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Avandel
Half-elven
Jan 31 2016, 1:45am
Post #52 of 190
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*Bows* but I am evil you know....
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Being inspired you and Elarie - and the vague imaginings of how Thranduil might react to an elf who has gone to the Dark Side. Of course there WAS that Tauriel thing, but somehow I imagine a male elf doing so would just be so more more offensive to Thranduil.
I knew there was a reason I liked her....
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Avandel
Half-elven
Jan 31 2016, 1:50am
Post #53 of 190
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Thank you *bows deeply* for the inspiration. And we shall hope that Lindir does not become the unfortunate victim of Fang-gir-ielle jealousy in his new position.
Possibly not, tho, as at the moment His #Majesty assigned Lindir the job of tending to Bilbo, who has had way too much Irish coffee on top of crispy maple-coated Balrog.
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Elarie
Grey Havens
Jan 31 2016, 2:11am
Post #54 of 190
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Additional Addendum to the Invitation
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Dress Code
For those guests whose sartorial standards demand the perfect ensemble for every occassion the organizers of the First Annual Balrog Barbecue make the following suggestions:
1) The Barbecue will be comprised of Afternoon, Evening and next morning Breakfast social situations, therefore at least three changes of costume are recommended.
A) Afternoon Wear will be Elegantly Casual with simple jewelry suitable for day functions, perfectly cut robes of linen, cotton, wool or raw silk and plain but perfectly fitted Day Boots without embellishment. Hats, hoods and knitted mittens are optional, and weapons should be standard issue and functional but clean and polished. Corsages for the ladies and boutonnieres for the gentlemen will be available for a nominal fee from the Lady Beekeepers Association, North Beorning, Wilderland.
B) Evening Wear is Formal or Semi-Formal (after all, it IS a barbecue) and tiaras and/or gem encrusted Elven circlets may be worn. Robes should be of velvet, silk satin or hand-woven brocade, with or without embroidery, sequins, and/or jeweled buttons. Boots may be embellished with gems and/or precious metals, or alternatively, silken slippers with little hand embroidered roses set with diamond chips may be worn. Weapons should be Dress Formal with gem encrusted handles and all runes/Elvish script/magic spells should be outlined in silver, gold or mithril.
C) Breakfast Wear is decidedly casual as breakfast will be a Picnic Buffet, served from 9:30 AM -12 noon on the lawn near the lake. Guests may serve themselves whenever they wake up and a special Dress Code exception will be made for confused revelers who show up in bathrobes and mis-matched slippers. Irish coffee and Par-tei Pick-me-ups will be mixed and served by world-famous coffee-maker and food expert, The Burglar of Bag End.
Note: A Lost-and-Found stand will be at the foot of the Dimrill Stairs. Tiaras, jeweled weapons and bags of gold will require identification before being returned to the owner.
Parking
It has come to our notice that guests will be arriving by various means of transportation, therefore the North Lawn next to the lake has been set aside for Elks, ponies, horses, goat-drawn chariots and eagles. Anyone arriving by Great Beast must park on the far side of the lake to avoid frightening the ponies. There is no valet parking at this function, however there will be guards on duty to prevent orc raids on the livestock. Please do not serve alcoholic beverages to either the guards or the livestock, especially the Great Beasts.
Thank you for your cooperation and we look forward to your presence at this Very Special Occassion,
Sincerely,
The Balrog Barbecue Organizing Committee and Assistant Volunteers 
__________________
Gold is the strife of kinsmen,
and fire of the flood-tide,
and the path of the serpent.
(Old Icelandic Fe rune poem)
(This post was edited by Elarie on Jan 31 2016, 2:14am)
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Nieriel
Rivendell
Jan 31 2016, 2:42am
Post #55 of 190
(9447 views)
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"at least three changes of costume are recommended ..... gem encrusted Elven circlets may be worn. Robes should be of velvet, silk satin or hand-woven brocade, with or without embroidery, sequins, and/or jeweled buttons. Boots may be embellished with gems and/or precious metals, or alternatively, silken slippers with little hand embroidered roses set with diamond chips may be worn. Weapons should be Dress Formal with gem encrusted handles and all runes/Elvish script/magic spells should be outlined in silver, gold or mithril." 
His face when he reads
"Hats, hoods and knitted mittens and a special Dress Code exception will be made for confused revelers who show up in bathrobes and mis-matched slippers" 
  
"Our loves are not given, but only lent." Rudyard Kipling
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Sarahbor
Lorien
Jan 31 2016, 3:40am
Post #57 of 190
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No hard feelings, to one and all...
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Again, I apologize for sounding like a jerk  It's just that, as someone who does fan art and humor myself, I get frustrated at seeing the same hackneyed themes rehashed over and over again in the field, especially when they're themes that, as a Catholic (like Tolkien!), I find distasteful. I don't like seeing his characters portrayed in these ways, especially not my favorite film character, Thorin. PJ's Thorin is anything but what he is all-too-often depicted as in fan art/fiction, and yeah I get that it's only meant for fun, but I just don't see what's funny about it. That's all.
Hobbit/LOTR cartoons & humor: http://www.sarahbor.com/
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Nieriel
Rivendell
Jan 31 2016, 6:54am
Post #58 of 190
(9420 views)
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the vague imaginings of how Thranduil might react to an elf who has gone to the Dark Side. Note to Gandalf The Grey - the note is alarmingly wine stained and was tied to the PostCrow by hairy twine and not the usual black silk ribbon - an indication of extreme distress or mourning in Elvish culture.
Tell me, Mithrandir, for a shadow grows upon my mind, that you can aid me, for I do not know where else to turn in this my hour of need.
