An Unexpected Vir(tu)al Party

[Pitchwife]

Brushing aside cobwebs and hanging moss, Pitchwife strolled into the ballroom, his furry friends trailing behind him. His coat, having outlived its narrative function of providing a pocket for the palantír, had somehow got lost on the way, and he was attired, as was usual for him, in jeans and a chequered flannel shirt; his hair, just beginning to grey at the temples, had grown long since his last visit to the Downs, and a pony tail stuck out under the rim of his leather hat. He had tied a scarf over his mouth and nose and was brandishing a Quenya pocket dictionary.

„Arriba los manos, eso es un robo!“ he declaimed to the company at large. „No wait, that‘s wrong. I meant Elen síla lumenn‘ ovomaltínë! I‘m afraid my Elvish has got a bit rusty lately. But what I really mean is you‘re all a sight for sore eyes!“