ARPY Ceremony & Party

Nessa Saelind · Fri Apr 30, 2021 5:00 pm

A few moons ago, in the timeline of Suspension of Disbelief, the Triumvirate (with the help of majestic eagles) sent out invitations for the ARPY ceremony.

The ARPY Triumvirate would like to cordially invite you (along with any guests you wish to accompany you) to attend and celebrate the greatest Performance Award Ceremony and Party rolled into one – the ARPYs which will be held in Rivendell.

Join us in a feast honouring those you, the community, have chosen (after much agony and torment over your decisions) and with your votes decided that they are the best among us! Let us celebrate the arts, creativity and achievements of this community!

The ARPY ceremony is a formal (full dress) event requiring an appropriate dress code. Before the ceremony begins everyone will gather at the Courtyard so we can meet, greet, mingle and partake in the offered refreshments

The Feasting Hall, with its high dais, is the location where the awards for each category will be given out. Afterwords your hosts will escort you to the Hall of Fire where a banquet has been prepared. Here the general entertainment and merriment will take place.

We look forward to your arrival.

The ARPY Triumvirate

The air of Rivendell has a specific je ne sais quoi – an elvish quality manifested in its warmth and the woody scents of pine, oak and beech that grow in the valley. The sound of wind chimes mixes with the rich and joyful laughter of the elves hidden in the great pine trees; their merry song greets you:

O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
The river is flowing!
O! tra-la-la-lally
here down in the valley!
Here elf and elf-maiden
Now welcome the weary
With Tra-la-la-lally
Come to the Valley,
Tra-la-la-lally
Fa-la-la-lally
Fa-la!

As you cross over the stone bridge you step onto a red carpet, woven from red blooms (anemones, poppies, roses, tulips…) that release a sweet scent as your feet touch them. Soon your walk on the carpet of vermilion flowers brings you to a group of ethereal elves. A blond ellon steps toward you and draws your attention to a magnificent tapestry detailing the history of the ARPYs. Many an elleth spent hours weaving and embroidering the scenes that come to life before your eyes. From the corner of your eye, you notice that the other elves have charcoal and parchment in their hands, and are those canvases, brushes and paints in that corner where a few other elves sit? Indeed they are, our fair elvish artists are eagerly waiting to capture all the splendour and fabulous outfits that will reign in this ceremony.

For those who have not been to the ARPY ceremony before, mae govannen, mellon nín! And to those who have been here before, welcome back!

THE COURTYARD

The red blooms carpet ends at the Courtyard, the location which the Triumvirate chose so that everyone can meet and mingle before the ceremony begins. Paved with natural stones, the Courtyard is graced with flowering almond, cherry, magnolia, plum and wisteria trees. In strategic locations around the Courtyard, the Triumvirate mounted several hanging scrolls. The names of the nominees along with the categories they are nominated for are written on those scrolls in beautiful calligraphy. {See the next post.} Shimmering ink in the shades of old gold and carmine is used. Many fountains bubble with fresh, cold and clear water, however, one of them appears to hold Miruvor (which looks identical to water, caution is advised) and two of them are running with wine. The murmuring of water, wine and elvish spirits mix with the sound of string, brass, woodwind and percussion instruments. Stone plinths covered with fine cloths in many hues hold platters with delicacies and slender flute glasses. The Triumvirate has spared no expense, scouring the whole of Middle Earth, from East to West, from North to South to bring the richness of Arda to the cornucopia of the ARPY celebration.

MENU

DRINKS

Wine: the reds, the whites, a dash of rosé and prosecco

• Strong and elegant reds from grand cru vineyards of Dorwinion, Middle Earth’s most famous wine region.
• A variety of light and medium body wines from the Pelargir region of Gondor: they are of deep crimson colouring, fruity, sweet. In some, the finish is marked with sour-cherry notes.
• Sémillon blanc from Lindon: a crisp, dry and refreshing white
• Rosé d’Annúminas: light and sweet wine originating near the City of the Kings of Arnor
• Prosecco

Beers and ciders

• A variety of craft ales, lagers, stouts from Dale, Rohan and the Shire
• Heritage craft ciders made from a mix of culinary and cider apples from the Shire, including bittersweet, bittersharp, crabapples, heirloom and wild apples. Ranging from yellow to amber colour, some are brilliant and others are hazy. All are deliciously tasty!

Liquors and mysterious spirits

• Hypocras: a warm drink made from wine mixed with sugar and spices (cinnamon, ginger, clove, grains of paradise, long pepper)
• Mead from Beorn’s Hall: strong with added spices and herbs (ginger, nutmeg, coriander, cloves)
• Araq and ouzo: anise flavoured liquors from Harad. Clear in colour, but turn milky white when you add water or ice.
• Date, palm and plum wines from Rhûn
• Mint, pear, plum, quince and raspberry schnapps from various places in Middle Earth including travarica: a strong herbal liquor from Ithilien and Ethir Anduin region.
• Dol Amroth Single Malt: rich, multi-layered and complex whiskey finished in unique seaweed charred virgin oak casks.

Non-alcoholic beverages

• Coffee: for the weary travellers who would prefer to chase away their tiredness with a rich, warm drink. Can be taken black, or with sugar and spices. Milk is also an option if one desires it.
• A variety of teas (green, yellow, black) and fruit and herbal infusions
• Juices of various kinds with and sans bubbles

FOOD

Inspired by the Great Elvish Cooking contest that was held in Imladris, the elvish chefs decided to present a variety of sweet and salty canapés, scrumptious and delicate little bites to tantalise the senses. Scattered on the platters you can find:

• Bruschetta: a grilled bread rubbed with garlic and topped with virgin olive oil and salt.
• Salty crescent rolls sprinkled with sesame.
• Selection of fine cheeses ranging from soft to hard, brined and ripened.
• Bowls filled with olives
• A variety of meat, poultry, fish, seafood and vegetable pâté
• A mix of almonds, walnuts, pistachios, pecans, hazelnuts and peanuts in rustic wooden bowls
• Forest and tropical fruit elegantly arranged in delicate glass bowls
• Smoked salmon and shrimp coated in batter
• Steamed baby carrots and rice
• Filled lettuce cups
• Salted pork and prosciutto
• Dainty fruit tarts and croissants filled with chocolate and home-made jams dusted with powdered sugar
• Adorable marzipan animals (wee mice, piglets, ducks and the like)
• Hib: a famous fig cake from the Ethir Anduin region, made with dried figs, shelled walnuts, some fennel seeds and a splash of travarica for the taste.
• Bear paws: traditional Gondorian winter biscuits in the shape of bear paws, made with ground walnuts and honey
• Black pepper and honey biscuits cut in various shapes (usually stars and trees): another Gondorian sweet made with honey, butter, eggs, walnuts, hazelnuts, pepper and various spices (clove, cinnamon, nutmeg).