It has come to my notice, via a carefully chosen 'spy' who currently resides upon the conveyance named the Partei-Barge (tales of which you have doubtless heard. Wild tales regarding the Dead Dwarves
walking and legions of Mortal women named the Fang-gir-iells willingly attending them) that one of my own race has committed a crime so inconceivable I can only assume the perpetrator is labouring under a
powerful spell or something of that ilk. I barely have the heart to commit to paper the nature of the crime as it is so completely insidious and unheard of that the crime does not have a name in my native tongue. I am aware that Mortals have a name for it, (and frankly it doesn't surprise me what Mortals get up to behind closed doors). I believe they refer to the practice of wearing the clothing of another race as 'fancee Dress'.
I have been informed that Lindir (formally of Imladris, and I say formally because Orcs will wear Chanel 5 and sequinned slingbacks before Elrond takes him back again when he finds out about this) has been seen
in public with his hair WET (my blood runs cold) wearing Dwarven leathers and, how my hand trembles to write this! Boots! Huge, ugly, stampy Dwarven boots out of CHOICE! Of course I am aware of the Dwarven torture
that existed before the Middle Earth Convention was enforced in all lands, which involved the forcing of captive Elves to wear chunky knitwear and Eru preserve us, polyester undergarments, this torture was
deemed a War Crime and rightly so, as it is a well known fact that unflattering woollens and man-made fabric of any type brings all of Elfkind out in such a nasty rash that even a Kingsfoil
(yes I know it's a weed) poultice is almost powerless to cure.
My spy informs me that Lindir spends considerable time in front of a mirror tossing his hair about and uttering 'now THIS is more like it!' and he now treads so heavily that he can be heard moving. The worst
part is what appears to be his utter delight in leather, chain maille and iron helmets which are adorned (if indeed adorned is the right word for anything Dwarvish) with horns. So complete is Lindir's seduction
by Dwarvish apparel that he was witnessed by my now traumatized spy, stamping up to one of the Durin brutes, slapping him on the back and grunting 'nice jerkin!' I have NO words. Since when did Elves grunt?
Since when did an Elf even know the word 'jerkin?'
The Dwarven hunger for corruption does not stop at Elves. My spy also imparted the information that beasts are also similarly abused. There is aboard the boat a pony who goes by the name of Minty - Every being
of taste and refinement knows that names such as Thinelroch or Tálagor are the correct sort of names for horses and ponies. What does Minty mean? Quite honestly I shudder to think. I have searched my books on
Dwarven names and the closest to a definition for Minty I have come to says "Makes your tongue tingle." I am appalled. Dwarven depravity, it seems, knows no bounds.
I also have one piece of information for you, and I know this may grieve your heart, Mithrandir, for it concerns your halfling friend known as The Burglar. My spy told me that he too is aboard the Partei-Barge.
It is my sad duty to inform you that he is being kept in conditions of virtual slavery. The Fang-gir-iells or possibly the Dwarves (my spy was not clear) have the Halfling virtually chained to a device called a
'Coffee Machine'. I know not whether this is good or ill. Furthermore, when he is not being forced to operate this machine which I believe is called 'Nespresso' he is being supplied with dubious beverages of
Mortal design called 'Cocktails'. I would weep at the knowledge of such an Elf-friend being used in such a way if it didn't make my eyes all puffy.
Write soon, I am in need of your clarity.
I remain
Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm
"Our loves are not given, but only lent." Rudyard Kipling
(This post was edited by Nieriel on Jan 31 2016, 6:58am)
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Elarie
Grey Havens
Jan 31 2016, 1:17pm
Post #59 of 190
(9397 views)
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PS to the Additional Addendum to the Invitation
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PS
We neglected to mention that all funds raised by the Lady Beekeepers Association will go towards much needed repairs to their Retirement Hive for Elderly and Infirm Giant Bees. Please be generous to this worthy cause.
PPS
As a last minute addition to the festivities, the Lost and Found Booth at the foot of the Dimrill Stairs will double as a Charity Kissing Booth between 8 and 11 PM with a Surprise Volunteer Second Heir-to-the-throne Kisser to raise money for the preservation and maintenance of The Last Dark And Nameless Thing At The Root Of The Mountain, whose name, as it turns out, is Kevin. Kevin, having eaten all the other Dark And Nameless Things, is the last of his kind and “his like will not be seen again on this earth” thus making it desirable that we preserve this last valuable member of his species. Unfortunately, Kevin lost three tentacles and several of his eyes during his recent battle to the death with the Second-To-Last Dark And Nameless Thing At The Root Of The Mountain and then, equally unfortunately, ate the veterinarian who was brought in to treat his injuries, making it darn near impossible to find another vet willing to make cavern calls. Kevin lives at the bottom of the Bottomless Pit and in happier days could be seen climbing the walls of the Pit to snag unwary orcs off of the Narrow Bridge. Alas, these days Kevin spends most of his time cuddled up in his Slime Room, sadly humming to himself and counting his remaining tentacles over and over with his Good Eye. Thus, the plan is to try and raise enough money to supply Kevin with left over Balrog Bits, partially decomposed orc bodies, Greenway roadkill and creepy slimy things from Gollum’s cave until his injuries heal themselves and he can once again fend for himself. After that all feeding volunteers, tourists and Quest members are advised to stay at least 100 yards away from the edge of the Bottomless Pit for their own safety. Moria orcs who live in the vicinity aren’t advised to do anything in particular, since they never listen anyway. Please pucker up and donate generously to this important cause to preserve our native species and their natural habitat.
PPPS
It has come to the attention of the Committee that the elves of the Hoodlum Realm are planning an unauthorized Best Dressed contest with prizes for Afternoon, Evening and Breakfast Wear and that the winner of said contest has already been chosen. The Committee does not sanction this contest or give it any official standing and is not involved in any way.
Thank you, and enjoy the Par-tei.
