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Gliding around sleeping partygoers, symestreem noticed someone at her plate of chocolate chip cookies! Several someones- hobbits. She shook her head. It was all over now. Ah well, there would be other cookies. She must try and find the maker of these and express her gratitude. Or, she could...
Leaving a note under the plate, she resumed strolling, looking for someone to serenade. Everyone was asleep, though. Even the noises emanating from the barrow had stopped. Did wights sleep?
Stepping around a drunk dwarf, she saw a huge pile of shiny stuff on the ground. Who dumped all these pots out here? Everything from kettles to a saucepan to an exotic dwarven stewpot was in a heap. The cooks are asleep. I might as well put these away for them.
The items were surprisingly hard to pick up, and the kitchen tent was far away. She had just come back with a cart when she gasped. Under all the kitchenware was... was... a person! The cooks must have dumped their tools on top of him. He could be hurt!
"'Ere now, what are you doin' with our Mr. Pan Man?" An indignant hobbit stood behind her. "And where's all his other pots?"
She tried to get across with gestures that she thought the man needed medical attention. When that didn't work, she took out her special stick and wrote in the dirt.
The hobbit scratched his head. "Well, now, I can't read that." He saw the pots and pans in the cart and gasped. "You... you were takin' 'is pots!"
She frantically tried to assure him that this was not so, that she had had no idea there was someone making his abode under kitchenware, but he grasped her by the arm (a reach for him.) "I think you'd better come with me," he said, leading her away to a tent whose sign read 'Beorn Security'.
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