Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

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Prompt One

You are a hobbit at Bilbo Baggins’ final Birthday Party. You haven’t opened your present yet but you’re quite excited as to what it might be. The party’s going well, food & drink etc; when you realise another hobbit has swapped their present for yours...

Bonus challenge: Write in first person!

Delphinium Took

"I've been waiting all summer for this party. That rogue, Frodo, has been telling everyone all sorts of stories about what's going to be happening for weeks now, and there's been such a twitter going round that no one knows what to expect. I shan't be surprised if there's elves riding dragons at this point! Heehee. I do think that wizard is going to do something exciting too!

"I'm only sixteen, but Mum said I could have some cider today. So far I've had three, all different colours. I like the pink one best - Myrtle's dad makes it and it tastes like a field of raspberries were kissed by apple juice falling as rain. I have some more - here, I'll share with you!

"Did you have any cake yet? I didn't get any. I think I must've been in the wrong queue, but I did get a giant sausage from Brod the Butcher's cooking tent, and a pie from Mrs Hornblower, and a cheese pasty from the Knitting Circle, so I suppose I shouldn't complain. I would like some cake though ... oh, did you get your present yet? Here's mine, I haven't opened it yet - I think it's cutlery! Silly old Bilbo, what do I want cutlery for? Show me yours! Oh, hahaha, a watering can? But it's such a nice colour - and you've got so many mathoms, it'll fit right in! Oh hang on, I'll be right back, I think I saw cake!"

"I'm back! And I have cake! Four slices, so two for you, too! Whamph wamph thamph? Ophen my prephsemp? Sorry, couldn't wait there! That cake is so good! Hang on, where did I put it? Um ... it was just here ... there's only this instead. It's a different colour, and doesn't rattle at all! Where did my present go? Did you see anyone? Oh hang on, there it is, under someone's arm! What are you doing!? You opened it?! Well, actually that is very nice! A really pretty scarf - I love it! But look ... wait! I'm sure that was ... Lobelia? Why would she ...? What a witch!"



Eh, I took your challenge and amped it up to monologue!

Hahaha @Lirimaer i hope you can think of a more inspiring prompt than I did

Really though I enjoyed the monologue and especially the talking with your mouth full of cake. Sixteen and drinking cider though - shocking when hobbits don’t come of age until their thirties!!

Sil wrote: ↑Fri Jul 03, 2020 7:04 pm [snip]

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Prompt One

You are a hobbit at Bilbo Baggins’ final Birthday Party. You haven’t opened your present yet but you’re quite excited as to what it might be. The party’s going well, food & drink etc; when you realise another hobbit has swapped their present for yours...

Bonus challenge: Write in first person!

Halbert Aleskin

"Always weigh the mathom in the sack, my lads, but quiet-like." - My Da'

Eleventy-one! The old Baggins had done it! I wasn't heartbroken at that as some others were (who don't deserve to be named); I liked the old chap. Not being a covetous miser helps too - me or him - and as old Mr. Baggins was free with his hospitality (and a good bottle of somethin'-warmin' every winter!) he had my hand an' my heart, whether he knew it or no. Probably no. Eh...

I'd received my present earlier of course, but had been saving it up unopened. Relishing the myst'ry, you might say. I'd hefted it once or twice, quiet-like, like Da' always said, an' found it pleasingly weighty. The younger lads an' lasses had been getting toys from Dale, poppers, horns, those kinds of things, but I was letting my imagination run away wi' me, like Da' told me not to. Maybe it was a shiny brass stamp! Not that that was much good wi'out wax, but the one was easier to come by than t'other.

Oh, and there was a band! Not the one the youngsters started up on their own, but a real one wi' musicians who played the real nice pubs. Some of 'em never get out of their usual haunts much so it was great fun to hear Hob Proudfoot's fiddle with Tom Bolger's accordion, graced onna top with the illustrious Ms. (still! I had a chance!) Parmelia Chubb's gorgeous voice... Ha, and janky Jakey Boffin with his janglin' johnny! 'T'isn't just tinker-foolishness when you hear Jake's bangle-stick behind a proper band and not just cuttin' up for coppers, no matter what some of the old gaffers say.

Yes indeed I greatly enjoyed watching the band, and it was to my sorrow, 't'was. For after all the Excitement (you know what I mean, why repeat it?) I bent over to pick up my present - why didn't I just keep it in my pocket? I mean sure I was usin' Neddy's belt and he's a bit wider than I am, but I didn't have a proper party-belt, you might say, and the gloriously-weighty thing probably wouldn't have caused an embarrassment - but my present wasn't my present, nor present, as 't'were. Same wrapping, same shape(-ish), but the weight was all wrong. I felt it at once. Sure, I looked 'round hard, but 't'was a great press an' to-do (I felt bad for young Mr. Baggins). My something was gone.

I never opened t'other one, just kept it for old Mr. Baggins's memory. Da' shook his head at that, but he would never say anything bad about old Mr. Baggins, any road. I told Da' I'd weighed it already; he nodded at that and left it be.

I still miss him, most days.

Thank you, @Sil - I like how you picked me because I was the best one. So proud! (I loved yours, @Wamba_the_Fool, but you were late!)

Prompt Two

On the day after the party, you're one of the naughty persons who wasn't invited in to Bag End to collect a 'message' left by Bilbo, but you heard the rumour that the whole household was being distributed for free (and you definitely saw folk leaving with gifts, even those Sackville-Bagginses) and you were determined to get something.

Bonus challenge: Get into an argument/fistfight/scuffle with either another raider, Merry or Frodo.

Tis all lighthearted fun, Wamba.

Ha! This looks like fun. Here goes something.

