"Firondoiel, I am pleased to make your aquaintance. You are most welcome! Arafangwen, no, I am not presenting anything, Lady. Which is a good thing, since-- excepting my newly combed hair-- all presentability has quite left me," he said, ruefully, as the seven-year-old hobbit in his lap struggled for a better view of the newly arrived elves.
The teenage hobbit, relieved temporarily of responsibility, suddenly turned in his seat and sniffed. Stiffening, he looked around, and then stood in his seat and looked over the back. Behind him was the source of the aroma. Gamba watched, wide-eyed, as Squatter and HerenIstarion tossed back a steady stream of something Gamba remembered very well. It was not a pleasant memory. His stomach turned, and he grimaced, remembering the worst headache, the most violent stomach ailment, and the worst parental and authoritative wrath he had ever suffered in his entire life.
Shuddering, Gamba refocused on the stage. Good old Mithadan! Sinking deeper into his seat, he wished that the scent of the various alcoholic beverages would waft somewhere else. And then he hoped he wouldn't get sick.
Several seats over, Firondoiel, Menelian and Eladoriel were happily chatting with Arafangwen and LinGalad, and his four boys seemed to be in good hands. LinGalad turned again to Firondoiel. "What forest did you say you were from?" he asked politely, ducking as the child in his lap squirmed again.
[ May 05, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]
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...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.
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