upon was her bright green eyes, which were shining brightly in excitement at the moment as she watched all the different guests arrive, a picninc-basket in hand.
She had been there since the early startings of arrivals and watched happliy for faces she knew, but majority was only people she would love to know, fair elves, young and older hobbits from bree and all farthings of the Shire, There were men from the great White City and even delving dwarves that had come all the way from the lonely mountain (though she knew nothing of these regions, except from the wonderful stories she had heard throughout the duration of her childhood.
Her eyes caught Pervincia's, who was a relative of hers and she went amoungst a group of hobbits to gossip happily.

[Birdland]

A thin, grey figure, in mail and armor, came riding through the trees - literally - on a grey horse. As they passed through shafts of sunlight, both horseman and steed would be washed out by the bright rays, only to reappear as they entered the shade of the trees.

"Confound it, Mesulwyth, slow down! Do be a good horse for once." said the ghostly knight as his ghostly steed spied the apples and pranced towards them, totally ignoring his rider's sawing on the reins. "Dratted charger. It is quite impossible for you to eat those. Now do be still." Mesulwyth performed a ghostly capriole of annoyance.

"Oh, bother!" The basket under the ghost's arm began to slip, and he had to reconstitute his ectoplasm in order to retain a grip on its handle. This meant he lost his hold on the reins. The ghost horse trotted towards the other mounts gathered around the apple feast, passing through them like a cold wind. All the horses, including the two wight mares, shivered their skin uncomfortably.

When the basket was found at the Dark Door, (left by someone who had knocked loudly and then ran), Sir Pellandor had thought it was a misdelivery. No one living in the Paths of the Dead could eat picnic food; not so much as a pickled egg. So why would he receive such an invitation?

Then he read the reference to "ghost stories". Of course! Obviously someone required his expertise. The living could hardly be expected to get the old tales right.

Pellador had been a loose ends ever since the Curse had been lifted, and hadn't really been out much since that last ride through Pelagir. The Picnic at the Bonfire Glade sounded like just the ticket. Something to shake the grave dust off, as it were. He hoped some of the Rohirrim would show up, so they could reminisce about old times.

Floating down off his steed and untangling the reins, he spied the black-cloaked Nazgul surrounded by the laughing, jeering halfling children. Of course, the specter was merely Undead, where as Pellandor was completely Dead, but he didn't want to be considered a snob. He resecured the again sagging basket, and raising his translucent palm in greeting to his fellow haunt, sonorously intoned "Hail!"

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[The Fifth]

The wraith glared no more at the children who danced merrily about him, screaming with laughter. He instead, looked at the ghostly warrior, examining the ghost curiously. He then hissed, "Hail? Go float back into the barrow thou came from!" Of course, the Ringwraith had thought that this was a Barrow-Wight, who was, of course, under the command of his Lord, the Witch-King.

He reached towards the scabbard for his blade, but then drew his hand back. O Melkor! he thought, remembering that he had left the weapon at "home". He walked away fom the ring of dancing hobbits, breaking it up. The robes he wore covered his feet, giving him an appearance of drifting towards the center of the Glade.

However, the children regrouped. The Ringwraith indeed seemed angry; you could see it from the bitterness in his already hate-filled eyes. The children didn't seem to notice; they were too busy laughing at the poor wraith.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

„Help!!! Heeellllp!!!!!!“

Goldberry heard high-pitched cries from the direction of the Old Forest. ‘Oh dear,’ she thought, ‘hobbit tourists again, I suppose! Why must they always rush into the Forest without reading the FAQ sign at the gate? If only they would learn to use the search function – they would reach their goal faster and without getting into trouble with Old Man Shark- uh, Willow.’

Her eyes softened as she gazed at Tom, snoring serenely on the sofa. ‘Poor dear, he’s so tired after having the night rescue shift. I guess I’ll take care of it myself. But,’ her chin lifting resolutely, ‘I absolutely will not sing that nonsense!’

And so it came to pass that the entrapped hobbits very soon heard the strains of a lovely voice:

“You just call out my name
And you’ll know, wherever I am,
I’ll come running…”

[Child of the 7th Age]

A small lad stood by the side, gazing at the figure of Sir Pellador and his ghastly opponent, the Nazgul. He marvelled at the Nazgul's discourteous response. This was certainly not chivalry! The knight was so surprsed that his visor slid open to reveal great foggy spectacles that looked as if they were covered with ice. Sir Pellador looked vaguely familiar to the boy, but he could not place the scary Nazgul.

