[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.....