__________________
Gold is the strife of kinsmen,
and fire of the flood-tide,
and the path of the serpent.
(Old Icelandic Fe rune poem)
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Ilmatar
Rohan
Jan 31 2016, 3:22pm
Post #60 of 190
(9384 views)
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Thank you for posting, that was hilarious!
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Good for Lindir, seeing his chance and taking it without a second thought!
*imagines an ELF with a delighted grin, some hair (visible  ) on his chest, a wild messy hair and a dwarvish attire* Oh dear. The good denizens of Rivendell will faint like Fang-gir-iells when they see him again, but for a different reason...
(Looking forward to the PM. Re: the age distribution of any fandom - I guess Thorin's popularity even among teenagers may not be that surprising after all, since as we have seen in some threads here recently, his appeal can even cross species lines - thinking about that cat, etc.  )
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Ilmatar
Rohan
Jan 31 2016, 3:27pm
Post #61 of 190
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I just love reading the results of the delicious three-party fic collaboration going on here! But poor Elven King, again, in such severe distress. I hope Mithrandir comes through for him!
If Mithrandir sent word or even came to his aid, who knows - he might pay a visit on the Par-tei Barge to witness the abysmal goings-on himself. See how he likes a fruit drink instead of wine. Fireworks over Rivendell by a wizard under the influence might be dangerous, though... )
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Ilmatar
Rohan
Jan 31 2016, 3:37pm
Post #62 of 190
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How fascinating - The Last Dark And Nameless Thing At The Root Of The Mountain has a name after all! But how can a monster be both, so disgusting and so adorable at the same time.  Poor Kevin, suffering from PTSS all alone in his throne Slime Room... I'm all for the preservation of endangered species so must do what I can to help him.
*tries to see if the Second Heir-to-the-throne has already arrived, takes a sip of fresh fruit drink spiced with mint syrup and gets in the LONG line for the Kissing Booth*
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Elarie
Grey Havens
Jan 31 2016, 5:22pm
Post #63 of 190
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The dwarves, hearing of Thranduil's shock and horreur and his somewhat excessive imbibing of reviving "cordials" at the news of Lindir's escape from the shackles of Elfdom (from their own carefully placed spy in the Hoodlum Realm, known only by her code name "Red") immediately send the Pixie King a suitable gift, namely an elegant, authentic, Second Age, antique Ladies' Fainting Couch, to be placed quickly and thoughtfully behind the Forest King any time he hears bad news. (Loud hoots of dwarven laughter as they pin these instructions to the couch.)
Two day Eagle delivery guaranteed.
__________________
Gold is the strife of kinsmen,
and fire of the flood-tide,
and the path of the serpent.
(Old Icelandic Fe rune poem)
(This post was edited by Elarie on Jan 31 2016, 5:24pm)
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Avandel
Half-elven
Jan 31 2016, 7:57pm
Post #64 of 190
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Deep in the bowels of the Partei-Barge, the Fang-gir-iell swore as the barge rocked suddenly, throwing her against the rose pink walls of the powder room. A cascade of colorful bottles and hair beads fell from shelves. The Fang-gir-iell hoped Fili and Kili weren’t battling over control of the wheel again. Last time they had taken out three piers belonging to those cute little river hobbits, and the barge had sat anchored the rest of the day while Bilbo and the river folk wrote up compensation. An entire parchment scroll had been produced.
They’d still be at it, except the dwarf king found the movement of the Barge soothing and had gotten impatient. He had picked up the most vocal of the River folk (Bilbo had winced in sympathy at this point) and the Fang-gir-iells quietly got some of those floaty round tubes ready, expecting an ensuing splash. But Thorin had merely purred something into face of the wide-eyed river hobbit and gently set him down.
That hadn’t made the river hobbit feel any better though. He had looked around at the circle of surrounding Partei-girls, and noted all the pairs of gleaming eyes narrowed with jealousy. It put him in mind of being surrounded by wolves. The river hobbit had snatched the scroll from Bilbo, scrawled something, and grabbed his two companions. They had dove over the side of the barge and made for shore. A peculiarly tall and thin dwarf in a horned helmet had tossed a leather bag after them, which promptly sank.
(But the river hobbits were able to find it after the barge moved on, thanks to the strange floating box attached to it. The box held jugs of Burglar Bombs. Happily the Burglar Bombs and the amount of silver in the bag (Thorin still had a wee problem in certain areas) was more than enough to have the river folk hoping for a return visit.)
The Fang-gir-iell steadied herself and stared in the mirror unhappily. Overhead the folk music of the Partei-girls pounded on:
Keep on with the force, don't stop
Don't stop 'til you get enough
Keep on with the force, don't stop
Don't stop 'til you get enough!
It could drive you mad. Except bits and pieces of it stuck in your mind for days, so you may as well give in. Thorin had taken to happily belting out “no time for losers, we are the champions, we are the champions” at odd moments, and the whole Barge would happily join in. Thorin said he couldn’t wait to sing the song to that “prancing forest fop who had the nerve to think his hair could even compete.”
She was in a lot of trouble, she thought. It was one thing to be just another Fang-gir-iell. They came in all shapes and sizes. But with another elf here – an elf, yet, that unlike herself wasn’t merely occasionally interested about dwarven culture, or at least at times polite about it.
No, Lindir had embraced dwarven culture with a ferocity that was – was so DWARVISH. The Fang-gir-iell shuddered, thinking of the celebration planned for tonight. Fili and the Partei-girls had offered to give Lindir his very first tattoo, and Lindir had accepted the offer with alacrity. Although, she had to admit, knowing that a certain dwarf sported artwork apparently as a tribute had touched her deeply. Except for the fact that the dwarf seemed to be surrounded by an awful lot of females bent on ensuring the young prince was not lost to despair. She supposed that it was a positive thing, in a way, the loyalty showed to the Heirs of Durin.