THREADIQUETTE

• All Plaza RP Rules Apply, please refer to the RP Code of Conduct if unsure
• Please don’t Godmode without permission. However, your hosts reserve the right to Godmode slightly (e.g. assume you’re in one spot or the other) to move the party along.
• IC posts only, please. If an OOC is necessary please mark it clearly and write it at the bottom of your post; you don’t need to white it out. It can also be moved to the ARPY OOC thread (see below).
• If you have any comments, questions or concerns, or if I have (yet again) managed to utterly confuse you please head over to the ARPY OOC thread and ask your questions and the Triumvirate will get back to you ASAP
• For the colour loving post people: please refrain from posting in bright, light and neon colours (otherwise known as foo colours). Brights, lights and neons a great eyeshadow look make, but it hurts our eyeses when we needs to read them, so I would strongly encourage you to use darker colours. Or you know, plain black. Black is good, there’s nothing wrong with it. Please, if it’s not too much of a bother. Thank you!
• Speaking of colours, please don’t use BOLD RED (#FF0000), since your GMs (@Fuin Elda , @Goosil and myself) will use it for announcements.
• You may post as multiple characters, both canon and your own. However, if someone has claimed a canon character first, please check in with them (in the ARPY OOC thread) before also posting as that character. If someone doesn’t post as that canon character or respond to a nudge for 5 days, the character will be up for grabs again.
• Have fun!

Nessa Saelind · Fri Apr 30, 2021 5:22 pm

GM Announcement

The order in which the ARPY award will be presented and given out is given below. For each category, nominees are tagged and the link to the original presentation is provided.

If you have volunteered to be a presenter the ARPY Triumvirate will be in touch with you soon and inform you of the category you will be presenting and the date you need to post by. For now, all you have to do is RP your Ab Fab (absolutely fabulous of course) arrival at the Courtyard (see the extremely detailed OP) and eat, drink and mingle with others (not necessarily in that order, but you do you).

N.B. The Right and Honourable Goose would like to ask you to refrain from eating and/or drinking other guests.

BEST LORE POST

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Aduchil @Androthelm @Eldy Dunami @Galastel @MistressofJesters and @Lailyn

BEST ORIGINAL ART

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Afird Splitax {Drifa}, @Eldrith @Fuin Elda @Hoglorfen @Lailyn @Narv @Naur @Nia @Oak @Rior Laegiel @Tarawen @Tari and @Vorondir

BEST ORIGINAL POEM

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Allacan ob Burzum @Androthelm @Goosil {Sil the Goose} and @Wamba_the_Fool

BEST OPENING POST

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Afird Splitax {Drifa} & co. (The Dwarven Express (Post Office)), @Annúnfalas (Lindon Masquerade – Spring Ball), @Dwim (Oogie Boogie's Wheel of Fun and The Periannath Walking Club – Journey to Woody End), @Fuin Elda (Buccaneers of Belfalas II), @Goosil {Sil the Goose} (PROTECT MY NUTS!) @Lailyn (Misty Mountains Free RP), @Moriel (Angmar: The Northern Lands), @Oro (The Clans of Khazad-Dum and Rangers (RPG) Chapter 1: A Growing Threat), @Tharmáras (Ages of Arda IV: Mantle of Darkness), @Winddancer & co. (City of Umbar - The Haven and The Shadows)

BEST COMEDIC POST

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Aduchil , @Afird Splitax {Drifa}, @Allacan ob Burzum @Amhran @Annúnfalas @Boromir88 @Burnt Toast @Goosil {Sil the Goose}, @Lailyn @Lirimaer @Menolly @Nia @Prometherion {Frost}, @Shivased @Tarawen and @Yávië

BEST DRAMATIC POST

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Allacan ob Burzum @Bereth @Ercassie @Giliathriel @Goosil {Sil the Goose}, @Lailyn @Lantaelen @Moriel @Nessa Saelind @Prometherion {Frost}, @Thalionwen Hunigfolm @The Elf Imperishable {Rivvy} and @Winddancer

BEST CANON CHARACTER

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Boromir88 (Ted Sandyman), @Ercassie (Thingol), @Laintaen (Beleg), @Legolas (Legolas), @Moriel (Thuringwethil) @Prometherion {Frost} (Sauron and Ulfang) and @The Elf Imperishable {Rivvy} (Fangorn and Melkor/Morgoth)

BEST CHARACTER

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Allacan ob Burzum (Kruzheld) @Androthelm (Quaegomar), @Boromir88 (Globuk the Dumb Orc), @Dimcairien Luiniel (Éomund), @Elarith (Amethyst Copperpick), @Goosil {Sil the Goose} (Silas Hardwick, The Snowy Owl) @Lailyn (Maecheneb), @Lirimaer (Henna Lightfoot), @Nessa Saelind (Nessa de Argosy) @Prometherion {Frost} (Beranwine, Fleeg, Frost, Jorgy Underash and Pazuzu), @Tarawen (Regdûsh)

BEST GM

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Allacan ob Burzum @Annúnfalas @Goosil {Sil the Goose}, @Moriel and @Tharmáras

BEST RP-er

The nominees are (in alphabetical order): @Allacan ob Burzum @Éolath @Ercassie @Goosil {Sil the Goose}, @Moriel @Nessa Saelind @Lailyn @Prometherion {Frost}, @Taethowen @Tarawen @Ta'leus Shieldsong @Thalionwen Hunigfolm @Tharmáras @Winddancer and @Yávië

BEST SMALL COLLABORATION (up to 3 people)

The nominees are (in the order they were presented in the original presentation, you know the one that made sense at the time): @Aodh Hammerhelm and @Eléowyn (journey together through the Fields and Forests of Rohan), @Dimcairien Luiniel and @Allacan ob Burzum (What is the most stupid or foolish thing your character has ever done? What were the repercussions?), @Ercassie and @Tharmáras (Moles of/from? Gondolin), @Prometherion {Frost} and @Giliathriel (a sailor with an odd past reunites with his elven friend in Pelargir), @Moriel and @Prometherion {Frost} (Helcë etta Anga), @Moriel and @Lantaelen (Elenion Sunquelë), @Tarawen @Goosil {Sil the Goose} and @Moriel (gathering in Carn Dûm) and @Winddancer and @Prometherion {Frost} (Umbar)

BEST GAME

The nominees are (in alphabetical order by thread name, not GM): @Goosil {Sil the Goose} (Catch That Cat and WHERE are my NUTS?!), @Moriel (DIE: Orodruin Obfuscation), @Taethowen and co. (Miss/ter Meduseld Pageant), @Dwim (Oogie Boogie's Wheel of Fun), @Afird Splitax {Drifa} (Rune Breaker WS RP) and @Goosil {Sil the Goose} with @Dimcairien Luiniel and @Almarëa Mordollwen (The Great Elvish Culinary Contest)

BEST RPG

The nominated RPGs are (in alphabetical order):

Edoras Burnt - Firefighting RPG

The Hobbit INSANITY: A Somewhat Expected Quest

Miss/ter Meduseld Pageant

The Great Elvish Culinary Contest: Ån RP Game

edit: fixed a wrong tag

thanks to Cassie for spotting it

have a cookie!

edit le dux: added Shiva in the Best Comedy Section because I somehow missed her. I need glasses upon glasses

Nessa Saelind · Sat May 01, 2021 1:44 pm

Nessa de Argosy at the Courtyard

Well before the nominees, presenters and other distinguished guests started to arrive at Imladris for the ARPY ceremony, Nessa de Argosy crossed the stone bridge and stepped on to the carpet of red blooms. Her steps were light, although not as light as those of an elf or hobbit. Still, as her sandalled feet walked over the flowery carpet of carmine, cinnabar, crimson and vermilion coloured flowers they did not bend or break, nor did they appear to be crushed. They looked just as they were before she stepped on them, the only difference being that their sweet scent got stronger. A form of elvish magic, the tall, slender woman mused as she breathed in the mix of poppy, rose and tulip scents. A wistful smile graced her face as she noticed the tulips. Lâle, Iskandar had called them when he wrote about the history of his homeland and the Lâle Devri, the Tulip Era.

