Legolas the Drop-Dead Gorgeous Silvan Elf had been called to the scene to treat the mirth-ridden Samwise. The Wiley Wood-Elf had little faith in Cirdan's collection of bottles and potents belowdeck, since he had a decidedly Third-Age distrust in Western medicine.
Legolas believed in a more holistic approach to healing. To cure mirth you treated it with small doses (very small doses) of mirth. So Legolas pulled an extremely thin pamphlet out of his backpack, titled "Humor of the Eldar" and proceeded to read over the body of the prostrate halfling.
"How many Elves does it take to change a Simaril?" This question was followed by a two-page monograph discussing the various possibilities, depending on the age of the elves in question, their linage, gender, and whether they were present at the fall of Numenor, and lots of names, names, names. It was, in short, a real party-killer of a joke.
It seemed to be working. Sam had now reached the point where he was merely chuckling politely at the various obscure references, and was trying to crawl away without offence, when he suddenly saw the frantically waving Birdie up in the crow's nest. Seeking any way to change the subject, Samwise pointed aloft and immediately relapsed into a state of helpless, life-threatening mirth.
Legolas looked aloft and spied the black and white, feathered distraction. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he muttered "Crebains. I hate Crebains!" In one fluid movement he pulled a blue and silver arrow from his quiver, nocked it to the bowstring, and let fly.
PFFFFSSSST! THUD!
Birdie pitched forward off the crow's nest, and plunged headlong towards the deck of the rolling ship.
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