When Pelladore removed his spectacles to clean them, they slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He peered down at them from the back of his steed, and then over at the boy.

"You, there, young fellow, who are you?" he halooed. "Would you retrieve my spectacles?"

"My name is Blister, squire of Sir Eek, and you look dreadfully familiar." He surveyed the great knight up and down, and went to pick up the spectacles.

Blister solemnly nodded, "Ah, yes, it comes to me now. But where is your brachet?"

"I believe he is coming soon. I have left him home with Miss Piggy."

Blister shook his head, but then looked up with despair into the eyes of the knight. "I think you and I have made a colossal blunder. For we are from another time and place, and will surely get tossed from this merry gathering since we are not "canon." And yet," said the boy. "I did receive a wicker basket with an invitation, while my foster brother did not."
The lad looked extremely puzzled.

"Do not worry, for you will see much here that is known to you. Over there are a people who live in the Shire. And yonder, on a distant shore, stands the Blessed Lands. For we are from a region of great importance called "Source" and are thus free to join in these revels."

"Now, if you will excuse me, I must deal with this Nazgul.

Then Blister spied a lovely lass with blonde curls, for which he had a definite weakness, and he went off to introduce himself to Pearl.

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

'An elf?!'laughed Lassiël. 'You do me honor to place me among the First Born!'

She bowed toward the doughty hobbit. 'Nay, say rather I am handservant to a Lady who wished to honor those who have called this gathering.'

The hobbit stepped back shyly, discomfited, despite the warmth and lightness of the lady's bearing.

'Ah! But come now! Where are my manners?' said Lassiël in a soft, inviting voice. 'My name is Lassiël. And what might yours be?'

'Pervinca Took, ma'am!' came the hobbit's courteous answer.

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Elenna]

They all looked up as another horse came trotting towards them. It was a huge gray stallion, and on its back sat an elf-maiden. Before her she clutched a gray basket, intricately woven.

"Mae govannen! I am Elenna, from the House of Elrond, and I hope to be allowed to join your party - I have brought food!"

[Rimbaud]

Upon seeing the ghostly knight, our peerless poet gave a start! Quite a sight the knight was too, although a little indistinct at times. Hurriedly, the poet snatched for his book and started scribbling. In my house there lives some ghosts, Mischief is their second name... The poet looked for a long time at these notations shaking his head sadly. He crossed through the words and snapped the book shut. This quite startled a hobbit lass right before him, and caused a fox, trotting past on errands unknown, to look reproachfully at him.

The hobbit child, a small mass of brown curls and green tunic, waved a muddy piece of paper at him triumphantly. She jumped up and down, her head barely reaching the height of his belt.

"Mister! Mister! Your paper!" squeaked she, her voice shrill beside the hum of conversation from the adjacent road.

"Hmm?"

"You have been dropping your papers, sir, not to impose or no..."

"Ah," said our poet, a little bewildered by the unbridled energy of youth. "Yes, I see."

"Here it is sir, should you want it still!"

"Ah, but what's a word's worth?" asked our pentametre practitioner, with a twinkle in his deep blue pools of eyes.

Flustered, she thrust the dirtied parchement into his hand and scampered off, curls bouncing.

Our poet sighed, but being a man of curious nature, decided to question the approaching apparition as an intellectual aperitif before his appetite for appetisers overcame his aptitude for the application of conversation.

Making his customarily unobtrusive path to the undead steed's flank, he peered up, shielding his eyes from the sun as it filtered through the treetops.

"Good day," cried he. "What brings so lifeless a lord to this unexpected festivity?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Pearl ran over to Elenna, with Blister following just behind. She graciously curtsied then asked to poke her noise into Elenna's basket. The sweet smell of fresh lembas came floating up along with many other fragrances.

Pearl looked up in surprise. "There's not only wonderful food in here, but many lovely flowers as well which can grace our tables.

[Elenna]

Elenna smiled at Pearl. "They are a gift from Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, child. Flowers for the eyes and lembas for the tongue, as well as a few fruits and things. Do you wish to help me set them out?"

Pearl smiled and nodded. Elenna held out her hand and the human child took it. Together they walked off toward the tables.