She sang along with another maddeningly catchy folk tune that was shaking the walls as she opened the pink and white box (the brand of choice on the Partei Barge):
We must have been stone crazy when we thought we were just friends
'Cause I miss you, baby, and I've got those feelings again.
I guess I'm all confused about you.
I feel so in love, oh, baby, what can I do?
I've been thinking about you, I've been thinking about you.
I've been thinking about you, I've been thinking about you.
Shi-pow-pow!
Yes, time to hide those peeks of light blonde hair with more Medium Ash Brown Root Rescue™. Get some more braids and beads in too. Add some more stuffing to key areas of her black leather bodice. She just hoped that Thranduil would recognize her at the barbecue. He was going to be upset enough when he saw Lindir. She couldn’t imagine the reaction to his own son being dressed like this.
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Elarie
Grey Havens
Feb 1 2016, 12:08am
Post #66 of 190
(9334 views)
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It's not possible! How? When? Where did this devious woodland son-of-a-sprite sneak onto the sacred deck of the immortal Par-tei Barge? This is an evil plot of historic proportions and just wait until Thorin finds out - boy, is somebody going to get it. 
__________________
Gold is the strife of kinsmen,
and fire of the flood-tide,
and the path of the serpent.
(Old Icelandic Fe rune poem)
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Nieriel
Rivendell
Feb 1 2016, 4:08am
Post #67 of 190
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A reply to the Additional Addendum
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To The Balrog Barbecue Organizing Committee and Assistant Volunteers
We refer to the latest addendum to the invitation for the Balrog Barbecue and thank you for your answers to our previous note. Although We are not overly taken with the idea of parking one's own Elk, We shall abide by the status quo on this occasion. We do ask, however, that our allotted Elk parking space is not anywhere near any dwarven goat chariots as one does not wish ones Elk to smell of goat, as one is sure you appreciate.
Moving on.
PS
We neglected to mention that all funds raised by the Lady Beekeepers Association will go towards much needed repairs to their Retirement Hive for Elderly and Infirm Giant Bees. Please be generous to this worthy cause
In a word, no. Other bees are not our concern.
PPS
As a last minute addition to the festivities, the Lost and Found Booth at the foot of the Dimrill Stairs will double as a Charity Kissing Booth between 8 and 11 PM with a Surprise Volunteer Second Heir-to-the-throne Kisser to raise money for the preservation and maintenance of The Last Dark And Nameless Thing At The Root Of The Mountain, whose name, as it turns out, is Kevin. Kevin, having eaten all the other Dark And Nameless Things, is the last of his kind and “his like will not be seen again on this earth” thus making it desirable that we preserve this last valuable member of his species. Unfortunately, Kevin lost three tentacles and several of his eyes during his recent battle to the death with the Second-To-Last Dark And Nameless Thing At The Root Of The Mountain and then, equally unfortunately, ate the veterinarian who was brought in to treat his injuries, making it darn near impossible to find another vet willing to make cavern calls. Kevin lives at the bottom of the Bottomless Pit and in happier days could be seen climbing the walls of the Pit to snag unwary orcs off of the Narrow Bridge. Alas, these days Kevin spends most of his time cuddled up in his Slime Room, sadly humming to himself and counting his remaining tentacles over and over with his Good Eye. Thus, the plan is to try and raise enough money to supply Kevin with left over Balrog Bits, partially decomposed orc bodies, Greenway roadkill and creepy slimy things from Gollum’s cave until his injuries heal themselves and he can once again fend for himself. After that all feeding volunteers, tourists and Quest members are advised to stay at least 100 yards away from the edge of the Bottomless Pit for their own safety. Moria orcs who live in the vicinity aren’t advised to do anything in particular, since they never listen anyway. Please pucker up and donate generously to this important cause to preserve our native species and their natural habitat.
We have decided that We will pay generously to NOT kiss ANY Dwarf. In a gesture of magnificence, We offer our son and heir, Legolas's services to the Kissing Booth to any person/dwarf/elf/orc/halfling who may wish to donate to your cause without having to kiss a Dwarf. It is a well known fact that Elves are the best kissers in Middle Earth - We have documentation to uphold this statement and We feel Legolas will offer your cause the class it so obviously and desperately needs. Please, do not thank one, one is already aware of how moved you will be by the gesture. Think nothing of it.
Regarding Kevin, We feel that anything named 'Kevin' has only himself to blame ; however, anything that snacks on Orcs is looked upon favorably. Therefore in a gesture of gracious benevolence We suggest that Kevin undergoes a re-naming ceremony to fit him with a name more suitable to his habit of lingering aimlessly under ground waiting for the charity of Elves and scraps. We suggest Kevin be renamed Durin.
PPPS
It has come to the attention of the Committee that the elves of the Hoodlum Realm are planning an unauthorized Best Dressed contest with prizes for Afternoon, Evening and Breakfast Wear and that the winner of said contest has already been chosen. The Committee does not sanction this contest or give it any official standing and is not involved in any way.
We believe there is a word in Westron which describes the committee's attitude to this noble contest. We believe that word is 'spoilsport'.
Thranduil, King of The Woodland Realm
"Our loves are not given, but only lent." Rudyard Kipling
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Nieriel
Rivendell
Feb 2 2016, 3:38am
Post #71 of 190
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Hair: Like spun gold on a sunlit morning
Mood: Clever
Kingdom: It loves me
Sometimes my cunning surprises even myself.
