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The last slice of the deliciously un-canonical garlic pizza disapeared right under Saraphim's hand. The orc, one of Kransha's crew, walked away happily chewing.
"Argh," said Saraphim. It wasn't a word she usually used, but during the course of the party she had become increasingly adicted to the offending pizza, and desparate times call for desparate measures.
"It's just as well," she said to herself, "My breath alone could knock that Balrog over there unconscious. Why doesn't it know if itself has wings or not?"
The memory of the hobbits earlier reminded her.
"Ah, yes. I don't even know what race I am." she said as she reached into her pouch for a breathmint, "I suppose I could be an elf, if I really want to make an effort."
Saraph's thoughts were interrupted by the feel of the dragon statuette in her pouch. She sighed and began the walk to the mound and the mathom-table to return it.
She skirted around party-goers who were trying to cram in the last few hours of the party, orcs that were doing awfully odd things, and a group of people having a fierce discussion on paper.
Setting the dragon down onto the table, Saraph peered down into the Barrow and said to herself:
"That Barrow-Wight. A genius, he is."
Turning around, Saraph looked around at her fellows. It occured to her that she'd never felt more at home.
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