[piosenniel]

‘Whoa up, Thistle!’ The rough dirt track from the edge of The Downs to The Wight’s barrow was rutted and strewn with sharp-edged, flinty stones. Pio wound the reins round the cart’s brake and hopped down for a look-see. It was dark and the stars, in honour of The Wight’s birthday had hidden themselves behind fat, threatening clouds.

She was an aging spectre, at best; her once Elven sight now dimmed from the bright lights of one or two or three or so light shows. A youth spent, or misspent as some had told her, under the evil influence of traveling bards . . . musicians of one sort or another . . . magicians, she called them. Dylan from the North Countree, playing and singing in the ruins round Evendim. Jimi, come back from across the East Sea. And Ginger, the cream of drummers.

‘Well those days have flown now, haven’t they?’ she said, kicking at one of the lesser stones stuck in the dirt. A woof from beneath the warm blanket on the cart seat came as an assent from her traveling companion. Max, the aging Pug. He raised his grizzled head and cocked a doggish eyebrow at her. ‘Yes, my sole duty in life now is to see to your comfort, your majesty,’ she said with a grin. She kicked once more at the offending stones.

‘I’ll bet The Wight planted these here himself to keep unwelcome visitors out,’ she snorted. ‘Fat lot of good that will do. Esty’s opened the door and I for one, intend to get a nice ankle bracelet to match the one for my arm I nicked a couple of years ago.’ She twirled the slender silver band on her left wrist, smiling as it glittered in the pale moonlight. She’d lived a long time in the Shire, and the idea of mathoms was firmly entrenched in her mind. To her way of thinking, the whole of The Wight’s treasure horde was a gigantic mathom pile.

Of course she’d brought something to leave in place of what she took. A couple of credit vouchers for Himself to spend at Funagain Games and Board Game Geeks. That should appease him, keep him occupied for a bit, while she perused his never worn stock of old jewelry.

‘We shall have to walk in from here, my dear,’ she said, stuffing the rotund Pug in her old leather knapsack. ‘By the One, you’ve put on a few pounds!’ Into the side pockets went some fireworks left over from last year’s party. She shouldered the pack, and fished out from under the cart’s seat the cake she’d made. ‘Great thing, this 7th Age invention . . . Tupperware,’ she thought to herself, thumping the sturdy plastic with her finger.

Pio smoothed down the wrinkles in her ghastly green T-shirt, the one with the lovely and lethal looking sword emblazoned on the back. She leaned over, causing her canine passenger to utter a yelp of displeasure, and dusted off her short, tattered denim breeches. As she righted herself, one hand served to ruffle the short dark hair shot with silver that stood out from her head.

Down the road, they went, Pug and Mistress . . . following the sounds of spectral music and song, until the entry way was reached . . .