[piosenniel]

'Dawn has cracked and so surely has this little world I find myself facing,' thought piosenniel blearily. I had been a tiring night eluding both a balrog and the Barrow Wight in the deep, dark vastnesses of the Downs. One wanted to turn her into a crispy critter, and the other, though apparently sleepwalking, kept muttering feverishly to himself 'Must abduct . . . must slay . . . cold elf on a colder slab of stone . . .we likes it!'

piosenniel shook her head to rid herself of the random images. 'The Wight saying "we likes it"? It must have been a bad dream - but then why are my legs so tired as if I had run for Ages?'

Climbing out of the tunnel did not seem as long a task as falling down it. Peering cautiously over the edge, she spied both Birdie and C7A huddled over a large pot of strong coffee, wearing tie-dyed Barrow Downs t-shirts with the logo : FRODO LIVES! scrawled on them in magic marker. Each 'O' in FRODO having the peace sign penned into it. 'Oh my!' thought piosenniel to herself, 'I've fallen down the rabbit hole and come up in the sixties!'

'Hey!', shout the two remnants of the radical left in unison. 'Ai na vedui . . .mae govannen!'

'Come have a cuppa heartstarter, pio,' offers C7A. 'Yeah, we need a third pair of hands for the guerilla actions we're planning for the party today.' says Birdie. 'And what the heck happened to you last night? The last thing we saw was the ground open up and swallow you right after you channeled Gandalf.' Both looked at her expectantly.

'Some coffee first, ladies, and then we'll hash out my thoughts on the odd events taking place here. I have my theories, and the main one is sitiing close by!' piosenniel glanced meaningfully in the direction of Mithadan, whose hand seemed to caress a silver remote control while his mouth curved into a puckish smile.

'Ooh, I'm thinking the target is in sight for the first prong of our attack.' whispered Birdie.

'Let me just haul out my parchment and quill & we'll draw up a battle plan.' rejoined C7A, digging into the depths of her mailsack.

The object of their covert scrutiny arose from his sitting position, stretched mightily, and surveyed the party site. Need to stretch his legs a bit more, he ambled down the small hill on which he stood and passed by the 3 women slowly sipping their morning brew.

'Ladies!', he said in greeting, with a tug to his forelock.

'Mithadan.' returned the trio in unison.

As he strolled past them, preparing to walk the perimeter of the
field, it seemed as if a chill breeze had sprung up from behind, sending a small frisson of impending doom down his spine.

[ May 21, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]