For an ancient being of truth and beauty I can be remarkably devious. Yes, I have offered the Balrog Barbecue committee Lego for an afternoon of sponsored snogging but, guess what? I'm not sending Lego at all, I am sending a stand in. I mean really, did anyone really think I'd allow MY son to do such a thing? Alright, Diary, I'll tell you a teeny weeny secret, Lego is doing a little job for his daddy outside the Realm and could not appear at the Booth even if he wanted to. But, and here is the clever bit, if Legolas is 'seen' to be at the Kissing Booth, he could not possibly be implicated in 'missions' in other parts of the Middle Earth! Therefore a Legolas substitute for the Kissing Booth will have to be carefully chosen. Of course; he must have a certain likeness to Legolas, radiate a noble bearing, to all intents and purposes he must 'be' Legolas and possess all the qualities Lego is famed for throughout Middle Earth, once I've figured out quite what they are.
Several hours and some bottles of wine later ....
No, I still haven't figured out what Lego's qualities are, so I have decided, after a nice afternoon in my Jacuzzi with some of that nice 'chewy' red from Rohan, we're going to wing it.
I have chosen Elros, my Master of the Keys, to impersonate my son mainly because he was annoying me. I have equipped him with boxes of Moonlight Blonde by L'Oreal for his rather nasty brown hair, and some sage green pantyhose I found in Lego's laundry hamper. Well, I say 'hamper', it's more like a wicker dumpster really. To complete the transformation into my son and heir, I have tied Elros up and left him to hang upside down from the kitchen ceiling for a few hours so he 'gets' the whole defying gravity thing or stops crying. From where I'm currently standing (or to be more correct, lounging) on the prettiest pink and silver couch (none of your OrcKea rubbish) which was sent to me by an anonymous but understandably besotted admirer (one would suspect that minx Galadriel, if I didn't know for a fact her current extracurricular squeeze wears a pointy hat. She has a husband you know, but his name escapes me) I would defy anyone to guess it isn't Legolas in the booth at the Barbecue. Actually speaking of the Pointy Hat, he has not yet replied to my letter. Curious.
"Our loves are not given, but only lent." Rudyard Kipling
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Elarie
Grey Havens
Feb 2 2016, 7:26pm
Post #72 of 190
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Thorin's Diary Part III - Preparations for the Balrog Barbecue
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Thorin’s Diary, Part III
The Preparations for the Balrog Barbecue
Mirrormere, East Gate of Moria, after escaping from the Witch of the Golden Woods
A lot has happened since my last entry, so some catching up to do. We are currently docked in the legendary Mirrormere, the sacred lake of Durin whose deep waters every dwarf longs to gaze upon at least once in a lifetime. After escaping from the poorly named Golden Wood, which is nothing but stupid yellow leaves and flowers, my heart longed to visit a true dwarvish land where my thoughts could stray in the memory of my noble ancestors and my heart could rest in the same sights and sounds as my forefathers. Thus I spoke my secret thoughts to the River, and as always it bent itself to my will and brought us to the door of what was once a dwarvish paradise, the great kingdom of Khazad-Dum, and for several days all was peace and beauty. Then the Par-tei Girls got busy.
I can only blame myself. As I wandered the green shores of the Lake and gazed into it’s deep waters, meditating on the Crown of Durin, I failed to keep on eye on my troops, thinking there wasn’t anything they could possibly do to cause trouble in such a remote location. I was wrong. At some point the Par-tei girls sneaked into Moria, a dangerous practice that I specifically forbade but they did it anyway, and tried to turn the fabled Forges of Durin into the ‘Still to end all Stills’. The predictable explosion soon followed, a real whopper, and apparently in the process destroyed a Demon of the Ancient World who had ventured into the forges to see what that unusual smell was. Luckily none of the illegal bootleggers was there at the time, having gone back to the boat for more supplies and so the only casualties were the Still, the Forges and the Demon.
Now comes the interesting bit - since pieces of the Demon are still raining down from the skies and are expected to keep doing so for some time, the crew has organized a Balrog Barbecue and issued an Invitation to All and Sundry to attend, a nice idea that seemed guaranteed to spread peace and goodwill, until, of course, the elves got involved and immediately started making trouble, leaving us with three problems to solve.
1. The Lady Beekeepers Association of North Beorning, Wilderland, is setting up a flower booth to raise funds for elderly and infirm giant bees. What could be more harmless and sweet, you ask? Nothing, except that the pasty pale king of wood sprites immediately sent a snarky message saying that “Other bees are not our concern”. What a heartless old curmudgeon, picking on elderly bees. However, Fili, bless his heart, immediately sent a Raven letter to Beorn in which he casually and innocently repeated this cold-hearted statement along with other news and THAT should put an immediate and permanent end to all of the Beorning’s Honey Cake shipments to the Woodland Realm. Ha.
2. Dueling Kissing Booths - Well, what can I say? I had absolutely nothing to do with this. It started out as a simple charity fund-raiser for a lonely, injured Last Dark Nameless Thing at the Root of the Mountain, and the Second Heir-to-the-throne was simply going to volunteer three hours of his time to raise a few gold coins for a helpless monster and then, as usual, the Elves got involved and tried to ruin everything. A snarky message from King Fancypants informed us that he was volunteering his pretty-boy heir to do the Kissing Booth, after making several rude, and seriously uninformed remarks about the kissing abilities of dwarves. Seriously, what does he think young dwarves DO in those tunnels? I was simply going to ignore such shallow ignorance of dwarf culture, but once again the Par-tei girls got busy and now there are to be TWO Kissing Booths and a Dwarf/Elf Kiss-off.