Her sleeveless chiton-like gown was made of changeable or shot silk, the colour shifting from emerald green to coppery red as she moved. It was held at the shoulders with fibulae and draped loosely in front with extra fabric hanging off the sides. The gown was cinched at the waist by the zōnē, an embroidered girdle made of two strips of felt that were covered by shot silk in the same colour as the dress. The fibulae, the clasp on the zōnē along with her hairpins and earrings were the colour of rose gold and shaped like helichrysum flowers. Her chocolate brown locks were arranged in a chignon held by the aforementioned pins and she wove helichrysum flowers in her hair.

The silk dress rustled quietly as she moved and approached the ARPY tapestry where a group of elves armed with parchment, canvases, brushes, paints and charcoal stood. For a while she stood there pensively, admiring the skilful needlework of the elves, and then on the urging of the fair elvish artists, she happily spun this way and that for them so they could capture the colour shift of her gown in all its multicoloured glory. Their cheerful laughter and merry voices followed her as she continued her walk to the Courtyard.

Unsurprisingly, she was the first to arrive at the gracefully decorated Courtyard. Nessa smiled as she slowly moved around, her gown rustling and her sandals making a gentle pattering sound on the natural stones. She admired the flowering trees, especially the pink blooms of cherries, plums and almonds. The bubbling and murmuring of fountains and the allegro ma non-troppo sound of the elvish orchestra harmonised and created a joyous and soothing atmosphere. The cornucopia of delicate and tantalising canapés along with various alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages was already served on the stone plinths covered with fine cloths of many hues.

Everything was ready for the party and there was no reason for her to arrive this early. However, Nessa was one of the organisers and she wanted to make sure that everything was in its place and that there were no last-minute fires (real or metaphorical) that needed to be put out. Aware that she would be gently, but firmly chided by the elves if she went around and rearranged things she walked over to a stone plinth that held distinctive looking and richly ornamented silver coffee pots called dallah. The dallah had a bulbous body that narrowed in the middle and flared out at the top. It was covered by a spire-shaped lid topped with a tall finial and held by a sinuous handle. It had a long spout with a crescent-shaped beak.

A delicious aroma of rich, dark coffee infused with cardamom and saffron emanated from one of the dallah and with much gusto, Nessa poured the black liquid into a demitasse cup that stood on a saucer next to the pot. She closed her eyes for a moment savouring the delectable scent of spiced coffee as she slowly lifted the demitasse cup with the hot liquid, brought it to her mouth and took a sip. A satisfied sigh sprang forth from her, the coffee was just as she loved it. She opened her eyes and smiled contently. She placed the cup on the matching saucer and taking the cup and saucer in hand she turned to the entrance of the Courtyard.

As she stood there, enjoying the excellently made coffee Nessa wondered who would be the next person to enter the Courtyard and would she recognise them when she saw them. Perhaps she should make a game of it to pass the time while she waited.

Nessa edit: This idiot accidentally deleted the entire album with icons so yeah... The moral of the story kids: think before you hit delete!

Raisins · Sun May 02, 2021 6:55 am

Fuin Elda at the Courtyard

It was a strange sight indeed as Fuin slipped from her home to the courtyard where the ARPYs were being held, mostly because she was in a dress, this one long and flowing a raiment of red velvet heavy and plush and gold stitching adorning the skirt in a carefully stitched filigree pattern in panels, that hung tight to her body at her front with shear panels showing off her legs as she moved. The back of her dress was much fuller and draped behind her in a stunning train that followed behind Fuin almost as long as she was tall. The bodice tight and fitted stitched with gold threads with her right shoulder bare and her left covered and drapping from the back of it a shear red veiling embroidered with gold and silver stars with tiny white pearls at the center of each accentuating the train and her bearing. The cut, hid what some would consider an unsightly scar, given to her over many months and many attempts to make sure she did not pass into the wraith world, she herself was not fond of it, but there was nothing to be done for it. It remained and would until the world was made anew as far as she was aware. Her dark brown hair was curled and pinned back with adornments that made her look like she was crowned in with the rays of Arien behind her head and eyes where lined with kohl, and her lips stained a dark red. There were a few elves that nearly died from the shock alone at least one of the elves armed with parchment canvases and brushes did fall off of their seat. Unlike Nessa though when they began furiously capturing this momentous occasion she cleared her throat her eyes narrowing at them and she made a slight motion of her hand. Easy to miss if one did not know Fuin well and what it meant and quickly crumpled the papers they had been working on and tossed them into a nearby fire there would be no art that survived of such a sight.

Fuin nodded and gave them a smile. They smiled a touch uneasily but were happy to go back to waiting for the next beautifully dressed attendee to sketch and draw as Fuin looked over the tapestry and then caught sight of Nessa a fellow organizer of this event in what looked like to be the coffee and Fuin headed to join her. Though her own choice of drink was a crab apple cider from the Shire. She took a glass of it and sipped at it with a smile.

"Our hard work it seems has finally come near to an end." She said as she looked at the courtyard, waiting patiently. Indeed this would be a fantastic evening and she could not wait to see the look on the faces of some of her friends when they saw her dressed up. "I almost wonder if we should have had a healer on standby, I am afraid I may have a few of my friends going into shock." Fuin took a deep breath there no longer was anything to except let the night play out as it would. She did wonder when the final organizer would be making her appearance, soon she guessed though it would be a question as to if it would be the last of the trifecta or an attendee.

Galadrihell · Sun May 02, 2021 12:24 pm

Alcadir in the Courtyard

The Elf hummed happily to himself, a little trolling tune... “Fa-la-la-la!” Or was it Tra-la-la-la? No matter, the choirmaster would have to deal with it. He did a twirl in front of the mirror, admiring the way his sky-blue half-cape flared, and then splashed his throat with something that smelled of lemon verbena and violets and smirked at himself. His hair had been brushed to a silver sheen and then nearly braided. His breeches were form fitting but not TOO tight. Surely. Alcadir would need movement for dancing later (and there was bound to be dancing, right? This was a PARTY).

He mouthed a kiss at himself in the mirror and strode out, clutching two pieces of paper in his white-gloved hand. One was a thick parchment scroll, inscribed with incredibly neat handwriting. One was a crazed scrawl on what Alcadir was choosing to believe was perfectly normal, non-Children-of-Eru leather.

In the Courtyard he found two lovely ladies. One, a rather formidable looking Elf with the most amazing looking headpiece - Alcadir touched his own befeathered cap a little self-consciously - and another kind-eyed woman with flowers in her hair enjoying a delicious smelling coffee.

Alcadir strode up to them importantly and engaged in a bow that took a couple of minutes and involved a lot of brandishing of his hat.

“Ladies,” he declared, “the organisers extraordinaire of this show, I presume? I have a missive for you;” and with the hand not holding the hat he presented the missive. He had tried to tidy it up by tying a lovely pink ribbon around it, although this could not erase the stains.

He’d read it, of course.

It said:

dear Nessa & Fuin

Apologies I have been Detained, by which I mean arrested
Don’t worry, nothing serius, Sure I will see u both soon,
just need to acquit myself & Then wreak some VENGEANCE!!!!!

love Sil

“Delivered whilst I was in a tavern in Mirkwood,” explained Alcadir, coughing lamely.

A Goose is paddling serenely in one of the non-wine fountains. It is wearing a red satin ribbon around its neck, tied into a bow, and is up to absolutely no mischief whatsoever.