There definitely seemed to be some bad blood between Lindo Buttons and Bilbo Baggins. But then again it could not really be helped as the veggies and fruit grown in the old man's garden seemed to be the most delicious in all Hobbiton; more often Lindo managed to sneak something out of the garden without being caught (just a little bit of something, a couple of apples, some carrots... not a great loss to be felt), but there were a couple of times when he was caught and nearly shaken out of things he did not even possess, so protective was Bilbo of his garden treasures.

Thus it was no surprise at all that he had not received a notice on any messages left by Bilbo after he disappeared into the thin air. Lindo had not been invited to the birthday party either, but he had invited himself over anyway, and eaten his fill of cakes and any other food and drink that he happened to get his hands on. He had even received some gifts.

Now there was information that the whole Bag End was being distributed, so Lindo invited himself over yet again to see what could be found. On the way there he had met some people carrying things, even pushing loaded wheelbarrows and carts, and then a very grumpy Lobelia almost ran him through with the tip of her umbrella as she stormed by. Only his quick wits and ability to sidestep her had saved him from being skewered.

Luckily the young hobbit managed to make his way to Bag End in one piece, and asked for news from the small crowd gathered at the entrance. It was very difficult to find out anything certain though, as there were various versions of what was really going on. There was nothing else left but to venture inside and see for himself.

"Ooooh! This walking stick is real cool!" Lindo exclaimed and whistled in appreciation, when he noticed one set aside in the corner of the hallway. He took to inspecting it from one end to another, running his finger along the intricate engravings.

"Don't you dare touch it!" came an angry cry from behind right into his ear. "It's mine!"

Lindo wheeled around to come face to face with one of the Boffins who did his best to tower over him imposingly and glare down at him.

"It is not written that it is yours," Lindo objected. "It was just standing there unattended. So. Finders keepers..."

Nothing could have prepared him for the attack that came from the furious older hobbit: the Buttons youngster found himself pushed - rather thrown - across the hallway into the opposite wall with such force that he found himself sat on the floor, and the hat that was hung on a hook above him falling on his head.

"If you touch anything that's mine again..." he heard the same angry voice above him.

And then, as if the humiliation was not enough, Merry approached him and half dragged him out the door, and snatched the hat off of his head. "Don't think you are on the list for receiving anything, Lindo," Merry said and closed the door.

This was a very poor welcome indeed, quite opposite to yesterday's birthday party. Lindo brushed himself off and tried to recover some pride and decide whether it was worthwhile storming Bag End once more to get some treasure out of it.

@Pele Alarion You were the very best entry for Prompt 2! Congratulations! I did enjoy your wee hobbit rapscallion, even if he was evicted early in his pillaging!

I do hope you can think of a more inspiring prompt than mine. (Please, don't let us be doomed to repeating this sentence each round!)

*Readies her quill this time, hopefully in time!*

Riiiight, so let's see. Not sure I can come up with anything too interesting though.

You are having a relaxing evening at the Prancing Pony, having a good laugh at a hobbit's funny song about jumping cows. You end up witnessing Frodo's sudden disappearance and appearance. Describe how the unexpected event affects your evening and what do you do about it?

Bonus challenge: describe meeting a Black Rider afterwards and whether you would give away the whereabouts of Baggins?

Okay, apologies to all and sundry for the delay. Also, a poke for @Bereth - is your quill sharpened enough, my lady? *g*

Rollo and Trilli Brockhouse

Trillium Brockhouse had never been so angry in her life; not at her Rollo, leastways. (There had been that time she'd almost scratched Rosalie Thistledown's eyes out when there was an arch comment on the timing of their eldest's birth, but her older sister had held her back, and a good thing it was, too; especially as she couldn't actually fault anyone for suspecting immodesty - the timing was rather close. They'd made up after, another reason Trilli was glad Rosalie didn't have nail-scars running through her eyes.) But here Rollo was in their yard, bedraggled and looking like he'd slept in a ditch, at almost noonday! She told him what he looked like, and how he had no right to make her worry so, and how she'd warned him before about "just a couple" at the 'Pony; and if her tone wasn't quite as piercing as it could have been it just meant she hadn't forgotten their napping hobblits inside. He let her wind down and then asked for some water, which is when she upended her pail over his head. (She'd been doing the washing.)
"You're a good lass," rumbled Rollo, and stumped over to the drying line to procure his towel. He wondered vaguely how he would explain everything (or anything) to his Trilli, but he figured if he could make it back home after the night he'd had, he could tell the story the same way - one foot in front of t'other, until he was home. He sat down on their stump.
"Well?" she asked sharply (the word as expectant as she was).
Rollo took a deep breath and whistled low through his teeth, in that way he had, then nodded solemnly.
"Well," he intoned, "It was a busy-enough night for old Barliman, I reckon. Some dwarfs were there, and men from up the greenway, but 't'were the hobbits that caught our eye, as you might say. From the Shire, they were; a Took, and an Underhill, if you can believe it, and a... Gammidgy, I think 't'was."
Rollo watched his wife toss her curls at his mention of the Shire and knew that it was just a cover for how much she wanted to visit. He swore to himself (again) that he'd take her there. Someday.
"Some funny news there was, but then Mr. Underhill got up on a table and started a speech. We'd all heard speeches afore, so we begged him for a song, the which he obliged."
"Rollo Brockhouse, you'd best come to the point," Trillium declared, "Or else I'll... I'll..."
Her husband held up a hand. "Almost, Trilli. You see, this Mr. Underhill, he must have been feeling his cups, for when he started a-dancing on the table, he tripped and fell off, right into thin air."
Trilli was intrigued now, in spite of her upsettedness (completely justified, she was sure).
"Was he hurt? Head bashed in, I shouldn't wonder, and it all comes from taking just a few at the 'Pony, which as I say-"
"Then," Rollo interrupted the already-memorized screed, "He popped back up in Strider's Corner, but there's no-one there as saw how he got from the floor to there, nor in what condition. His 'protestations fell on deaf ears,' he concluded, reciting one of his favorite phrases he'd read in a book once, "And we all left."
"Well that's no reason to go a-rolling around in leaf piles and staying out 'til noon the next day!" Trilli snapped, determined to get back on-topic.
"No," Rollo allowed solemnly, "I shouldn't say that it is."
"But on the walk back," he continued before she could get her dander back up, "There was a queer man - a big person, you know - all in black, and with the cruelest-used black horse I've ever seen, nearly run me and Donner Tunn'ly over out on that stretch by the turnoff to the Tunn'ly place. Well he reined up fierce on that poor animal and then asked us if we knew where 'Baggins' was."
Rollo glanced up at the sun to reassure himself it was still there. His Trilli was silent.
"Old Donner always did have a mouth on him, an' fair told the creepifying man right off! But he just kept- well, he weren't looking at me, rightly, just into, or through me. An' I got cold, Trill, colder than I ever been, colder even than when our Erling was so still in his cradle."
Her hand was on his now, not that he felt it.
"When he bent over and got close enough to smell, I think I must have started running, because I came-to later than night, morning, several miles away and with aching legs. So I got as far under some woody-bushes as I could scrunch and fell off to sleep as soon as I stopped panting."
"I won't tell of the walk home - it's best not to dwell on hunger and thirst (although I guess I did find a brook) - and now I need a wash, and lunch, and then, well, I reckon I'd best get over to the Tunn'ly place and see how Donner is." He didn't say "if he was there" on purpose, Trilli knew. Rollo was funny about said words making things sure.
"There's chicken still," she mentioned, as casually as if they were talking about lunch any other time in their lives, "With that jam you like; and there's bread just on the sill,"
"You're a good lass," Rollo said as he levered himself upright.