Naturally we assumed that all crew members would rally round and donate strictly to the dwarf contestant, and of course all the Fang-gir-iells are doing just that (although the tall, slim, shy one with the boyish figure who joined the boat at some hazy point that no one can quite remember looked very unhappy and nervous as plans were being made. I’m guessing that with her somewhat lanky form and mousy brown dyed hair she has never been kissed and it would be cruel to force her to participate, so I will have to find a way to excuse her from the festivities if she wants. Perhaps she can stay on the boat and brush Minty - a great honor reserved for very special occasions.) Alas, the Par-tei girls, the little minxes, have gone rogue on us (again) and instead of loyally donating their coins solely to their princely crew mate, they will be rotating back and forth in BOTH lines for the entire evening, awarding points and giving a prize to the winner. Past experience made me slightly nervous at the mention of a Par-tei Girl prize, but thankfully it turns out that it is only a boxed gift-set of Beorn’s Bees Lip Balm (8 flavors) and Beorn’s Bees Armor Chafe-free lotion with matching scented talcum powder, so it sounds perfectly harmless.
3. Which brings us to the most serious matter of all, and one that nearly brought about the cancellation of the Barbecue and almost started a war to end all wars between dwarf and elf. I’m referring of course, to the unimaginable insult contained in the letter from the sissy-girl prince of the forest in which he DARED to impugn and dishonor the sacred memory of Durin. Even now just thinking about it makes me growl and grind my teeth with rage and when first I read this shameful missive my anger was so white hot, my rage so uncontrolled and my bellows of fury so frightening that the land about us became totally silent, the birds fled to faraway forests, the creatures of woodland and meadow cowered in fear and my crew withdrew hastily below decks and waited breathlessly for the outcome. In a word, (as the kids would say) “I went all Thorin”. It was while I was giving orders to load up the Par-tei Barge for immediate departure and calling a council of war with my heirs to plan the final destruction of all elf-kind that the Burglar, bless him, came up with an alternate plan.
With his usual good sense and creative problem solving he reminded me that A) it’s rude to cancel a party after the invitations have gone out B) you can’t disinvite someone after you’ve already invited them, and C) Thranduil’s elves had planned an unofficial Best Dressed Contest and this was my chance to hit him where it would really hurt, to wit - Fashion.
At first this suggestion was met with some doubts by the crew who couldn’t quite grasp how we could pull this off. Thranny has all the sartorial resources of his kingdom to bring to the game, while we have only the supplies on our boat. But, as Fili’s eyes meant mine, we knew that once again our Burglar had unwittingly saved the day, for deep in the farthest recesses of Moria lies a secret known only to the direct heirs of Durin, passed from Father to Son in long unbroken line, and now known only to Fili and me - the Secret Mithril Royal Bling Room of Khazad-Dum, so well hidden, so well protected by invisible doors and spells of power that even Balrogs can’t find it.
And I know the way in.
To be continued
__________________
Gold is the strife of kinsmen,
and fire of the flood-tide,
and the path of the serpent.
(Old Icelandic Fe rune poem)
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Kilidoescartwheels
Valinor
Feb 2 2016, 9:02pm
Post #73 of 190
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Much as I act like one, I promise you ... I am NO teenage girl! *Stabs Witch King in the FACE, haha!*
Proud member of the BOFA Denial Association
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Kilidoescartwheels
Valinor
Feb 2 2016, 9:06pm
Post #74 of 190
(9218 views)
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Darn, I almost missed the (Par-tei) boat! Been enjoying reading this historical record of important ME events (i.e., goofing off at work) for the past hour - gotta keep up with current events, ya' know!
Proud member of the BOFA Denial Association
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Avandel
Half-elven
Feb 3 2016, 2:44am
Post #75 of 190
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In the dark of the night, a lone Fang-gir-iell keeps watch
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The Fang-gir-iell shifted uncomfortably in her metal-studded leather. Na vedui, she thought. I am alone. She tried again to maneuver her shoulders in the white wooden deck chair so that the studs weren’t grinding into her back. Finally, she reluctantly rose, shuffled to the deck rail in her heavy dwarven boots, and retrieved a still-damp towel. It was brightly colored, decorated with an image of a large, thick, square of rotting bright yellow cheese. The cheese had huge eyes and a maniacal grin. And arms and legs. It appeared to be dancing next to a happy pink blob. She stuffed the offensive towel behind her shoulders and used both hands to painfully lift one heavy booted leg to the chair’s leg rest. Then the other thudded into place. She sighed in relief. Nae, but her feet hurt. No wonder dwarves were so hostile. They must all suffer from chronic foot pain from the overweight boots.
Her head hurt too. Most of the time she was able to discreetly dispose of the endless mugs of eye-watering healthful fruit drinks over the side of the barge, but tonight no opportunity had presented itself. Not without it looking peculiar. So she had forced a smile and tossed back the huge jar of “Shadow and Flame” that had been pushed into her hands. She could face most of the darkest mysteries of Middle Earth without fear. After all, she was immortal. But drinking down the jar of multi-colored fermented fruit juice and syrups – layers of bilious green and yellow and reddish orange, set alight and roiling with black smoke – had been one of the greatest tests of courage she had ever faced. Far, far worse than that army of transparent green ectoplasm.
But she was elvish ROYALTY. She wasn’t going to be outdone by Elrond’s former concierge, even she was travelling as a humble Fang-gir-iell. Lindir had happily quaffed three of the drinks, in celebration of his first tattoo. Now he was off with some of the women, who had offered a “hair weave” and “extensions” that they said would be “more dwarfy”. They would thicken his hair up, so his double-horned dwarf helmet wouldn’t spin around on his head all the time.
Above, a moon soared in a starry sky. The Partei-barge rocked gently at anchor. The Fang-gir-iell had volunteered for the night watch, which had earned her a mix of gratitude and friendly ribbing from her leather-clad, booted, companions. For Thorin Oakenshield had been in such an expansive mood after the combination of the chewy calamari seafood feast, and the rather uneven dwarf tattoo successfully applied to Lindir, that he had offered to play the harp for his loyal followers. Provided, of course, that Minty had received her nightly brushing and her bedtime apple. The happiness of Minty was paramount on the Partei Barge.