Baphởmet · Sun May 02, 2021 2:12 pm

A party! It was always nice to find a party when and where you didn’t expect one. A gathering of simpering and sycophantic elves in the very depth of their kingdom was an excellent place. Frost suppressed (well not so much suppress as encouraged) a wicked grin on her face. It had been far too easy to get in here. Wasn’t Imladris, the Hidden Valley of the Elves, supposed to be a place impossible for creatures of the shadow to get into? They clearly needed to shore up their defenses. She and Zôr had gotten in with nary a bit of protest. Neither of them knew what was being celebrated or what an ARPY was (elves took any sort of event as an excuse to party) but it was a wonderful opportunity to work their way into the place. It wasn’t so wonderful for the man they’d met at the inn in Minas Tirith of course. The fool had come down to the common room whilst they were ruminating on where to go look for their elusive vulpine quarry next when he drunkenly announced that he was going to go to Rivendell and meet all the elven ladies and find himself a new bride. Normally, Frost and her young companion would have ignored such a buffoonish boast, but he then decided to sit at their table and babble on about elves and brides and “opportunities”. It was only natural that what followed was a very painful, sanguine extraction of information from the man in an alleyway. Zôr was such a wonder with a knife, he knew all the places to slice and cut that would cause the most damage with the least amount of effort. He had an invitation, he claimed, it was sent by Lord Elrond’s own hand. Frost broke into his room, after breaking his fingers, and found the invitation. It was a pretty thing, elves dearly loved things to look far fancier and more brocaded than it needed to be, and allowed the bearer and a guest of their choosing to enter the Hidden Vale and join in the merriment for something called the ARPYs. The man, pretty and stupid, had no idea what it was either. He assumed he’d been given the invitation by mistake or by some chance of providence and good fortune. The Númenórean was happy to make sure he knew that was not correct. By the end of their drinking session, both she and Zôr had thoroughly convinced the man to give up his claim to the invitation and freed him from the idea that anything good or fortunate would be coming his way any time soon. Armed with the invitation, Frost let the man go, into a fountain where he spent his last breaths wondering if she was truly going to give him a kiss to remember.

So they were now, dressed in shadowy and silky attire. Frost had chosen a black gossamer dress with a steel-boned corset stitched with spider patterns, a long, flowing cape and hood, and six-inch heels to complete the ensemble. She was already tall, thanks to her Númenórean heritage, now she would tower over the little forest creatures as they skittered and scraped and bowed. All of her tattoos were plainly visible, the runic symbols that crawled up and down her arms like living things, the skulls of bears on her bare shoulders, and the grand portrait of the leviathan, blue and purple and black, stretching from fingertip to fingertip and across her back. There were other tattoos of course, but none of these would get to see them. Unless they had something much more valuable to offer her. They’d arrived early, good. The hustle and bustle of readying for a party would serve as good enough a distraction whilst they looked around and observed.

Zôr was next to her, looking just as fabulous as she. Quite a pair they made together, conniving shadows. “Can you believe it was that easy? I thought they’d turn us both away. You know, this reminds me that Eldûrien claimed she snuck in here and competed in a cooking contest of all things. Eldûrien! The Mablui that can barely boil water. I think this is where she developed that obsession with that elf, oh what was his name, uh, Figwit? She never did find him though. He’s very lucky for that.” She looked around at the food already on display. It was sickeningly well presented. She frowned though, in all the alcohol and all the edibles, there was not a sign of absinthe, her favorite verdant drink. She pouted. Leave it to the elves to have everything but the drink that would make this night a little easier to maneuver around. There wasn’t any opium either. Pity that.

“What say shall we do dear? Any secrets you want to try and uncover before the party gets underway?”

Marceline · Wed May 05, 2021 11:50 pm

Zôrzagar

Zôrzagar took inventory of the various items on his person: his faithful dagger served for something old, the gold ring on his little finger was something new, their invitation to this decadent, overwrought feast was one of many somethings stolen . . . but he definitely did not have something blue. He gave a slight shrug. It was no great loss, though. When had the color blue ever served him well? The last time he’d worn the color, he had nearly been killed. Tonight, as usual, Zôr was dressed all in fine blacks and greys. He and Frost had slipped into the valley of the elves like shadows, and they looked the part.

This trip to Rivendell was a whirlwind tangent from their previously scheduled travels. While Zôr had been pleased to relieve the man in Gondor of his invitation, it was but a taste of the satisfaction he felt upon seeing all they stood to gain now that he and Frost had arrived. True partnership was rare in the circles he ran in, yet he’d found it in the scheming and manipulative beauty beside him.

“My, my,” he muttered, “they do like their drinks sweet here, don’t they?” He wrinkled his nose at the rosé on display and selected a glass of whiskey. Never mind that the menu proclaimed its origins to be Dol Amroth; the first sip proved that the copper liquor would suffice for the night.

“Eldûrien, cooking?” Zôr marveled, holding his drink in one hand and smoothing his jacket's silk shawl collar absently with the other. He had only ever met Eldûrien once, back in Umbar, and he chuckled at the thought of her in a chef’s apron. “I have seen some strange things in my time, but that, I freely admit, sounds remarkably odd. If it’s true, then it’s no wonder we were allowed in tonight. I’m sure we look absolutely drab by comparison - or at least, I do.”

With a jerk of his head, Zôr motioned for Frost to follow him into a quieter corner of the courtyard. Out of the way for now, he paused and drank in the sight of her: as tall as him in outrageously high heels, cloak barely concealing the stunning dress beneath - in sum, anything but drab. “My darling, there are all sorts of things I’d like to uncover,” he said. Mischief danced in his eyes and played on his lips. “The secrets and treasures of this valley among them. For instance, what might be the greatest shame of these elves? Surely it’s written on some scroll or other in the libraries. And where lies the power that secures this place from sinister influences? Can we break that from within, or even take the keys to the kingdom for ourselves?” He sipped at his whiskey again. “The night is still young. I’m sure we can make time to find out all that and even take a little detour for ourselves. But which shall we tackle first?” Zôrzagar glanced at the few people already occupying the space. None were paying them any mind. “What do you say - shall we slip off now?”

Baphởmet · Thu May 06, 2021 9:34 pm

“Drab?” Frost smirked and looked over her companion’s choice of clothing. “Nothing of the sort darling, you’re merely dressed for more appropriately for the kinds of activities we plan on engaging in.” The tall Númenórean looked over the sparse attendees, rolled her eyes at the dressed-up guards, more akin to giant nutcrackers than actual guards in her estimation, grabbed a glass of passing hypocras, and followed after Zôr. She wished she’d brought her mother’s crown, a black thing of spikes and sharp edges; it would have gone much better with her dress than the hood she was wearing. It was too bad the matron of House Nûlukhô was so attached to it. It was a fear inspiring headdress, and her mother needed little in the way of inspiring fear outside her natural countenance. The pair circled behind a fountain, pretending to admire the sculpting as they talked, Frost’s eyes darting to all the possible vantage points. There were just so many things that she wanted to get her hands on. She paused and looked Zôr again, appreciating how much she’d like to get her hands on that. She laughed inwardly, there would be time enough for that later. Right now, there was a heist to plan.

She took a sip of the drink and rolled her eyes. It was not bad as far as drinks go, far better than that ultra-sweet swill they’d served at the masque in Lindon. Frost hated Dorwinion. This drink was a little better. “I think you chose the more wisely,” she said, the filigreed nail guards clinking musically against the crystal. She poured most of the contents into the fountain and grabbed the whisky from Zôr before he finished the glass. “Mmmmm, yes, you picked the better drink. Even it is from ‘Dol Amroth’.” she said with a deeply affected, mocking accent. “I wonder if we shouldn’t steal a barrel or two,” she mused. “But yes,” she said returning to the topic at hand. “This place is clearly begging to be taken.”