((OOC: "Hobblit" is a word of my eldest's invention, shamelessly appropriated by her old man. It's defined as a young hobbit-lad or -lass, lit. "a little bit of a Hobbit." ))

Ida Blackthorn

She hadn't gone home that night.

She'd gone straight back into the Inn, where there were people still working and begged Butterbur to let her do the washing up. Inside the noisy bright scullery, the serving folk were only too pleased to have someone else do their job, and they were full of talk about the weird Little Folk from the Shire turning the place upside-down with their queer antics, and it was a good job they'd gone to bed, since they'd ruined the atmosphere in the bar. Their own talk covered her shallow breathing, and the soap suds masked her shaking hands even as she realised that the danger wasn't over. It was an hour or two before she calmed down, and even then she wasn't going outside in the dark again. She pretended to leave, but after they'd all gone she found a stack of candles, took herself off into the little pantry round the back, made a rude seat out of sacks of flour, and lit one after another, till morning came.

It was a long time coming, and fear snaked its way down her back in icy trickles at every nightly noise.

In daylight, she began to feel a little like a fool, thinking perhaps she'd imagined it. But then, as she'd made her way home in her evening clothes, avoiding the knowing looks of the villagefolk, she began to hear the buzz around the village (and it wasn't about her!) and realised something had been Very Wrong in Bree last night.

*

It had all been so nice. She was meeting up with Mr Ernst Weaver and his sister Briony, and Mr Wellard Collier, as they usually did every so often. They'd all grown up together, and it was Understood that the young men would be asking the young ladies a certain Question, if everyone's Mamas could be trusted. They'd had a nice meal at the Pony, and if the ale was flowing nicely, then what of it? They were all grown enough.

The crowd was not quite the usual tonight, a couple of out-of-towners took up shady booths, and a few of the grim troublemongerers her Pa was always worriting about were in and pontificatin' darkly, as if the sky would fall down on everyone's heads at their say-so. She'd ignored them for years, so it was no nevermind to keep up the habit of a lifetime tonight. She was free and easy and giggly, and Mr Toptree was making abortive moves and smiling dopily at her, and she was of a mind to say yes - but not tonight, because their game had barely begun and Mama said wooing was a long business, and anyway nobody smart ever married anyone in the dark months. So she figured she had a good six months of flirting and fun to look forward to, and he certainly didn't seem averse to that either.

Of course, there was some commotion during the evening; Wellard said he'd watched a body disappear right into thin air while he was off getting drinks; that was extremely unbelievable, so they'd all had a good laugh at his expense, but in fact most of the pub seemed a little sombre and twitchy suddenly, so maybe there was something in it. Maybe it was one of those travelling tricksters? She tucked her purse further under the table, and kept her eyes open for hucksters.

All too soon, the evening was coming to a close. Butterbur was ushering his guests out the door or off to bed, and with a quick hug from her friend Briony, and a polite shaking of hands with Ernst and a wave to Wellard, they all left the Prancing Pony together.

"Oh! My purse! Don't wait for me!" she called, darting back in. The others had further to go than her; she only had to go one hundred yards down the road and she was home, they had a quarter mile trek back to the Weaver farmhouse, dropping off Wellard on the way, of course.

She slipped in and grabbed it, and ran out again, barely looking where she was going. She almost collided - she would have said did collide, except for lack of collision and only the vague swishing of fabric - with a person cloaked wholly in black blocking her path.

"I-" I'm sorry, she meant to say, but her words were swallowed by the sudden intense focus of this stranger, and she took a step back instinctively, her hands creeping up her chest.

It, no: he. No, she was right the first time. It. It hissed at her, like she was a particularly annoying grub. Her mouth felt like paper. "Sorry," she whispered, still inching away.

"Looking for Baggins," the thing rasped, tilting its hood as if it had eyes, and she could damn well see, even in this poor light, that it did not, in fact, have eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the whimper that crept out.

"From the Shire," the thing added, eerily moving closer with barely a sound. "Is he here?"

"I-I d-don't know," she whimpered again, backing her way down the path back to the Inn. She felt chilled to the bone, as if all the alcohol inside her had evaporated at once. "I don't know any Baggins."