[Cuthalion]

A tall Elf, sporting a new set of black riding leathers and a picnic basket entered the Glade. He flung his leg over the head of his horse and slid off, a grin lighting his face as he saw his friends Meneli and Estelarion, quarreling as usual, standing in the midst of all the activity, she craning her neck in all directions, he with an eternally exasperated look on his face.

He paused briefly as he beheld the nobly tattered Ring-Wraith, then shrugged his shoulders as he eased through the crowd toward his freinds. He scooped Meneli up in his arms and swung her around. Estelarion looked at him quizzically, grinning. "Well met, both of you! So, what's this all about?"

[Mithadan]

A figure dressed in black breeches and shirt under a grey cloak trudged disconsolately through the Forest from the Barrow-Downs. His Master, the Barrow-Wight had sent him to attend a picnic in the Bonfire Glade. He tripped over a tree root and sprawled face first into the dirt.

Sitting up, he plucked some yellow leaves from his collar and hair and rose wearily to his feet. As if he had not had enough to do! In the past ten days he had put down a petty rebellion in the lands not far south of here, put out some flames elsewhere, dueled with an Elf, been smacked on the shoulder with the flat of a sword, been kissed by an Elf (OK, that wasn't so bad). On top of it all, he had been subcontracted out to invite a pile of Elves, Dwarves, Men and Hobbits to some party in Gondor (lazy git, that Elessar, can't even send his own invitations) and then had to arrange for hordes of Wargs, fires, storms, avalanches and floods just to mess with the travel plans of those guests. He was tired...

"Oh well," he muttered. "At least I'll get something to eat. Maybe some spirits..." A grey mist coalesced next to him and took the shape of an ill-favored lady in tattered finery. About her feet were innumerable cats. The spectre hissed companionably at him.

"Begone Beruthiel!" he cried. "Perhaps later I shall set thee upon unsuspecting picnickers for my amusement!" The spirit vanished, leaving behind twelve cats who began rubbing against his legs. "Wait! Take the cats with you..." But there was no reply. He continued on toward the Glade, brushing stray cat fur off as he went. Amazing how even black cats can shed white fur on black clothing, he mused. The cats followed him, mewling as they went. Such is the life of a lesser Wight.....

[Eol]

"Ho hum, I have not see the such as you in a while past."

The oak called out to the walking wight. "I must apologise for the root, I forget that they get that way." The branches shimmed. " Tell me now, wight, are off to the foray in the glade in the distance away?" The oak dropped a few leaved down on the wight and the circling cats. "I too would like to see, but I am root bound, as most are to be."

[Ransom]

Ransom slowly meandered through the crowd, picking up sniplits of conversations. Most of the conversations did not interest him, but a few were noteworthy. Here was a scruffy looking man madly scribbling on some sort of tablet. Up ahead were a trio of woodelves. There was wandere cloaked in grey. He recognized a few being as wood elves, for his people had once ventured to the edge of Mirkwood on one of their raids before being repulsed by the elves.

Steering clear of the menacing wraith and the ghostly knight, he felt a furry object brush against his leg. It was some sort of small dog, with a beautiful read coat and a bushy tale. Said fox stopped his thumping his tail and looked upwards. Man and animal stared transfixed for a moment before the fox returned to watching the small Stunted ones dance around the wraith.

Quite frankly, he was a tad bit confused. His people always began their feasts by giving their hosts gifts. But no host occupied the two large chair at the head of the longest table, and no one else seemed to be searching for them. Surely these people honored their hosts with gifts. Didn’t they? And so, Ransom ambled on through the crowd.

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[Birdland]

"Hail? Go float back into the barrow thou came from!"

Pellador, having retrieved his glasses from the helpful young Blister, looked askance at the black-cloaked ruffian. Hmmmph! His "barrow" constituted an entire mountain, whereas this Undead Upstart obviously hailed from one of those cobbled-together ant-hills on the Downs. Still, wouldn't do to start off the festivities on the wrong foot.

Pellador floated alongside the Wraith, feet trailing languidly through the air six inches off the ground. "Fine form you display with that black robe, good Sir. Almost looks as if you were gliding. Good material, too. Is it Elven?"

Ghost and Wraith glided through a herd of cats, who immediately hissed and retreated into a young fox trotting through the area.

[ September 19, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]