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Fordim Hedgethistle arrived late for the Party – but then, it had been a long time since he had been above ground in the light of the sun and it had taken him a while to get used to it again. The land had changed too since he had last seen it, but he had stumbled across a couple of helpful trolls and they had been more than happy – or, well, at least willing – to tell him all that he needed to know. He had flown (or had he?) as quickly as he could across the long leagues from the Misty Mountains to the Shire in order to make it here in time to pay tribute to the Barrow Wight.
The Party Tree was decorated and all about the field there were tables laden with food and drink. Fordim looked about for anyone he knew, but his eyes had still not fully adjusted to the light. He did notice a few odd characters about who looked vaguely familiar but most who saw him immediately looked away. Two figures did stand out almost immediately. As soon as he saw them Fordim swirled away, cloaking himself once more in darkness, for he did not relish the idea of having to face either Fingon or Olorin. He’d never really liked either of those characters, particularly Olorin. “Ridiculous fellow” Fordim muttered to himself, belching black smoke as he did so, “Always insisting that we sing along with the chorus instead of making up a little ditty of our own…” He snorted and a trickle of flame that he had not intended scorched a nearby bush. One of the small folk shook a tiny fist at him and told him to read the Party Rules, pointing at a sheet of paper tacked to the tree.
Fordim read the notice and was happy to see that he met most of the criteria. The last two, however, gave him a moment’s pause:
“6.) No violence, swearing, or sexual innuendoes in the Party thread.”
The injunction against violence would be a hard one to obey, but he could probably manage it for a day. As to sexual innuendoes…he chuckled slightly, and as he did so the sky grew dark and the ground shook, once more drawing some disapproving looks. Well, he could behave.
“7.) You may bend the canon somewhat, just try not to shatter it into pieces.”
This one caused some real worry, but as luck would have it (if luck it was) at that moment a green-eyed, red-haired Elf walked by. Fordim relaxed immediately.
He moved through the crowd with ease, for those who looked upon him gave way immediately, the Elves crying “Ai” with despair, while the Men and Dwarves glared with open dislike and fear. There was another race there, much smaller than Men but like them. For the most part, they merely looked at him with open shock, not knowing what to make of him. Fordim had only been out of his deep place in the earth for a few days, but he had already become used to this from the folk he met, and he merely shrugged the vast shadows that spread from him like wings and moved on.
He quickly reached a dark hole in the ground in front of which there were piled a number of brightly wrapped presents. He removed a small package from somewhere about his form and placed it on the pile. He hoped that the Wight would like it, for it was especially dear to him: the shrunken head of the very first Elf he had slain at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He quickly moved away from the hole, looking for someone with whom to talk – for he had a problem, and he had finally decided that he needed help with it. For an Age he had lain in his dark place in the earth, brooding on the problem but to no avail. But of late, rumour had come to him of a place where problems such as his were considered challenges that people welcomed. It was a place where answers could be sought to supposedly insoluble questions. He saw a person clad head to toe in pans and pots who looked as though he could help him, but as Fordim approached the man disappeared in a clatter and a clank.
Fordim frowned and looked about once more. Off in one corner of the field he saw two figures who looked even more familiar than those he had seen earlier. One of them was a woman, clad simply and with her hair pulled up atop her head. The other was an oddly dressed Orc. “Roa!” he bellowed, nearly setting the Party Tree alight, “Kransha, you old rogue!” he roared. With a burst of flame and smoke he rushed (or did he fly?) across the field to them, waving his flaming sword above his head in one hand and cracking his whip with the other for the pure joy of seeing his friends. As soon as they were within earshot, he bellowed out, for he could not contain his question any longer: “DO EITHER OF YOU KNOW IF BALROGS HAVE WINGS?”
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