The thing drew itself up, and its hand went to its hip, where a sword hilt glinted coldly in the night. She swallowed and sobbed. Was this it? She squeezed her eyes shut.

There was a high, reedy call somewhere in the distance, and the thing shivered. She shivered too, but when she opened her eyes it was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. She bolted back inside, back into the warmth and light of the bar; Barliman shut the door behind her and let her cry, worrying his hands since he didn't know what to do with weepin' females.

Haha, @Wamba_the_Fool, quill sharp but brain not as much! This is no competition to the likes of you two, but hey.

It was ladies night at the Prancing Pony, and Petulance Promise had bribed her husband Flotulance to tackle the mountain of dishes from an entire day’s worth of cooking and feeding the couple, their six children, three dogs, four new fuzzy kittens, two neighbors, her recently widowed mother and her most recent beau, and an assortment of house mice. She deserved the night away. Desperately!

After running the entire way to the Inn, she breathlessly chirruped “Hullo!” in full joy to see her two good friends waiting for her near the entrance. Before they even got inside, she could hear her very bestest most favorite merry minstrel, Tubby Cloventoe, whipping the crowd into a riotous hubbub of hoots and howls of unfettered delight.

They’d missed a few of the opening numbers, one a bit too bawdy for Pet anyway. Her friends, Tansy and Flossie, squeezed around the last available tiny table and ordered double what they desired since the bar mistress was swamped with trying to keep the thirsty crowd hydrated sufficiently. She knew, after years of serving the rowdy lasses, that the heavier the mugs, the more generous the tips!

As Tubby launched into his newest rendition of that age old Hobbit nursery rhyme, taking wide latitude with they lyrics, the melody and even the story itself, making it barely recognizable, the Ladies bent double in laughter until they coughed and slashed the back of their hands across their eyes to swipe away the laugh-tears.

And, of course, they began to bang their heavy mugs on the handswidth thick tabletop - built with intention to withstand such abuse - along in rhythm to the increasingly wobbly but increasingly creative and hilarious singing. Bumping shoulders, slapping their palms together, their inhibitions sloughing off like molting birds, they were naturally not entirely in accord as to what happened as the song ended. Tansy was closest, but more oblivious to her surroundings. Petulance always claimed to have had a full view of the absurdity, though the argument that ensued for years afterwards never full gave her full credit being the only eyewitness to one Frodo Baggins just ... vanishing! Into the murky air of the Inn. And then as she paled, pointed, trying unsuccessfully to rattle her companions to confirm her experience, he just ... reappeared again!

Chalking up her nearly incoherent babbling to a bit too much Meadow Mead, they patted her shoulder reassuringly, pretending to believe her, feigning awe and wonder. But they choked back their laughter, all the more as she became indignant and more insistent!

The evening in shambles, they parted ways and headed for their homes just after darkness fully fell. Petulance was, well, petulant. And she was fuming and flummoxed, muttering and mulling and even beginning to wonder if her friends were right, that she had been seeing things after all. After all, how can a Hobbit simply disappear? And if he really had, why did he come back right there and then? Wouldn’t he have kept on going whoever he was off to?

In a mess of a mood, she nearly ran smack dab into the side of a very large, very black, very scary looking rider. Setting her hands firmly on her hips, she stood her ground and then shook a finger sternly up at him. “Oho no ya don’t! One bit of lunacy per evenin’ be enough for a poor Hobbit lass like as meself! No one will believe me anyway. Off wit’ ya now!!”

And she stomped off to her hole.

Oh dear... A difficult task in choosing one since all are good, and I had quite a bit of laugh. But perhaps... @Wamba_the_Fool, your turn!

H'okay, so: Here's the Earth...

Helm's Deep has held! The King is alive, and victorious!
But though the fight were bravely fought, the victory was dearly bought.
Describe your involvement with the aftermath of the battle. (Lots of ways to go on this one, and lots of famous personages to bump into!)

Bonus challenge: Gandalf Grey-hame warned you to harm neither leaf nor bough of the mysterious wood that appeared; but there were lots of folk about... did they all give due regard to Lathspell's counsel?

P.S. Book not movie - the only Elf involved was Legolas Greenleaf!

Bumpidy

They were finally allowed to peek out of the deep recesses of Helm's Deep, though not without a purpose. Adrin eagerly agreed to bring supplies of fresh bandages to the healers, and snatching up a satchel almost as big as himself filled with the mentioned bandages, set out. However, the proclaimed victory did not quite look as glorious as he had imagined: in the mind of his eye the boy saw warriors riding proudly, banners unfurled in the fresh breeze, spears shining in the sun.

Yet, when he ran outside, he stopped in astonishment and disappointment. The walls had been damaged, smoke rising from the rubble, so many wounded warriors, and so many dead... Overwhelmed by the sights and smells, Adrin felt tears stinging in his eyes, but he brushed those away courageously, took a deep breath and ran among the mess left by the battle.

He spotted one of the healers toiling to stop bleeding from a leg of a wounded rider. "Fresh bandages?" he asked in a small voice, still feeling overwhelmed by everything. As he fished out some from his bag upon the healer's request, Adrin's eyes fell on some foul looking creatures not so far away.

"Are those... those..." he began, but did not finish, as a deep frown formed on his brow.

"Aye, lad, orcs," the warrior finished where the boy had stopped his sentence. "Lots and lots of them. Luckily the forest took care of many..."

"Forest, sir?" Adrin asked and blinked. "We don't have any here, I think. Saw no trees when we came."

"Forest indeed. Living trees - they nearly squeezed the life out of me, perhaps mistaking me for one of the enemies as I was running after one orc with my sword held high. Barely escaped," the soldier explained, and then laughed seeing that the boy did not quite want to believe him. "Go and take a look; though - business first. Thought you were supplying bandages?"

