Downers of the World Unite! You have nothing to lose but your PT.

[Morthoron]

The Dark Elf, assuming his stock-sylvan stance in the top of an elder tree, cocked an eyebrow and batted his cerulean orbs (flecked in violet) in a most comely manner. For no other reason than flashy effect, he unsheathed his enchanted mithril blade, Naugrond - the "hammer of the dwarves" - crafted by Telchar of Nogrod in shop class during the 11th grade of the 2nd Age. The Moriquende waved the pyrotechnically-imbued sword about, trying to catch someone's - anyone's - attention. No luck.

The Dark Elf cursed under his breath in a Telerin variant of Sindarin. Gone were the days of heroic quests, daunting foes and the epochal epicness of prior Ages. He made a mental note to call his dwarvish banking firm, Thorinstein & Dainbaum, to check on his retirement accounts (he may be a Dark Elf, but he wasn't necessarily avaricious). He might as well book a charter from that nice Mr. Cirdan at Gray Havens Travel, get a beachfront condo at Tirion-upon-Tuna, sling a hammock between the Two Trees, and take it easy for a century or two.

An odd looking squirrel hovered on the branches above him. Some droppings landed on his shoulder. The Dark Elf sighed. Yes, he would be booking the charter tomorrow.

[Bêthberry]

The din was rising now that the Odd Woman with the Boromir Memorial Pin had put Sergeant Saucy's Barrow Downs Club Band on repeat play and the fifty-five identical girls took up their conversation once again. It was almost enough din to break glass, or at least the skins of wursts.

Bethberry had been seated with Legate, enjoying a nice brew and some of the 'shrooms when in had walked Celuien. Now this was a happy surprise that she was able to leave her newly-spoused spouse and party with us! The laughter amongst the three at the table, over discussion of new lives and old werewolf games, was almost enough to rival the conversation of the Fifty-Five.

In fact, so great was the din that it had taken Bethberry some time to hear the knock at the door. In fact, it was the wafting aroma of the pies that had really called her to the door.

Unfortunately, on her way to the door, she tripped over a tapping foot that hadn't been there and fell into the door, which proceeded to open out onto Glirdan, spilling the box of pies from his hands. Luckily, though, Bethberry was able to catch the box before it up ended on her as she lay on the door step. Glirdan recovered himself, took the pies with a haughty sniff and marched into the din of iniquity.

Bethberry lay there, trying to fit her fuzzy hobbit feet, which had been stomped on by the tapping foot that wasn't there, back on in a decorous manner, and then looked up at the elder tree. She was sure, definitely sure, that she had caught a glimpse of a fiery orb flecked in violet amongst the branches if not something that might resemble a light sabre. It was a very long time since she had seen the lights of merisue or garysue eyes. Was this the return of something?

[Morthoron]

Hobbits. Strange creatures. Never serious, never sane - and now, pie juggling? Absurd! This, the Dark Elf thought as he sheathed his ridiculously overpowered uber-blade in its rune-inscribed scabbard studded with faux-silmarils and richly hand-tooled Rhovanion leather. Of course, the ebon sheathe matched his galvorn hauberk, velvet doublet, tall boots and his capricious elf stallion, Lastobethnintolodannangalad (or just Ed for short). If anything, the Dark Elf was color-coordinated but a bit colloquial regarding naming conventions. But what he was doing in a tree in such attire while his long-suffering steed waited in a thicket is another matter altogether. But let us not digress.

He glared down at the irritating halfling (actually, he considered all hobbits irritating) with his requisite fan-fictional, elven-flecked eyes and exclaimed in a suitable pseudo-Shakespearean idiom, "Hail and well met, half-witted halfling! Praytell, is it a habit for hobbits to prestidigitate pies? 'Twas quite a feat with thy feet just there, and like a jongleur to land on thy seat whilst tossing tarts in mid-air array. Verily, it doth take crust!"

[Celuien]

Celuien's heart skipped a beat when Glirdan's pies went flying. If she ever had learned anything, it was that pies should never be wasted. She cheered for Bêthberry's excellent catch. What kind of pies would they be? Cherry, apple, peach? Her mouth watered. Seeing the pies reminded Celuien to unveil her own celebration treat - a green frog-cake surrounded by a near-plague of chocolate frogs. Amphibians clearly remained one of Celuien's chief obsessions.