Her companions had even been suspicious that any of their number would willingly CHOOSE to miss such a monumental event. Thinking quickly, the Fang-gir-iell had opinioned that no sacrifice was too great, to protect the Heirs of Durin. Her companions were just inebriated enough to well up over this, nodding in teary agreement. More than one Fang-gir-iell muttered angry remarks about the “no-show Gandalf” and that “stoner wizard with the bird poo who flew right over”. Finally someone had said “but thank the Valar for Galadriel” which triggered another fiery toast to the Lady of the Light, and so the Fang-gir-iell had managed to claim the night watch for herself. She had been slapped on the back and told that Thorin might even let her feed Minty her nightly apple, an honor usually only performed by the hobbit.
And, the Fang-gir-iell thought, she NEEDED the time to compose her thoughts into Sindarin serenity. When had it all spiraled so out of control? She remembered a time, when the Greenwood’s Prince had been the toast of Middle Earth. Oh, there had been the grubby lank companion, for those that went for the gritty type. But even though the prince was ostensibly the faithful friend, that relationship had only added to the allure.
And she had to admit, a large contingent of the faithful still cheered the appearance of the golden Prince of Mirkwood, and admired his spectacular athleticism and warrior prowess. But, the HUMILIATION of it all was wearing at her.
It was a few years ago when the first hints had come, that something was terribly wrong. Human women collecting berries and mushrooms from the edge of the forest giggling over “hawt dwarves” and “Thorin Smoken’shield”. A voice like flame under your skin and dark hair you just wanted to grab and breathe, they gushed. OMG! The elves guarding Mirkwood had overheard, and decided that the women had stumbled into a patch of puffballs and gotten faces full of ‘shroom spores. It wouldn’t be the first time, the elves laughed. That’s what happened when the race of men messed around in the mysterious realm of the Elven King. The humans besotted with a race of smelly, hairy beings (who could barely move for the weight of their boots) were simply suffering from the effects of fey elven forest magic. So at the time, nothing had been thought of it. Elves were ALWAYS the prettiest.
If only she had known. That was the beginning. It got worse. Because the next year, on patrol, the Mirkwood elves began to find parchments left on trees. Appallingly, they weren’t addressed to the Prince of Mirkwood, as was typical. They were addressed to the prince’s FATHER. Some were long treatises praising the “pale silver silken fall” of Thranduil’s hair, or his “sapphire eyes and sculpted cheekbones”. Others talked about how the Elven King’s “Bourbon French vanilla voice” haunted their dreams. It was embarrassing, and there seemed to be no end to the imagination of the writers. The worst of the notes apologized, but said things like “sorry, the prince needed to move over, as his Daddy was in town…”
Thranduil of course had simply taken it all as his due. Naturally, he said. Because I’m FABULOUS. He didn’t see much point in discussing the obvious.
Finally, after running a gauntlet of jokes about bats and air-walking, the prince of Mirkwood had made his way north after the great battle. When he had finally found the grim-faced Dúnedain, they had been suspicious of a lone woodland elf asking after a young boy. That was pretty creepy, they had said, and the Rangers of the North had their own way of meting out justice here in the wilderness. The woodland prince had to shoot quite a number of weapons out of their hands, to prove he could be trusted.
Only to be informed that the son of Arathorn was being fostered at Rivendell. Defeated and completely out of trail mix, the woodland prince had made his way back to Mirkwood forest. There he had found the Captain of the Woodland Guard sporting what looked like black pajamas and practicing something Tauriel said was “Muay Thai”. She was never going to lose to some ORC again, she said. When the prince tried to say how glad he was that Thranduil had lifted her banishment, she had distractedly answered “Wise man never play leapfrog with a unicorn” and kicked through a wall.
And so here he/she was, a Fang-gir-iell on the Partei-Barge. Ostensibly a spy for the fabulous Thranduil. But it wasn’t easy, being in the camp of the enemy. You’d think, after saving their beloved Thorin’s life at Ravenhill, that the Prince of the Woodland would be feted as much as the Lady Galadriel (for her engineering of the preservation of the Durins, in the face of all canon). But oh-no. She’d had to sit and grin when a particularly snarky Fang-gir-iell had compared the Woodland Prince’s use of Orcrist to Thorin Oakenshield’s.
Thorin Oakenshield had the grace of the Mearas, the Fang-gir-iell enthused, he was like a black stallion running free on the plains of Rohan! Whereas Legolas, who had STOLEN Orcrist, looked like he was “waving around one of those electronic bug zappers, you know, the ones that look like a tennis racket.”
The Prince of Mirkwood, long known for his spectacular athletic grace, had overheard that his sword technique “looked like that woman beating the quilt out in Dale.” Were these Fang-gir-iells just stupid? Of course you didn’t leave an enemy with a weapon, and besides, Orcrist was an ELVISH sword! Never mind the thing was so heavy, every time he made an effortless orc-slide the thing banged against his legs, leaving bruises on his fair elven skin. The prince had been so happy to get back to his badass twirly knives, and even that was getting upstaged by Tauriel!
The Fang-gir-iell stared moodily over the rail at the lapping dark River waters. She didn’t even have a proper bow by her side. Instead, it was one of those heavy dwarvish ones. At least the relentless pounding of the Partei-girl folk songs had been replaced by the gentle, distant tones of Thorin’s harp and the muffled thumps of Fili hammering out another knife. Maybe by tomorrow she’d get that last Partei-girl song out of her head:
And I'm too sexy for your party!
Too sexy for your party!
No way I'm disco dancing!