Adrin nodded and reluctantly moved away, purposefully running towards the damaged wall from which he might get a glimpse beyond. When his satchel was nearly empty, he finally stopped at a lower section of a wall and rose on tiptoes to look out. To his surprise, there stood a dark forest. He would surely have to seek out that warrior to hear more of his stories! Perhaps now was the time unless he was given another task? Almost at a run, the boy set off to find the first soldier he had attended to meaning to torment him with many questions.

Ooh, just saw this. I think I'm going to take a whack at writing out my Éomund's (my Rohir) father's experience at Helm's Deep.

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Victory had been declared. Éodred let out a breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding and sank down to the ground, his head in his hands. The battle was over and somehow he was still alive. Somehow his friend Grimthain was alive. Éodred didn't know how the two of them had managed it, or how any of them had managed it. That moment when he had to pick up a sword and shield and go to what was likely certain doom had been was of the most terrifying moments of his life.

He slowly stood up and picked up the sword. Drops of black orc blood were dripping off of it and he shuddered. He had managed to slay an orc or two during the night and the blood on the blade proved it. But now, it was time to go and find his father. He knew his father had been further down, closer to the outer wall, so he headed that way. But, as he rounded the corner he saw a sight he had never expected to see.

His father was being carried by two other soldiers. And they were not headed for the infirmary, but were laying him down in the courtyard. For a moment the world stopped. Éodred stood there, staring, hardly even breathing. He blinked. Once. Twice. Hoping each time he opened his eyes that this nightmare would be over and that his father would be standing there, arm around his shoulder. But it was not to be. His father continued to just lie there … dead.

"NOOOO!" shouted Éodred, dropping the sword with a loud cling and running towards his father's body. "NO!" He collapsed next to the bloody body and wrapped his arms around his father's chest, pulling him into his lap and hugging him to himself. "Papa!" he cried, as tears streamed down his face, "Papa!"

Someone he didn't know came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "He fought bravely," he heard a voice say. Looking up threw tear-strewn eyes, Éodred gasped in surprise, for standing right next to him was Éomer.

"My Lord Éomer!" he said in surprise, trying to stumble to his feet, while at the same time attempting to brush the tears from his eyes. "I…" But the words didn't come. The Third Marshal didn't say anything, but simply squeezed his shoulder in understanding. Éodred didn't know what to feel, or even if he could feel. He just sat there, holding his father's head in his lap as he wept.

(Not Amhran. She wasn't there. Someone else's POV.)

The noise had stopped.

I poked my head cautiously out the cavern entrance to get a better listen - yes, I was right; the battle seemed to be over, but the silence now at daybreak was just as eerie as the roars and cries of the Isengarde horde had been during the night. Telling my children to stay with the elderly couple that had joined us during the ordeal, I ventured out into the Keep. To my surprise, it was nearly empty. I could hear sounds now but they were coming from farther off. Up on the outer wall, perhaps.

An errand runner brushed past me. I grabbed his sleeve. "Excuse me - I won't keep you, but have you seen my husband? Guthlaf?" He shook his head, removed my hand from his arm, and continued on his way. I thought perhaps it would be best to follow the murmurs I could hear from the battlements; maybe Guthlaf was there, or someone who had news of him.

I didn't have to search long. I was halfway up the stairs when I nearly crashed into my husband coming down. He steadied me, then pulled me into a crushing hug as I burst out sobbing on his shoulder.

"It's all right, love. The orcs are gone."

"Thank God. Oh, thank God, you're safe."

After a few minutes I stepped back, wiping my eyes. "Guthlaf, what's happening? Why is it so quiet?"

He gave me a strange look. "Come and see. Nobody quite knows what to make of it."

I was glad for Guthlaf's arm around my shoulders, because the damage done to walls, men, and horses was appalling. The fortifications were in utter ruins, and among the bodies slain by spear, sword, and arrow, were the far more gruesome ones caught and crushed beyond recognition, pinned under the rubble. But I forgot about it when my husband helped me up on the battlements and I could see out into the plain. Or what used to be a plain. For now, where the grassy field normally stretched out to the horizon, was a thick forest. I opened my mouth to exclaim, but Guthlaf nudged me to be quiet, and nodded slightly toward an old man who was speaking with the Lord of the Mark, and his nephew Eomer. "That's Gandalf Greyhame, the wizard that I told you about. Hwaet, perhaps we might learn something of the strange wood."

Indeed, the wizard was speaking. He laughed long and merrily, saying, "The trees? Nay, I see the wood as plainly as you do. But that is no deed of mine. It is a thing beyond the counsel of the wise. Better than my design, and better even than my hope the event has proved."

I couldn't hear Theoden King's response, but Gandalf continued, "It is not wizardry, but a power far older, a power that walked the earth, ere elf sang or hammer rang..." I think he went on to recite a poem of lore but I didn't hear it, because just then several of my children, who had grown impatient with waiting, cannoned into me and my husband and we were busy reassuring them and explaining the battle in minute detail for a long time.

The next day Theoden King rode for Isengard. My husband and I were not going with him all the way, for Guthlaf was one of those who would be sent ahead to Edoras to begin to muster the men of Rohan, and I would be going with him, for our road home also lay that way. But we as well as Theoden's men would have to ride through the new, strange wood. Guthlaf and I, with our children, found ourselves riding near to Gandalf Greyhame and his companions, and listened to the Dwarf Gimli's enthusiastic description of the caverns. I confess I had been too frightened to notice, and I would not want to go back for a better look, lest the memory spoil the enjoyment of the beauties that Gimli so evidently loved. But my youngest child, too small yet to listen for long even to the most gripping story, soon became restless and began batting and pulling at the branches of the trees as we passed, to see them toss and wave. The wizard caught sight of my little one and turned full to face us.

"Be careful! Do not harm leaf or branch of this wood! It is perilous!"

Aghast, I settled my young son more securely in front of me, wrapped my cloak round him to help him keep his hands to himself, and pried a few leaves out of his fists. I threw the leaves at the foot of the tree, and, though feeling foolish for speaking to a plant, called to it: "I'm sorry. Please forgive him; he is young and does not mean any harm."

And perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that the bough bent in acknowledgement. What was certain is that it dropped a single, yellow-tinged leaf on the little one's head.

We passed on. My little one grabbed no more at the branches of the trees. But that yellow leaf he keeps to this day, pressed inside the lining of his helmet.

Grimthain, aged 11, at Helm's Deep

"Hold the gates, no matter what." Said his foster father, a man he barely knew, one in a long line of many ill-prepared but generous cavalry soldiers who had taken their turn caring for the orphan, and the soldier who now placed the helm on the head of the terrified young boy with wide, fearful eyes. "It's down to you now, Grimthain. Today you are a warrior of the Riddermark. Do us proud." He had only nodded mutely, the smaller than most helmet padded to fit his small child head rocking only slightly in its place as he tried desperately to stay brave while a sword ill-fitted to his strength was placed in his hands. As the man walked away, his best friend Éodred had approached, returning from the weapons rack himself with a sombre, focussed expression on his face. Around five years his senior, the older boy had been equipped with chain-mail and a shield. They had long dreamt of the day they would join the cavalry, and begin earning glory and honour in the field. But as wide-fearful eyes met stoic resolve, they both knew that neither of them could have fathomed even in their worst nightmares that it would ever be like this...

Many hours later, it was Grimthain now who stared with cold resignation at the bodies laid out in the courtyard. They had been victorious, but he knew such things would be little comfort to his friend Éodred who knelt, cuddling the cold body of his father to him. Every muscle in him ached, but he knew it compared as nothing to the torment that clearly wracked through his friend - no, his comrade - at the loss. For Grimthain, abandoned as a babe on the steps of a cavalry courtyard and who had spent many of his younger years moving from home to home with little to no notice, the deaths of these soldiers seemed somehow muted to him personally. They were just more casualties of war, more people who - like his own parents - he would never know. But to see his best friend, who had been raised in the sort of loving family that Grimthain had always dreamed of, lose his father - a good man who had always treated Grimthain kindly and whom the orphan had often hoped he might be able to call father some day - somehow, this was worse. It was only thanks to the determination and courage of the older Éodred, hero amongst the youngsters ordered to guard one of the smaller side-gates, that he (and many others) had outlived the battle. His certainty that they would survive and be victorious against all odds had been all that kept so many of them, Grimthain among them, from dropping arms and fleeing. The knowledge that his friend, so brave and full of life and hope, someone Grimthain idolised, knelt now broken in spirit at the loss of his father, destroyed what little hopefulness that Grimthain had retained all these long, lonely years. He feared in that moment that his spirit might never regain its fire...

Then he saw someone move across the courtyard towards the kneeling boy. Grimthain watched, unnoticed in the hustle and bustle, as Lord Éomer himself approached Éodred and offered what little comfort he could. Despite not being the focus of the noble-man's attentions himself, Grimthain all the same felt himself bolstered that the royal - himself hardened and wearied by the battle - still sought to comfort his remaining soldiers; from the oldest crone to the youngest boy. Taking inspiration from the man, Grimthain's own heart sparked into a newly determined fire of passion. He vowed, in that moment, that he would do all in his power to protect whatever family his best friend Éodred had left as if it were his own. His own hope for happiness and contentment he had long ago given up on, but perhaps, just perhaps, if he could secure some measure of peace and happiness for his dear friend, then whenever it came time for his soul to be claimed - whether on the field of battle or in his cot - he might be able to pass on satisfied he had done his best. He was too young to realise it at the time, but in that moment Grimthain finally left behind any last vestiges of his childhood, and despite his tender age took his first tentative steps into manhood.

Well I'll be. All right, let's give this one a try:

You are one of Faramir's men on patrol in Ithilien when you pick up a pair of Hobbits and run across a column of Haradrim. Describe your adventures.

Bonus points for narrowly avoiding being trampled by the Mumak.

This forest very much felt like a home to Caverion, and he knew its scents and sounds very well, though he could not say that he knew every nook and cranny - not in so much detail as Faramir did. At any rate, his heart burned with passion for it, else he would not have taken up arms to protect it from the foul presence of the enemy, though it became more difficult, when more and more enemies arrived. It definitely seemed that the Dark Lord was gathering as many armies as he could.

The news had come in of the large company of Haradrim approaching, and the Captain had sent him out with a few other scouts to explore whether it was true. They had run swiftly and quietly through the woods, mere shadows to be barely noticed, and had ascertained that it was indeed so. When they returned to report, they discovered that Faramir had found a couple of little folk wandering the forests. When Caverion saw them, he thought those were but children, but no - they were Hobbits from a far away land. With great attention he sat, listening to the impromptu interview Faramir had organised to find out what the two little people were doing here. He was not sure whether the Captain was satisfied with the answers, but if anything Caverion's interest and curiosity was peeked even more, though he did not show it. The interview did not take too long, as they had to leave and take on the Haradrim soldiers.

The Hobbits were left under a care of a couple of men, and the rest went off to prepare the ambush. Hidden away among the trees not far from his fellow Rangers, Caverion waited patiently, bow ready in hand - the marching of the Haradrim could be heard long before they even came into view. As the enemies approached, Caverion breathed in deeply to calm his heart rate, and fitted an arrow to his bow when he noted the first men appearing among the trees. Ever patiently, he waited and watched the birds fly away to escape the unwelcome intruders. And then the marching column was right before them; the agreed bird-call signal; and the arrows flew. Caverion chose the man closest to him and let loose of his own arrow.

Their initial attack thinned out the rows of the enemies and caused havoc, disrupting their orderly lines. Then the enemy recovered enough to strike back, and the battle ensued. Caverion shot one arrow after another, until his quiver was empty. Then he ran to join his brethren in arms, sword in hand.