The crowd had grown dramatically since Celuien's arrival. She blinked at the crowd of 55 matching girls, certain that she must be hallucinating. Surely she hadn't indulged in quite that much brew so early in the party! But if she had, she was determined to make the best of it. She twirled away from the table in a merry sort of jig, which was not entirely in time with the music, but enjoyable all the same.

With a chuckle, she thought, "Oh my. I'm being quite silly today."

[Glirdan]

Glirdan felt the stub of a little foot connecting with his. Taking a quick glance down was the split second that it took for the door to come swinging open and almost connecting with his face. In his attempt to take a step back, he tripped over his own cloak, and almost lost the box of pies. Luckily, Ms. Bethberry was there to save the day.

In an attempt to regain his composure, he huffed indignantly at his own clumsyness and entered the Barrow, past Ms. Bethberry, not even bothering to help her up in his own flustered state. As he walked in, he noticed a few other guests had arrived.

Celuien was staring open mouthed at the near atrocity of pie spillage, Galadriel was back at having a conversation with her x-amount of other selves ("Wait, is it just her or are there 55 others standing with her?"), Monsieur Legate, who was seated and enjoying wurst, and a rather Odd Woman standing in the corner, wearing a very peculiar pin and playing Sergeant Saucy's Barrow Downs Club Band repeatedly.

He continued to look around, taking everything in; the green party banners so befitting of their Barrow, the table of beer, 'shrooms and wurst, and he could have sworn there was faint smell of cakes wafting from the kitchen. "I do hope sallycakes intends on joining...she does love her cakes." he thought, a faint smile creeping upon his face.

He walked over to the table and started removing the pies carefully from the box, checking each one to make sure they were not damaged. He also came prepared with little place cards to mark each pie. Glirdan was a master of pie baking. Along with the conventional cherry, apple, blueberry and pumpkin pie, he also had a variety of others. He didn't want to name those ones, he wanted to try a bit of game for the guests.

He turned back around and noticed that Ms. Bethberry was still laying on the floor, staring up into the trees outside her door. He walked over to her and extended her hand "Here, my lady hostess. I apologize for my....shall we say....rudeness upon entering. Now, up on your feet." It was then that he noticed a Dark Elf standing at the doorway. "Well are you going to just stand there Morthoron, or are you going to come in and have a beer?"

[Galadriel55]

Tired of talking to herself, or rather to the 54 of her "other" selves, Galadriel55 (as a single person now) approached the Odd Woman.

"I heard heard so much about you," she said, "I wish I could meet you earlier. I always wanted to ask you some questions about aspects of Oddity. Is it true that you have spoken with the Wonderful Wizard of Odd?"

"The Odderful Wizodd of Odd!" a ghost voice corrected - one that Galadriel55 recognized as her 14th double. Usually twins have an advantage over others in terms of recognising each other: if it is not you, it is your sibling, unless you are staring at a mirror. Galadriel's case of multiple identities, however, required some more skill. She silently cursed the 14th - something she wouldn't have been able to do had she known herselves less well.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry felt ever so sorry she had knocked down Glirdan but for the life of her she couldn't imagine what she had tripped over. Wasn't it the curtain she had heard swishing?

But then she paid attention to the purple eye in the tree and harrumped as only an RPG character trained in Victorian fiction could harrrump.

"Curiouser and curiouser you are, you flower-eyed feature of fustian fan fiction."

"A half-witted halfling?" "I am no halfling, you scamp, nor even a half-halfling. And it takes full wit to know real nonsense, let me remind you. There you are sitting up a tree imitating a cheshire cat and you laugh at me?"

Bethberry removed her fluffy footed false feet and waved them at the Dark Elf as if they were as famous as any prosthetic elf ear. "Although I suppose it isn't too unlikely that you can't place me. I am the veritable daughter of the most discussed enigma in Middle earth and if you aren't careful, why, I'll blow leaf and branch and you away."

She giggled at the thought.

"Will you get you to your horse in yonder shrubbery or come and join the party?"

At which point she heard Glirdan suggesting the same and offering her his hand.

"Dear Mr. Pieman," she said, "Think nothing of it as it was I who tumbled the tarts." She giggled again.

"Well, let us join the party. I smell chocolate. And I do believe there is dancing."

She nodded her head at the Dark Elf to invite him in after them.