Frost’s chest swelled with malicious enjoyment as Zôr detailed his idea, he was a devious as he was pretty. The keys to the kingdom. That would be a prize indeed! Númenóreans would never be so presumptuous and audacious as to make actual keys to their cities, but the elves of the fabled Last Homely House? She was certain there was a set of fancy, damasked keys forged from gold and platinum and painstakingly carved with runes of power and warding. “That would be such a treat,” she murmured. “There are so many things we can find here. The farmers let the foxes in the hen house, haven’t they?” She sat on the edge of the fountain and dipped her fingers in the water, the black and silver nail guards slicing aimlessly through the water. “You don’t think we’ll be missing anything special if we slip off? You have to admit, you’re just as curious as I am as to what this ‘ARPY’ thing is.” She was a little more than curious. She’d drowned a man in Minas Tirith (it seemed it was her duty to kill at least one person every time she was in the bleached city) just to have a minor mystery solved.

Idly, Frost looked at the corners of the rooms, nominally observing the architecture and structure of the building. There were cobwebs in the highest, most difficult to reach places. She could barely make out their wispy shadows against the richly carved woodworks. “I believe,” she nodded toward a strand blowing in the cool breeze, “that means we are very fortunate tonight. I think we should try something bold, something to make them sick to their pretty elven stomachs when they realize it. Tell me, darling, do you know what the Half-Elven lord’s beloved wife looked like?” Her grin was wide and wicked.

Androthelm · Sat May 08, 2021 3:45 pm

Androthelm Whitemane,
Nominee and Elder Gentleman

Androthelm Whitemane was dressed in his finery, a white and gold tunic which hung to his knees, long gloves of supple leather which somehow -- despite their rare use and high quality -- gave the impression of work-gloves writ fancy, of a soldier or adventurer’s gear enchanted into knightly gauntlets. His boots were black and heavy, the tall cut of a horserider’s shoe, and his cloak was thick and snowy white -- the upper edges feathered outward and layered with furs until the already broad-shouldered old man looked like a white bear, or a mountain, or a snow-covered tree. Upon his breast was blazoned the inverse icon of his people, long though he had departed -- the green horse, mane woven with strands of gold, upon a field of white. But it was the old wanderer’s helm which stood out the most -- from the peak of his sturdy iron cap a finely worked figure of a horse leapt up in gold, and with white horsehair the crest ran backwards down. His beard was neatly brushed and braided.

Androthelm had left his sword and his spear the guest rooms, of course, and his shield hung on the wall over his bed. There would be no need for them tonight -- no matter how rowdy the crowd did get -- and his harp, too, he had left. You didn’t want to be one of those fellows, who showed up everywhere with their instrument and demanded to be heard.

Without a spear, though, Androthelm was left without anything to lean on, and so -- as befitted his age, perhaps -- he had made use at last of a gift given long ago. The Whitemane walked briskly across the valley, leaning lightly on an oak staff capped in iron.

As for the celebration itself -- Androthelm could hear voices already as he approached. That was good. One never knew what to do at these things, if you turned up early and it was only you and the hosts who must make conversation. Indeed, as he stepped down into the courtyard, Androthelm was glad to see a smattering of those already arrived. He stepped gently across the carpet of red blooms, taking them in. There was Nessa de Argosy, in a shimmering dress whose color Androthelm could not entirely place, and here Fuin Elda, in velvet. They were speaking softly with a gentleman in blue -- Alcadir -- and Androthelm did not wish to interrupt. Across the open space he saw Frost and Zôrzagar, each in outfits somewhat darker than Androthelm expected from the residents of the Hidden Valley. That was all very well. If someone was here, that was because they were meant to be here. Things did not go wrong in Lord Elrond’s house.

At long last, Androthelm’s eyes turned to the real star of the evening -- the refreshments table. He drifted over somewhat faster than might be expected by a man of his age and bearing -- perhaps the staff had not been a necessity, but it did add something to his gravity, he thought. Now to add something to his stomach. A cup of hypocras, perhaps? Or the heady mead of the Beornings? Tempting, both -- and Androthelm remembered with a smile the time he’d spent with the bear-folk beyond the mountains. But -- this was Elrond’s elven house, and only an elven wine would do. A glass of Dorwinion red, older than Androthelm by far, and... He popped an olive to his mouth, biting down slowly and relishing the taste. Incredible food, olives. He ate another, and then took a slice of bruschetta to nibble on as well.

Stomach attended to, eyes attended to, legs still feeling fine -- Androthelm cast around the room for someone to talk to. What a curious night this had the potential to be.

Winddancer · Sat May 08, 2021 5:29 pm

Skin as pale as snow, hair as dark as the Void and lips as red as ripe juicy berries she looked as if she was from a fable. That was until you saw her eyes. Within those two flaming red orbs one could see a cunning malevolent evil, that was constantly peering out from behind long luscious black eyelashes. Beautiful in her own right, poised and graceful like all elleths, she stood out for the fact that she all but exuded evil. Despite having donned a dress that looked like the midnight sky full of twinkling stars had hugged her shapely form perfectly, cascading down over her bare feet and trailing out behind her, she could not quite hide the disturbing evil aura that seemed to surround her like a cloud of poison. Even without looking at her, people would intuitively step aside as she neared, only allowing quick nervous glances her way before making sure to not look at her in case it drew her attention.

Barefooted, she stepped from the red carpet of flowers, her lips having briefly twitched into a disgusted snarl at having her feet touch the flowers, though only those that truly dared to look long enough would have seen that. Shimmering like twinkling stars, she stepped into the Courtyard, her fiery eyes quickly and thoroughly taking note of each and every person already there, taking note of what they wore, where they were stood, whom they were with and any telltale signs of hidden weapons. No detail was missed, even the goose in the fountain was given it's due glance, though the couple in the far corner got the most attention.

Reaching out, she politely accepted the offered drink, though the glass would never make it to her lips. She had found it made others more at ease when she held a drink of her own, and it kept the waiters from pestering her. Walking lightly and gracefully she found her own corner from which to oversee the entry of the rest of the guests, having in passing given Fuin and Nessa a curt nod. She knew neither of them, only assuming they had something to do with this party, having the look about them as if they cared deeply about it.

Cradling the crystal glass in her delicate slender fingers, she let her blood red eyes rove over those who had arrived again, this time taking in more details. Should one of them look at her while she looked at them, her fiery eyes never wavered, nor did she ever show any embarassment of having being caught staring, merely giving a twitch of a perfectly curved eyebrow as if to acknowledge them with a semblance of a greeting.

Marceline · Tue May 11, 2021 4:42 am

Zôrzagar

“I suppose,” Zôrzagar assented, leaning in. “Appropriate for some activities, perhaps. Sneaking? Certainly. Dancing? Possibly. Hastily fleeing the scene, pockets full of treasure? Naturally. But you know well that some of the activities I have in mind require no uniform at all.” He spoke the last four words slowly and pointedly and punctuated his meaning with a kiss. He drew back, grinned unabashedly, and then followed her to perch on the edge of an ornate fountain.

As Frost sipped from Zôr’s whiskey and ran her fingers through the water, Zôr removed from his pocket a small silver coin. He had taken it from the man who’d invited them to this party as the man inhaled a lungful of water - his last breath, if you could call it that. Zôrzagar turned the coin over once, then tossed it into the water. From one fountain to another, he thought. A token from House Azgarâbêl, to this arrogant house of elf lords.