"Beware, mumak!" a cry sounded over the battle sounds, and soon the Ranger could hear the thundering footsteps of the huge beast, and soon saw it approaching - the tower on its back had been half destroyed, the soldiers that had been in it killed. The sight caused him to lose attention for a split second, and his opponent used it to press him backwards and then push him into the path of the oncoming trumpeting beast. As he fell, Caverion barely managed to roll away before the heavy foot came down on him. His face to the ground, his head covered, he lay still until the big animal had passed over him. The man had stared death in the face on a few occasions, but it had never been like this.

The ground still shook under him, but at least the beast was gone without harming him. Hurriedly Caverion stood to his feet and picked up the sword he had dropped while scrambling to save his life. He looked around for his former opponent to find him dead, arrow sticking out of his neck. While a few separate fights were still ongoing, most of the battle was over - bodies were strewn across the ground, mostly those of the Haradrim, and the ground and trees had suffered somewhat from the heat of the clash. It seemed that the surprise attack mounted by the Rangers had resulted in victory.

I took some liberties with this one, but 't'was fun nonetheless.

The victory feast in Ithilien was everything young Belvedir's active imagination could have hoped for. The food, the entertainment, the famous personages... But most of all, he was wearing the livery of a Ranger of Ithilien, seated at the Ithilien Rangers' Board, amongst Rangers of Ithilien. And so what if he'd not yet been bloodied with them? He'd acquitted himself well during the siege of Minas Tirith, had been advanced into their ranks soon after, and sent with a company of others to swiftly reinforce them. They'd arrived after the Last Stand at Cormallen, and thus alas, he'd not had much time to become more than cordial with many of his comrades -- but maybe that was about to change.
 He was shoved sideways on his bench as a solid bulk suddenly required more space to his left. On his right, the air seemed to solidify into the shape of another man. Both wore Ranger's garb, and both had full tankards. Well, the bull on the left had three. He passed one to Belvedir.
 "Drink!" he ordered shortly, and led by example, seemingly considering it impossible that his command would be disobeyed. Belvedir drank, his eyes wide.
 "Túg, you'll scare the young one," said the man to his right. He was slighter than even Belvedir, and his lanky hair seemed to always be covering part of his face, but every movement seemed to be deliberate - calculated, even - from grasping his tankard to lifting it to his lips to swallowing the wine within.
 "Bah!" the one called Túg replied. "If he's been deemed worthy to wear our garb then he shouldn't be too startlesome. You're not... flighty... are ye, man?" the glowering eyebrows asked Belvedir.
The young Ranger cleared his throat down a couple keys before replying.
"My section of the wall never wanted manning, though it came close to it a few times. The worst of it was when the winged horrors came close... but Mithrandir would bid us stand, and the Sergeant would bellow something obscene and defiant, and we would stand again, by the grace of the Valar."
"Well said; that were bravely done," the man to his right intoned somberly. "To rise and rise again, with little earthly hope of relief, is a strain not many can bear. 'Tis worthy of a Ranger."
Belvedir buried his face in his tankard, for fear his grin would drop the ears off his head.
"Better ye than I," rumbled Túg. "Give me the woods - clearings and dells and places to fall back to and sally forth from." He slammed a hand down on the table, causing Belvedir to choke on his wine. "D'ye remember that one ambush, Flein? I know ye do!"
"Túg..." the man called Flein said in a warning tone.
"Ah, it was beautiful, it was," Túg addressed Belvedir and ignored his friend. "We got wind of the Southrons coming through, and the Captain would not let them by unscathed, so we set up one of the most beautiful pieces of war- and woods-craft you've ever seen: the cross-angles of the arrows, the hidden lines of spearmen, the harrying pursuit the Captain called for- But the best, the most wonderful part,"
"Túg..." the man called Flein said a little louder than before.
"Yes, my good comrade?" Túg asked overly politely, "Do you wish to carry on the tale? I warn you, 'tis the only way to have it out in timbre less strident than mine own!"
The slight man sighed, nodded, took a sip of wine, and motioned Belvedir to listen while Túg grinned mercilessly in the background.
"I was on bow-duty," he began, "Which I am not likely the inferior to any in our noble band in speed, accuracy, impact of target, and so on; one frailty, one weakness do I own, and that honestly, for I must. I become... focused."
Belvedir shook his head in confusion: "Surely that must be one of the most important things of all?" he inquired, but Flein gravely invoked the negative.
"I misspoke, young Ranger. I become overly focused. I remember the engagement in question- a good many shafts I loosed, and only a few that did not find their mark. I do not boast over-much, for quarry caught unawares is not exactly a difficult situation, but they did begin scurrying about. I remember taking the draughtsman of one of the mighty mumakil - the windage was particularly tricky for that shot, but the shaft was true nonetheless. There was no time for taking pleasure in a job well-done; my hand went to my quiver, and another shaft was sped on its way, and another, and another until-"
"Until I SAVED YOUR LIFE!" bellowed Túg, unable to stand his relegation to silence.
Flein winced, and Belvedir, closer to the wall of sound, gingerly felt about his ear to ensure it was still there. But Flein shrugged, and continued.
"Túg has the right of it. His stentorian bellow from a nearby brake alerted me to the fact that the unguided beast - mad with pain, and likely habit - was stomping right for me. I dove through the trunk-like legs, and eventually slid to a stop; alive, though smelling rather the worse for wear."The doleful man turned sorrowful eyes towards the young Ranger and elaborated while his boon companion roared mirth at the sky.
"I had landed in a mound of the great beast's rear-ward evacuation. I wasn't squashed into jelly by the walking hillock, but at various times in the ensuing days I fair wished I was, between trying to get the stench out of my gear and the various jests of my company. I suppose it will be many a year yet before it dies down."
Belvedir hesitated, and then decided that if he was truly in the company of these Rangers, it would be unseemly to act like he wasn't. So he raised his tankard, looked Flein in the eye, and solemnly toasted his survival:
"Better to be in oliphaunt dung, then to be in oliphaunt dung."
His slight neighbor cracked a smile; his bulky neighbor fair knocked the wind out of him with a clap on his back; and Belvedir the Ranger was at peace for the first time in a long while.