I'm a model, you know what I mean…
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah, on the catwalk, on the catwalk, yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk…
She shuddered at the idea of Thranduil ever hearing THAT one. Because, it would mean, an eternity of the Halls of the Woodland King echoing with lines like “And I'm too sexy for my hat…” Every day. Forever. (Not that Thranduil had EVER worn a hat on his perfect shimmering silken swath of hair. It was a crown or a mithril circlet, tastefully adorned with a superbly cut gemstone.)
But then, in the midst of her gloomy thoughts, the flash of something against the dark waters caught her elvish eyes. Was it simply a fish, trying to snatch a meal? The Fang-gir-iell sat up and carefully, silently, maneuvered one aching leg to the deck. Then the other. She nocked an arrow to the bow with swift hands, as a sibilant hissing came to her ears. The Fang-girl-iell moved soundlessly to crouch against Bilbo’s portable coffee bar, which had been parked next to the deck rail for the night.
“Stole it, he did, my PRECIOUSSS…tricksy hobbit...thief…yes, my Preciousss, we kills him, coming my Precioussss…”
The Fang-gir-iell waited, a shadow in the dark. She heard wet slaps and saw two fleshy, but gnarled hands with long fingers reach and cling to the railing. A large pale head with a pair of round glowing eyes popped up. “Pppppppreeeeciossssss” the jagged-toothed mouth of the thing softly hissed.
“Eeuw,” thought the Fang-gir-iell. (Although this was small fry compared to the typical residents of the Mirkwood forest, which included gigantic spiders and centipedes that could take off a limb). She calmly loosed her arrow.
At that distance, the arrow hit the thing right between the eyes and passed through the bulbous head. After all, it was a dwarf bow, designed for power. The thing grabbed convulsively at the coffee bar with its pale hands and pulled it over as it fell to the water. The Fang-girl-iell nocked another arrow and aimed down from the rail. The next arrow hit the middle of the thing’s scrawny chest. No harm in making sure.
The deck immediately lit with light as the Fang-gir-iell was surrounded by her well-armed companions, who had responded instantly to the sound of the overturned coffee bar. The Heirs of Durin, their female companions, and Bilbo stared at the pale ungainly creature bobbing in the current. “What is that?” asked Kili, handsome face grimacing in disgust. Thorin Oakenshield looked carefully at the creature, which was definitely no longer any kind of threat. The slow current was already moving the thing away from the boat. He shrugged #Majestically and smiled at his nephew. “Some sort of runt goblin. An outcast. Perhaps driven by the smell of the calamari, and so sought an easy meal.”
The dwarf king gazed steadily at the Fang-gir-iell still holding a bow, who cast her eyes down shyly. “Nice work,” he smiled, causing a rush of blood to the brains of the surrounding Fang-gir-iells. When the Fang-gir-iell appeared to be too overcome to respond, he added by way of reward, “I am sure Bilbo won’t mind if you give Minty her apple tomorrow. In the meantime, let us continue the singing of “Misty Mountains Cold” here on the deck, so that Minty will not be disturbed the rest of the night.” But he looked hard at the downcast head of the Fang-girl-iell, while the women cheered at the thought of the night breeze gently swirling Thorin’s chocolate waterfall of hair. Those of a more artistic bent ran to grab their sketch pads.
Bilbo, eyes fixed, continued to watch the pale thing as it floated out of sight. “Mine,” he muttered, clutching at his coat. “Mine”. Fili overheard and placed a friendly hand around the hobbit. “Now, Bilbo, we’ve talked about this. Of course the movies are yours! You’re still not upset about people saying the movies are about Thorin and elves and all that rot, are you? There’s charts showing the number of lines for each character and screen time and everything. Think how I feel.”
“We love you, Fili!” gushed the Partei-girls. “And we love Bilbo!” Bilbo gasped for air as he was swarmed by enthusiastic females hugging him. At least it was softer than the rib-cracking embrace of the dwarf king.
“There, see?” Fili squeezed the Hobbit’s shoulders as Bilbo wheezed. The hobbit finally smiled, and his pupils weren’t as dilated, although he was still clutching his jacket. “Now c’mon, let’s go sit near Thorin, you know how male bonding makes the Fang-gir-iells happy! Besides, Lindir wants to show off his new tattoo again…”
The next day, industrious river hobbits, fishing from their little coracles, told stories to tourists of an unpleasant looking dead creature that had floated by. Grainy pictures went viral on the Internet. The grey men were real, it was said.
At a hastily arranged press conference a kindly-face man in a scarf was courteously, but firmly, fending off inquisitive reporters. “No, the workshop most certainly did not place unused props around New Zealand as a prank. We don’t waste resources that way. No, as far as I know, no real aliens are living on the offshore islands. No, I am sure that New Zealand is not the “new Roswell”! Of course we have bright lights in the sky, we have towns and cities just like everyone else…AND an airport, thank you very much.”
It was finally over. The man mopped his face and padded down the hall of the quiet grey building, and slipped inside to a darkened room. He exchanged worried looks with the dark haired woman dressed in the Thorin Oakenshield T-shirt. She was sitting on a leather couch next to a man in a rumpled white shirt, who had his head in his hands. “Those &*^%$ Hair Freaks,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t them. First the Balrog, now Gollum. I can see the web posts now. “The Betrayal of Trust” and like that. And the re-boot was all for them. It was going to be my big surprise for the fans!”
“Now what am I supposed to do? That’s a pivotal moment! It’s not as though I can have Frodo actually fall into the Fires of Mount Doom…”
“There, there,” soothed the dark-haired woman, who was in a terrific mood in spite of the latest crisis. After all, she had a special barbecue to look forward to. “You’ve forgotten our secret weapons. First, we’ve got amazing CGI. And second, Legolas. And third, we’ve got Tauriel. We can make it a sort of bridge film...it’ll be AMAZING.”
(This post was edited by Avandel on Feb 3 2016, 2:46am)
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