[piosenniel]

Pio had made the mistake of asking the Elf with the violet eyes where she had gotten her contacts. Merisu wrinkled her brow, but barely, and with two flicks of her golden tresses had laughed quite prettily and wagged a slender, well manicured finger at Pio. ‘Silly! Gotten them, indeed! I was born with them!’

‘Yes . . .well . . .’ Pio was having trouble concentrating, entranced by the sight of the glistening strands of blond hair lifting gently in the playful breeze. It was with great restraint that she held back her hand from giving Merisu’s lovely locks a yank to see if they were indeed her own.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes focused on the toes of her boots (which were scuffed and worn – quite unlike the footwear of the Elf before her), Pio gathered her wits and invited Merisu to join her for a drink and a plate of savories. ‘You do eat and drink, do you not?’ she asked warily, thinking that perhaps the warrior-maiden had reached a state of perfection which precluded such things.

On their way to the food tables, a darkly clad, pasty skinned woman in a green scarf walked past muttering something about dwarf-tossing, ale, and Russian cures. ‘Dwarves are that way, Lush,’ called Pio as the figure passed. ‘And you are quite in luck – so is the Guinness and the vodka.’

Pio nodded at the Elf with the messy blond hair and the full, foaming tankard. Nerindel she’d heard someone call her. And it looked as if someone acquainted with Merisu had dressed the poor woman for the party. There she stood, tugging at the lacing to the bodice of her rather form-fitting dress, trying to give herself a little room to breathe. Pio watched as the Elf barely caught herself, her shoe catching on the hem of her dress as she strode along. Ale splashed down the front of her dress and she muttered an imprecation that would curl the toenails of an orc. Pio snapped her fingers and a serving wench appeared at Nerindel’s elbow with a fresh pint. ‘Over there,’ said Pio, drawing near to the wet Elf. ‘Behind the actors’ stage is dressing room and any number of much more comfortable outfits.’ She stepped back and looked at Nerindel from head to toe. ‘Breeches, I think and a soft tunic, loosely belted at the waist. And boots – find yourself something more comfortable. This is a party, not the court at Rivendell . . .’

Having reached the food at last, Pio placed a plate in Merisu’s smooth-skinned hands and bade her fill it as she wished. Pio herself picked the stuffed mushrooms and a small stack of chocolate chip cookies, topped off with a generous scoop of macaroni and cheese.

Nearby she noticed the figure of Hilde Bracegirdle, husband in tow, standing at the Party Tree, their attention engaged by the well-wishes others had affixed there. Hilde, she saw, had pulled a piece of parchment from her own pocket, and smoothing it out had pinned it up with the rest.

Another had come up to the table and then wandered off. Symestreem the young woman was called, another of the partygoers had told her. ‘And she plays a mean fiddle,’ the guest had added, nodding her head at the stage the musicians used. And apparently is quite fond of chocolate chip cookies noted Pio as she watched the young woman disappear into the crowd with a handful.

Merisu had remained quiet for some time, but now she nudged Pio’s elbow and tilted her head ever so daintily toward three newcomers who had made quite an entrance. They were in good spirits and seemed glad to have found each other. Pio sent a server over to them with pitcher of drink and mugs and a platter of savory eats.

Two hobbit lads had run up by this time, hats in hand, to tell Pio they’d repaired a hole in the side of one of the pavilions and bandaged a passerby who’d been injured in the incident. An Orc, one Kransha she learned, had eructated as beings of his sort were want to do after eating, sending his plate flying through the fabric of the tent with great force. A Dwarf had been knocked in the head and it had taken the Beorn security force to keep him from going after the orc with his ax. ‘Secure the weapon,’ ordered Pio. ‘And give the Dwarf a small cask of those special Dwarvish spirits from Erebor. And the Orc – see if the fellow will try some ‘Beano’ before he eats again.’

The two Elves found a table near the music stage and sat down to relax. Pio shook her head in quiet amusement as Merisu’s pearly white, perfectly matched and even teeth bit into an overstuffed pasty and a bit of gravy dripped onto the bodice of her gown . . .