[Nuranar]

Two figures strode briskly through the wide-open gate into the Party Field. A random hobbit boy took one glance – then stood more motionless than an ice sculpture on Forochal, his eyes as big as saucers as he stared.

It wasn’t the first figure that had flabbergasted him: a young woman, clad in a long gown of lightweight rose-colored wool. Her deep honey-colored hair fell in a thick wavy curtain to her waist, and she was carrying a large, heavy willow basket. She was a little tall, certainly, even for the race of Men; but still she was only 5’8”, and her soft, brown leather shoes added no height. Furthermore, she was talking and smiling in the friendliest manner.

But her companion was definitely out of the ordinary. He was tall, even among Men, standing a full 6 feet and 7 inches about the ground. And it wasn’t merely his height. This man – or was it boy? – seemed nearly skin and bones, his considerable height all in his extremely long legs. He wore a long tunic of green over slim trousers which on him still managed to bag. Their length might have been sufficient, but his tall boots (of which the feet seemed impossibly long) concealed any deficiencies. His short, light brown hair was uncovered, and a carefully carved wooden sword hung at his side. He too was grinning, and walked with a slight stoop to hear what his sister said more clearly. A drawstring bag of striped mattress ticking dangled from one hand.

For Nuranar, the young woman, was his sister. Despite their obvious differences in build, their features were strikingly similar, and their smiles nearly identical.

The hobbit boy’s immobility caught her eye, and for an instant she looked at him in puzzled curiosity, then glancing (up) at her brother, she laughed in comprehension. “Halladan, you’d think the hobbits would be used to the sight of Big People by now, but I guess they still don’t see people quite like you very often!”

The boy grinned bashfully, then gestured to a (human) girl off to one side. “Hobbits aren’t the only ones,” he pointed out. The girl’s stunned expression showed all too clearly that she was not accustomed to giants, skinny or no.

Nuranar shook her head. “Well now, we’re just used to it. Growing up with a father an inch taller than you, it’s hardly surprising that my recognition of height is a bit skewed from the rest of the world’s!” she concluded, chuckling at herself. “Now, where do we go?” She paused in front of the scroll still displayed on the gate.

“Names, check. Dress, check. Food, check – right?” At the deafening silence beside her, she spun round with a killer eyebrow arched in suspicion. “Ok pal, if you – I’ll –”

“Naw, it’s here.” Holding out the still-heavy bag, he grinned at her just-you-wait look.

“Watch yourself, tall man. Now where was I?” She deliberately turned her back. “Birthday greeting – Botheration! I knew I forgot something. Now I’ll have to write,” she growled. “Ok. Mathom, yep. Entertainment – oh yes, that’ll be fun,” she said, glancing at Halladan in pleased anticipation.

“I’ve got lots of ideas,” he declared impressively. “But can I get rid of this first?” he continued plaintively, hefting the sack once more.

“Fine, if you find where to put it.” Nuranar turned abruptly round in her characteristically decided manner, intending to head to the food tables, but instead nearly stumbled over a tiny hobbit girl. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I kick you?”

The girl gathered herself up, grinned wordlessly, and took off running, picking up the now-recovered hobbit boy on her way. Nuranar, still kneeling, gazed after her, shaking her head in amusement and puzzlement. The little thing’s hair had undoubtedly been green. “Goodness, what are the Downs coming to?” she tsk-tsked to her brother.

They reached the tables without further incident/accident/collision and deposited safely thereupon two goodly pans of homemade cinnamon rolls. Beside them, Nuranar set out butter in a little crockery “bell” and a knife, not silver. Halladan, freed from his burden, promptly headed toward the pile of plates. Nuranar barely caught the back of his belt in time.

“Oh, no you don’t! We need to finish our duties first. Then you can stuff your face – or fill that empty leg, more like it. You can deliver the gift to the table by the barrow over there, or you can write something to put on the Party Tree. Your choice.”

Halladan pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness, glanced at the barrow, at the tree, at his sister, and the grin broke out again. “I shall relieve you of the matchless mathom, dearest sister!” he announced, bowing magnificently.

Nuranar snorted. (Yes – sad to say, but ladylike Barrow-Downers do snort, at least when goaded by one or more brothers.) “Here it is,” taking a parcel wrapped in a checked cloth out of her basket. “And please don’t antagonize the Wight! I’ve had a clean if somewhat undistinguished record til now, and you’d better not louse it up.”

“Fear not!” he said grandiloquently, and began marching toward the barrow as if into battle. Nuranar called after him, “Meet me by one of the stages after you eat!” He turned and saluted, still walking backwards and nearly running over a matronly hobbit lady.

Nuranar snickered, then absently grabbing a tortilla chip, wandered away, crunching thoughtfully and trying to come up with a verse worthy with which to bedeck the Party Tree.