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The Deadnight's Chanter's rousing song was still echoing round the field when Evisse the Blue managed to finally join the party, descending ungracefully from a tired eagle, her blue gown rumpled and her hat askew. 'Well, if wizards are never late, half-breed witches most certainly are, and fashionably so, too', she replied to anyone who questioned her about her late arrival, refraining from giving any reasons. And wisely so, since it was entirely her fault for confusing the meeting place at the Party Tree in the Shire, with the White Tree in Minas Tirith. Anyway, here she was now, saved by the eagle whom she intended to repay with hobbit-food and ale. Staightening her garments, she smiled broadly, imagining the feast and merriment that was to come. After all, she was in the Shire. What could possibly go wrong?
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And no one was ill, and everyone was pleased, except those who had to mow the grass.
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