“Foxes in the hen house, indeed,” he echoed. “They have no idea what they’ve done. As for this ARPY business,” he went on, “if it means so much to these folk, perhaps there is something of value to be gained. But why gamble on that when we know for certain there are treasures here, unattended and free for the taking? I say we start with those. If we have time, we can see what the fuss is all about.”

After a few moments’ pause, his companion drew his attention to a stray wisp of spider web caught in a breeze. “Ahh,” he breathed. Frost had an affinity with spiders, and it pleased Zôrzagar to witness her talents with them grow. She herself was a marvelous, complex web of machinations and ambitions and appetites, and Zôr was quite happy to be entangled with it all. “Even the blessed immortals can’t keep the spiders away. A very good omen for us.” He kissed her again. “I’ll consider that my payment for the whiskey,” he said, then took her by the hand and led her up a marble staircase and along a covered walkway. The stones were cool to the touch in the evening air. As they walked, he answered her question. “I have no idea what the dearly departed lady of the valley looked like. I take it this means you’d like to find out?” His smirk was all approval of the scheme.

The loggia’s stone columns were expertly shaped; the intricate carvings mimicked the valley’s natural beauty in minute detail. Even among the decorative vines and leaves, small carven insects crawled. It was not at all to Zôrzagar’s taste, but he knew how to read the signs: when a home itself is a priceless work of art, even its most mundane contents will carry a proportionate value.

The pair of Númenóreans flitted from shadow to shadow, pausing to peer into each room they passed; all the doors opened without fuss. It was unlikely that the elf-lord’s chambers would be so easily accessible as these lower rooms, but each was still outfitted with the softest bedding and bedecked with the finest of art: statues on plinths, paintings, glossy ceramics, tapestries, and stained glass. Where the art represented people, Zôr saw elven lords and ladies draped in the finery typical of their race, immortalized a second time in paint and plaster in radiant splendor, all flaws forgotten. It was a shame most of these things were of an impractical size to carry away undetected - they would surely fetch a handsome price in the right markets down south. He imagined that what Frost was after would be an intimate portrait, small enough to cradle lovingly in one’s arms while weeping gently over one’s great loss.

The picture proved elusive. It wouldn’t be worth it if it wasn’t, Zôr reminded himself. Their searches of intermediate rooms were not completely fruitless, though: in one, he slipped a jade letter opener off a writing table and into his jacket's inner pocket. In another, he found a ring of gold filigree unattended on a bedside table. The ring was set with a garnet as large as his thumbnail. “Ostentatious to the end,” he muttered, then pocketed it.

“Well, love,” he said as they exited this last chamber. “I’ve had no luck leading this little search party. Why don’t you show me the way from here?”

Afird Splitax · Wed May 12, 2021 12:00 am

Bikki made his way down the red carpet, attempting to keep his dwarf boots, which he had polished to a mirror shine, from crushing the flowers. His auburn hair was neatly combed and shone with a natural lustre of youthfulness. His beard was forked, with nary a whisker out of place. He was a young dwarf, only in his thirty-second year, and he took pleasure in presenting his best qualities. His hooded cloak was of midnight blue with small silver axes embroidered upon it and a silver tassel. Beneath his cloak, he had on a tunic of sky blue, a supple leather vest, and a belt with a brass buckle that held up his dark brown breeches. Upon his right hand, he wore a ring of pure silver inlaid with three small rubies. Ruby was his birthstone, and the three stood for the day he was born.

He carried no obvious weapon, his axe remaining with the rest of his gear in his lodgings. This was a celebration in a peaceful Elven-hall, after all. Still, one had to be careful, so he carried a small knife concealed in his boot. When one travelled the countryside by oneself or was in a strange land (for this was the young dwarfs first visiting the Valley), a hidden weapon was always a good tool for survival and protection.

The first thing that caught his eye was the table that held a feast that even a dwarf could appreciate. Making his way towards it, bowing low left and right at the people he passed by, he suddenly recognized the Game Master that he had raced against in the Shire not so long ago. Keeping his hunger in check, for the time being, he walked up to the Elf and, sweeping off his hood, bowed low.

"Greetings @Fuin Elda!" he said. "Bikki at your service! We meet again! I am happy to see your familiar face. I am standing in for my mentor, Drifa, once more as she is still off in search of herself. I have never been to such an event, and I am a bit uncertain as to whether I should nod, bob or bow if you know what I mean. Have you tried any of the food yet? If so, do you recommend anything? I sure could use an ale!"

Nessa Saelind · Fri May 14, 2021 9:22 pm

Nessa at the Courtyard

In the end, Nessa did not have the Courtyard to herself for long. The elleth in the radiant red velvet dress who entered not long after was none other than her former patient, the Revered Grandmother, Lady Fuin herself. Although the elleth would strongly object at being referred to by any of those terms; perhaps half-afraid that her friends and peers would find the phrases uttered with respect the height of amusement. The elves were unknowable. The young healer was glad to see her fellow organiser and smiled warmly at Fuin admiring the elleth’s attire. Holding the demitasse cup and saucer in hand she idly wondered what would happen if she were to say out loud that the elf maiden looked like a Siren in Scarlet, but decided to hold that thought to herself for the moment.

“I almost wonder if we should have had a healer on standby,” Fuin commented as she observed the Courtyard. “I am afraid I may have a few of my friends going into shock.”

The thought of elves fainting from shock and awe of seeing the Revered Grandmother in a dress made Nessa laugh merrily, the sound of her laughter echoing through the lavishly decorated Courtyard. She shook her head slightly and looked at Fuin, her eyes shining with mirth.

“Is this not supposed to be our night off from healing Revered Grandmother?” Nessa asked, amusement clear in her voice. “As much as I enjoy seeing some millennial elves faint at the sight of a Siren in Scarlet,” she said her lips curling in delight as she teased the elleth. “I would much rather leave the smelling salts in the bathroom and not have to stitch some foolish ellon’s head because common sense deserted him at the rare sight of you in a dress, Lady Fuin,” the healer singsonged stressing the world lady.

Nessa’s attention and gaze were drawn by the approach of a silver-haired elf whose sky-blue half-cape flared around him. Her eyebrow lifted in question as her smile widened at his approach. Elves and their panache... The tightness of the ellon’s breeches was up to debate, but it was more likely that it would spark a round of fainting by both sexes. However, a blessing in disguise perhaps, the key ingredient needed for the fainting to happen was missing. They were lacking an audience, but perhaps the missive the messenger elf presented with a grandiose flourish would resolve that issue.

Alas, not. Nessa placed the demitasse cup and saucer on the plinth and took the missive from Alcadir’s hands. Removing the shockingly pink ribbon she unfurled the stained and crumpled scroll. The missive rather cryptically informed them that the Third was unfortunately and even mayhap unlawfully detained and that vengeance was forthcoming. The young healer exchanged a glance with Fuin. Not the most auspicious start… However, the appearance of a Goose in one of the non-wine fountains {shame really, the Goose would have a better time in the wine ones, but that is just your humble historian’s opinion} must have acted as a kind of beacon or signal, strange as it might seem, since their guests started to slowly but surely trickle in. A mighty portent indeed.