Anyone else? Anyone? Bueller?

I'll wait a few more days to see if anyone else wants to play, then pass judgement. *puts on judge's wig and glares menacingly*

Okey dokey, just youse two it is. @Wamba_the_Fool , you're up again!

A chilly evening mist had settled over their farm, but warmth and comfort reigned in Tio's home. The fireplace crackled merrily, and he sat in his rocking chair by it, huddled in a blanket and sending rings of smoke from his pipe towards the ceiling. The rest of the family bustled around, cleaning up after a hearty supper, yet instead of helping children ran around and caused more havoc - the sound of falling chairs and screaming followed.

"Goldie! Otho! Calm down and come on here, else I will call a couple of Sharkey's ruffians to teach you a lesson!" Tio joined the parents in scolding the children, producing an especially large ring of smoke before that.

"Grandpa, who is this Sharkey anyway? You have never told us," the unheard-of name caused the older hobbit child to run over and place his hands on Tio's arm, as a pair of curious eyes glanced up at him.

"Have I not? Would you like to have an evening story then?" grandpa offered as means to keep the kids quiet for a few moments.

It caused Otho to jump and down in excitement. "Yes, yes, yes!" he all but danced before settling down on the rug at the elderly hobbit's feet. Otho's sister was not that convinced though since it sounded like the story might turn out quite scary. After all it would be about some sort of ruffians. Yet she came quietly and settled down on the very corner of the rug, as if prepared to dart away should she not like the story.

"Now then," Tio began. "Once upon the time... and yet not overly long ago - a couple years before you were born - Big People had entered the Shire..."

"So Sharkey is one of the Big People?" Otho interjected before the story had properly started and ignored the frown from his sister.

"Yes, yes, lad, he was pretty tall too and could ride on a big horse. And he had a good many fellows with him, all come to settle down in our land," grandfather did not seem to notice the interruption. "They pulled out the trees, tore down houses, locked up good people, shut all the inns, and there was lack of all good food and drinks."

Goldie's lip trembled: she did not like where the story was going, as she was fond of climbing trees and hated the very thought of all of those being cut down. While she was clearly upset because of the trees, Otho was more concerned about his own wellbeing. His dark round eyes looked up at his grandpa. "You mean... those Big Folk... they are still around here, and you could call them to come and... lock me up somewhere if I misbehave?"

Tio glanced down at the two little hobbits and enjoyed his pipe in silence. "Did you not hear that noise outside the window?" he suddenly whispered suspiciously, causing Goldie to crawl up and take cover under Tio's blanket that reached down to the floor. Meanwhile Otho pretended to be brave, though his eyes were as big as saucers as he sat motionless and holding his breath, as he listened.

"Don't worry though," grandpa eventually said. "They are all gone, chased away by our own courageous Meriadoc and his companions. As you can see our gardens were blossoming wonderfully this summer, and apple trees are full with apples. Everything has been fixed up nicely afterwards, though I think I could tell you more tomorrow evening if you want. It is your sleepy time now."

"Sing us a bedtime song, grandpa?" Goldie chirped from under the blanket hoping for something soothing after this story, and Tio obliged, as he began to chant:

"Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
Away shall fade! Away shall fade!
Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,
And then to bed! And then to bed!"

Good job @Pele Alarion, I really liked this one.

The floor is yours!

Well then...

You are a hobbit that has somehow ended up in the depths of the Old Forest. How did you even come there; how do you get out; and what happens between getting lost and getting out of the forest?

"Oh dear oh dear." Muttered Lily Strawflower as she wandered in the woods her cousins had dared her that she wouldn't go into the Old Forest, and Lily being the tween she was had marched straight into the Old Woods knowing full well that there were many a Took that went in there for woods and mushrooms and the like she'd been bold enough to bring a picnic basket expecting to have a nice meal and head right back out. She had not expected to get lost. Her big brown eyes glanced around nervously as there were strange noises all about her, and she was afraid she was gonna get eaten by a spider, or a wolf. More than once her dress got caught and pulled by wayward branches as she tried to find her way back to Crickhollow, she'd tried looking at the moss, anything else she could think of as the canopy overhead was so dense that she couldn't see which direction she was going at all anymore. She needed to go west, if she could find the hedge she could get to the end of it one way or the other or find the gate.

She found a fallen log and sat down on it and decided to have a good cry since at the moment it was all that she wanted to do because she was quite certain at this point she was never going to get out of these horrible dark woods. Big tears splashed on her apron as she sobbed softly scared that if she made too much noise something might eat her. She heard a snap of a twig behind her and she jumped up with a shriek
"Stay away from you you nasty creatures!" And then she bolted running leaving her basket behind. She could hear crashing behind her of something running and she ran as swift as her feet could carry her not even noticing that a branch had torn her dress she was far too afraid of being eaten, not realizing that whatever was running behind her was running away from her. She looked over her shoulder to see if she was about to get eaten when she tripped over a root and crashed to the ground.

She scrambled back to her feet only to run straight into a Bounder who had a rope about his waist and a billystick out ready to defend himself from whatever had been crashing towards him not realizing it was the girl that he had been looking for.

The two of them gave a tug on the rope and it started to pull in and the two very quickly made their ways out of the forest.

@CHAOS, well, your hobbit got out of the woods, and now it is your turn to write a prompt!

Thanks Pele!

You are a dwarf and it is the one year anniversary of the reclaiming of the Lonely Mountain, and the Death of Smaug.
Describe that activities that are going on in the dwarf halls.

Bonus: Interact with a group of men from Dale