Enter
Pitchwife, feeling terribly underdressed next to
Esty and
Kuru in his jeans and sneakers, usual chequered flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a black t-shirt adorned with the Dead Moon logo which had long been his avatar on the Downs, and also, truth be told, a beer belly he had been growing for some time now and which was all too likely to gain a few more mm in the course of these celebrations.
He grabbed a mug of ale and mingled with his fellow wights. He congratulated
Zil on his newly acquired immunity against the plague carried on evil winds from Angband, complimented
Blind Guardian on her narrations in the recent Werewolf game and pledged a toast to
Lommy for her victory. Then, thinking this party could do with a little spicing up, he climbed on a chair, began to bang on a drum which he had summoned out of thin air and burst into song to the tune of
an old viking chant:
Come gather round all you Downers
And raise up your cup to our Founder!
He came and gathered the ghosts of the dead
And let us run loose over board and thread.
Here‘s to the Wight and the forum he made,
Here‘s to the Downs, home of many a Shade,
Of Spectres, of Princes and old Piles o‘ Bone
And it‘s ours for the haunting, thanks to you alone!
We‘ve played some Werewolf, it‘s true,
And many rounds of Cryptic Clue
With Legate and Might in the Quiz Room so bright,
The Palantir of Fortune shone through the night.
Here‘s to the Books and learnéd dispute,
Here‘s to the Movies coz Legolas is cute.
The bots broke in and the forum was wrecked,
But we took it all back in the green and black.
Here‘s to the Downs, home of mirth and lore,
To the Professor whose work we adore.
Here‘s to the Wight who gave us a home
And it‘s ours for the haunting, thanks to you alone.