The young healer thanked Alcadir for his services, although she had a sneaking suspicion that he got his thanks for acting as a messenger elf by reading the message he was supposed to deliver, but that was a story for another night. She once again took the small coffee cup and saucer in her hands. There was not much liquid left in it, but enough to occupy her hands as she moved slightly to the side so she could observe the people who already arrived. Lifting the cup and taking another sip of the deliciously warm black liquid she wondered when the presenters were going to arrive. Little did she know that an unusual pair was approaching the crimson carpet of blooms...

Nessa edit: This idiot accidentally deleted the entire album with icons so yeah... The moral of the story kids: think before you hit delete!

Galadrihell · Sat May 15, 2021 2:52 pm

Alcadir in the Courtyard

Nessa delicately plucked the missive from his hand, after a tactful pause. Oh. Had he been meant to read it? Perhaps he’d been meant to read it. But - with only the most passing of glances at his definitely-not-too-tight-pants - Nessa had taken the message and thanked him most politely, exchanging the most cryptic of glances at Fuin. His Duty Done, Alcadir un-contorted himself from his flourish and began to Enjoy The Party, primarily in the form of grasping a goblet full of fizz and meandering the grounds in search of someone to flirt with, sing at, and generally be merry with.

Alas! He stopped short as he came across a most intimidating creature (@Winddancer). As tall as he, and possessed of a dread beauty and the most fabulous dress, Alcadir caught her eye and froze, his goblet stammering inches from his lips. Were girls’ eyes meant to... burn like that? In all his immortal life he had never seen such a thing. He girded his loins (mentally, as physically girding them would have resulted in a tragic accident) and made her a beautiful bow. “Welcome to the House of Elrond, Madame,” he managed to say without squeaking.

Lailyn · Sat May 15, 2021 4:27 pm

Lailyn
Lailyn was never one to miss a party or celebration no matter how big or small. Nor apparently one requiring travel all the way from Rohan. In an attempt to appear effortlessly elegant, she wore a lilac gown that appeared simple and unadorned at first glance. A closer look would reveal a delicate and subtle floral pattern adorning the sleeves and skirt. In a nod to the elven hosts, lissuin and elanor flowers peeked out from layered waterfall braids that cascaded over one shoulder in blond curls. Her appearance brought to mind the first blush of dawn when white clouds shone lavender in golden light.

She paused for the artists only long enough to inhale the sweet scent of the flower petals underfoot before moving into the courtyard. Among the whispering fountains and music, she was lulled into a state of serenity. Already, a few guests milled about though she knew none save Fuin, who was barely recognizable (and quite stunning) in her red gown. Still surveying the guests with a mind to make a stranger into a friend before greeting Fuin and company, a single look at Winddancer caught her like a rabbit in a snare. At the sight of those unnatural red eyes, Lailyn felt as if she had been plunged from a summer day into the very darkest part of night. Starry skies had always been a thing of joy for her but the aura of the beautiful elleth mantled in a midnight gown oozed nothing but danger. Lailyn’s lashes fluttered shut, immediately seeking to wash the sight away. Who was she? A stranger she did not want to meet.

Obviously unsettled, she drew in a nervous breath and hastened away as soon as her senses began to return. In search of a quiet moment of solace, she passed Fuin and the other hosts and guests in uncharacteristic silence, sending the faintest smile their way. She picked up the first glass she found without a care as to its contents and swallowed it in one go before taking another to savor more slowly once her frayed nerves calmed.
---
Merry
Meriadoc Brandybuck was dressed to the nines (by halfling standards) and ready to party. Of course, no one threw soirees quite like his own folk did, and indeed, one such party he had attended was Certified Legendary without question. There wasn’t even a single Party Tree in all of Rivendell, at least not that he’d found, and he had explored every nook and cranny of Lord Elrond’s Halls he could get into (and some he couldn’t at least officially unless this is “off the record”). Still, elves were a jovial folk when they weren’t too busy holding meetings about the fate of the entire world or giving enigmatic advice that didn’t answer your question.

He entered the courtyard and gave a little bow to Nessa, Fuin and Bikki. “Good evening to you all! I’m Merry Brandybuck,” he introduced himself. “I’m presenting tonight with an old friend. Say, you haven’t seen any Ents about, have you?”

On one lapel of his green jacket was the head of a white horse and a blazing golden sun; the other bore a green leaf with silver veins. Beneath the jacket, he wore a cheery yellow vest of the finest satin in all Four Farthings with buttons shaped like leafy rosettes. His favorite pipe was tucked inside his breast pocket waiting for the right moment to relax and have a smoke. Perhaps after the aforementioned announcement...
---
Quickbeam
has not yet arrived and is running late because...Ent.

Baphởmet · Sat May 15, 2021 8:46 pm

“You are nice and forward tonight,” Frost said with a wicked grin. “I like it. It’s such a shift from your cryptic, aloof stance. I think I could grow to like this very much.” Frost watched her companion flip a silver coin into the fountain. Under normal circumstances, she might have chided him for wasting coin (not that either of them ever had to worry about something so droll as wasting money), but she appreciated the symbolic gesture. The silver glimmered for a moment in the fountain as the ripples washed over it then it disappeared under the blue of the water. With any luck, that little bit of silver, with a curse added to it, would become a slow acting poison for the Hidden Vale. She wasn’t sure if that’s what Zôrzagar intended, perhaps he’s only meant the gesture to be one of defiance, but she could make it that. In Frost’s mind’s eye she weaved a dozen threads of web and silk from that coin to all vital parts of Imladris, from the magical to the mundane, then wrapped a final bit of silk around her finger. It would take a long time to develop, but Frost had more than enough time. She sighed with overdramatic zeal, chuckled maliciously, and followed after Zôr as he led her through the covered walkway. She took one last glance at the gathering party below them. She only recognized one: the elf with the red eyes. What was she doing here? The corner of Frost’s lip curled in a snarl. If she thought this place was going to be her hunting ground tonight, she was sorely mistaken. Though by the looks of things she was attracting too much attention to herself to perform anything covert. Frost and Zôrzagar would take advantage of that. She chuckled to herself as she disappeared.

“I either mean to find out, or make sure that no one else here gets to remember her,” Frost’s voice was flat, matter-of-factly, she leaned her neck over to one side until she felt the release of tension that came from a nice crack. There was casual cruelty, then there was calculated cruelty. Frost exceled at both. She returned Zôr’s kiss with hungry passion then pulled back and placed a silver and black nail guard to his lip. “And there will be plenty of time for that, once we’ve had a nice look around.” She took a moment to look around her. There was no telling if this house they’d taken up as a vantage point was a servant’s house or a lord’s. The elves of this era were so wrapped up in exuberant extravagance that to an untrained eye, they all looked the same. Frost was not an expert in elven architecture or social class structure. She had decided that during those lessons she would focus on other things, much to the consternation of her demanding mother. Zôr, however, seemed more than capable of figuring out what was what in this maze of bombastically styled homes. It was always best to work in pairs. She licked her lips as she followed him through the confines of the house. The spatial orientation of this house was all wrong. Elves built things in such a frustratingly beguiling fashion. Nothing was straight forward or simple, everything was backwards and upside down. She cursed under her breath, intentionally using the Black Speech of Mordor to rattle to inanimate bones of the house. If she could, she’d set this place on fire. But fire wasn’t really her plaything.

