[piosenniel]

‘Light the torches, Azhnog. And you two place them around the greensward.’ The Uruks beetled their brows at her, looking furtively toward the front entrance to the Hall. ‘Don’t worry about Mithadan. The party is already out of control, and he’s got his hands full. The last place he’ll wander tonight is out of doors.’

Pio threw her coat over the back of a stone bench that stood between the red carpeted walk and the topiary hedge, and rolled up her shirt sleeves. I’ll captain one team. Who’s up for the other?’ The Uruks stood looking, one to the other; none of them stepped forward to volunteer.

‘Grab him!’ A likely looking candidate had stepped out the south side door for a breath of fresh air, or so it seemed until the tell-tale orange glow of a cigarette punctuated the darkness in which he stood. Two beefy Uruks picked the poor fellow up by the arms and deposited him in front of Pio.

‘You’ll do nicely,’ she commented, eyeing his trim, muscled frame. He raised his brows at this comment and backed away hurriedly, only to find himself sprawled flat on his back as he tripped over one of the Wargs.

Pio approached, shaking her head, and offered him a hand up. ‘You’ll do nicely for futbol,’ she explained. His face bore a decidedly puzzled look. ‘We need another captain . . . for soccer . . . you do know how to play don’t you?’

Pio took another pull from her blue bottle, and sent Azhnog to find one of the balls in the equipment shed. She wiped the lip of the bottle off with her ascot and offered it to the opposing team’s new captain. He sucked at it greedily and she wrested it from his fingers before he killed it completely.

She raised her arm and swept the motley, assembled crew in a generous arc. Uruks, Wargs, Orcs, and the Hobbit chorus line on a break from the Hall’s festivities. ‘I’ll give you first pick,’ she offered. ‘Take your ten, and I’ll take mine after.’

Pio could see the man’s calculating mind take stock of the assortment of possible players, and he began to pick out the best ones with a grin. She could see him thinking what an easy contest this would be.

Azhnog returned with the ball and lobbed it to her. It arced down, and she caught it deftly on the toe of her now scuffed Perry Ellis Oxford, juggling it easily as the man made his selections.

‘My turn?’ she said sweetly, kicking the ball to him. It landed with a satisfying thunk to his midriff, and fell to the ground just before he did. His team looked on in consternation at their fallen captain.

Pio waved the seven members of the Hobbit dance ensemble to her side, then looked about in a calculating manner for the last three choices . . .