[piosenniel]

The evening of the party, and numerous little lanterns had been hung here and there from branches of the trees, unlit as yet, the westering sun had not yet sunk low enough to warrant that. The evening was mild, no chilly winds from the north stirred the grasses on the greensward. In the town square, the podium had been festooned with flowers and ribbons, and the small town band stood listening patiently to the last hurried instructions from the bandmaster.

To the side of the podium, like a lovely ship come into harbor from a prosperous trip, a large table with a crisp white table cloth was set up, and piled high with gifts wrapped in festive papers, tied up with silvered ribbons. There were plaques, too. One large one to be hung in the Inn commemorating all the heroes, alive still and those fallen. Individuals would also receive smaller ones with an appreciative verse on it, and their name inscribed.

Mayor Woolman sat in the shade of a tree watching the last minute touches go up for the ceremony honoring those brave heroes who had driven the Warg menace from Bree-land. A few last rows of chairs and benches and all would be in readiness. He sipped a small mug of ale, just something to wet his throat, dry as usual, from practicing the long-winded and flowery speech he was to give.

‘Yes,’ he thought, smiling broadly as the crowd began to gather. ‘This would be a great day in Bree-land.’ And the start of a long series of days, he hoped, for the continued peace and prosperity of all this area.