An unexpected voice is heard behind Gimli (Son of Gloin). The speaker is hard to make out behind the cloud of pipe smoke.
"Nope. You haven't read the rest of the notice, it seems. Says the party's closed until Monday." The fellow gestures to a long line of hobbits, a unicorn, various people and creatures from the era, if not precisely Middle Earth. Word has travelled fast. They're all talking and laughing in their campsites, saving their place for the party. Hobbits (of course) by far make up the majority.
"Gonna be a corker," the fellow smiles, "Line begins up there by old Furfoot's boy. No cuts, mind you."
[ May 17, 2002: Message edited by: Marileangorifurnimaluim ]
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Deserves death! I daresay he does... And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them?
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