Her eyes rolled at all the marble and paint. Elves, beings with such long memories and detached emotions, clinging to a past they had rewritten a dozen times over to suit their present views and desires, doing their best to deceive themselves when really, they were deceiving no one. It was this kind of attitude that made all of them untrustworthy, it made the work of the Shadow that much easier. She traced her fingers over smooth, muscular lines of one statue: a man with fiery intelligent eyes and an angry, proud expression. His hands were raised to the sky in defiance, a sword poised to strike. With practiced indifference masking malicious intent, Frost exerted just enough for push the statue over. It wavered in midair for a moment before it came crashing down. There was a muted explosion of stone as it crashed to the floor, sending marble in a thousand directions. She continued moving behind Zôr as if nothing untoward had just happened.

The search was going well enough. They had not found their exact quarry, but if they had found it within the first ten minutes of a search, there would be nothing left to do. They were searching for a platinum apple in the midst of a hundred silver ones. Every apple they could pocket would be valuable in one way or another, best get as many as they could. While her companion picked through the choicest of jewelries, Frost went to the desk and thumbed through a dozen or more piece of what she assumed at a glance were correspondences with elven lords and ladies from various parts of the world. A cursory read revealed no secrets or hidden information, but that’s not why Frost saw value in them. These letters, to a forger, were worth more than a thousand times their weight in gold. Generals, rivals, black market businessmen, they would all pay a very pretty penny for these. She stuffed as many of them as she could into her purse. Elrond, Círdan, Thranduil, Galadriel, she now had the keys to imitating all of their hands. A cold sense of glee ran through her. She touched the desk again, her nail guards clacking musically against the rich wood. A spider, tiny and black, appeared and skittered away, vanishing almost instantly into the dark shadows of the room. “Remember to tell me all you see and hear little one,” she murmured.

“You want me to lead now, eh?” she caressed Zôrzagar cheek. “Well, I do like to be the one to take charge. I’m sure there’s another wing to this tawdry manse. Shall we see what’s on the side?”

Marceline · Sun May 16, 2021 6:02 pm

Pearl Brockhouse

The first time Pearl had wandered out of the comfort of Bywater and into the broader Shire, she had been wide-eyed with curiosity and bursting with excitement. Each unfamiliar gnarled old tree, fork in the road, and smial had elicited a little gasp and an “Oh!” of surprise and wonder. She had still been a child then; her father had taken her walking with him, hoping to encourage a sense of curiosity appropriate to her age but still scoped well within the boundaries of the Shire. He had succeeded, and Pearl had walked about the Shire many times since with him, with others, and by herself.

When she and Jorgy reached the edge of the Shire on this particular trip, she had looked back on the rolling green hills and taken a deep breath. Turning to the east, she had cried “It’s time!” and boldly stepped onto the road that would sweep them off to the valley of the elves. They hadn’t walked the whole way by themselves, of course - a horse-drawn cart had gotten them as far as Bree, and then they had hired small mounts at the Prancing Pony. Pearl had had to show Jorgy how to sit in a saddle and how to guide his pony where he wanted, and she’d been quite amused by his reaction to suddenly being up so high off the ground. “Trust me, it’s better than walking the whole way ourselves!” she’d said.

And now they were here. Here, in the Vale of Rivendell! Pearl could not believe it. The last hobbits known to venture here had been bound, unwittingly, for a much grander adventure than they had bargained for. While Pearl was a curious and adventurous hobbit by nature, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go much further on this trip. She hoped they would simply be able to enjoy the party and return home, safe and sound.

The valley itself was astoundingly beautiful. Bird calls from the surrounding woods mingled with the silvery tinkling of chimes, and there were light voices on the air. Beyond that, there was a magical fragrance to the whole place: a crisp and fresh and rejuvenating scent which made Pearl’s spirits soar. “This must be the magic of the elves!” she whispered in her amazement. She and Jorgy had left their ponies with elves who stood in greeting to all the guests. Pearl had thanked them in a humble Hobbitish way, with a little curtsy to show she was truly grateful. The room she had been provided was bigger than the three biggest rooms in her family’s smial combined, and she skipped about it before changing into her party dress, just to see if it truly was so spacious and not a magical illusion.

Once changed, she went and stood at the near side of the bridge leading to the festivities. She and Jorgy had agreed to meet here to walk into the company of elves together (“We hobbits have to stick together!” she’d said). But there was no Jorgy. She waited, re-tying the bow in her hair twice, and then decided she had better check to make sure he hadn’t gotten lost. She backtracked toward the guest rooms and knocked on his door. “Jorgy!” she called. “Can you smell the food? I think it’s nearly time to eat!”

Nessa Saelind · Mon May 17, 2021 9:18 pm

GM Announcement

HONK! A loud honking like noise interrupts the festive atmosphere in the Courtyard. Everyone’s gaze turns toward the Goose that is still paddling serenely in one of the non-wine fountains. {Still a shame, he really should have chosen the wine one, I hear from reliable sources that both the white and the red are particularly good.} HONK! There it goes again, but the Goose uttered no sound! Is it a goose you hear honking its lonely communion, or a warning cry of the sacred geese guarding the House of Elrond against the forces of evil? Nay! It is not the goose honking its lonely communion, nor the warning cry of the sacred geese that saved Rivendell! {A story for another night…} HONK! ‘tis merely the sign of the ARPY gong, summoning the esteemed guests to gather at the Feasting Hall (description below); for the awards will soon be presented.

{In plain terms, dear nominees, honoured presenters and esteemed guests please RP your migration from the Courtyard to the Feasting Hall. And if you were by ill chance late to partake in the refreshments and mingling in the Courtyard, by all means, manifest thyself in the Feasting Hall.}

THE FEASTING HALL

Your entrance to the Feasting Hall is accompanied by the sounds of the trumpets, violins and violas playing the Marche en rondeau {Te Deum in D major, H. 146}. Those familiar with the great hall of feasts immediately notice the changes in the décor. Faerie lanterns in different colours are strategically placed along the hall, to provide the best light for the ceremony. Upon further inspection, you begin to notice that the light in those lanterns does not only flicker but move up and down, round and round… Perhaps it is fireflies you see “trapped” in those lanterns, and perhaps it is just another form of elvish magic – a brilliant expression of the creativity of the elves residing in the Last Homely House.

In place of the long table and Lord Elrond’s great chair on the high dais, a simple lectern made of dark wood was set up. The ARPY banner hung behind the well-illuminated lectern that was decorated with flowers native to the dell. In the semicircle around it, but with enough space left between, round tables covered with linen cloths as with as snow were set. The tables could fit 4 to 5 persons, depending on their size. Knowing that award presenting was thirsty and hungry business (not to mention that unfortunate and unforeseeable circumstance could cause delays), the Triumvirate made sure that the scrumptious and tantalising hors d’oeuvre from the Courtyard were served at every table along with the drinks.

Aduchil · Tue May 18, 2021 8:46 am

Aduchil stared down at the hapless Elf. "It is very simple," he spoke in a menacing tone. "You must close the doors in preparation for my dramatic entrance."

The servant wrung his hands. "But sir, it's a courtyard, it doesn't have any doors!"

"Not my problem!" How did this cretin not understand? Aduchil would be damned if he entered the gathering in a normal way like some mug. "What do you expect me to do? Just walk?"

"Yes, sir, and please," stammered the other Elf. "Down the red carpet like the others."

"Look at me." Aduchil extended his arms to reveal the full glory of his purple robe, stitched with little, tiny symbols that on closer examination turned out to be various kinds of cheese. Besides being absolutely fabulous, the robe provided room for an arsenal of his emergency supplies. Whether seasoning a fricassée or tearing down a monument to Elfdom's oppressors, he was ready for anything. Anything except for making a dull entrance. "Look at me," he repeated. "Do I look like any other?"

"No, sir. If it helps – I have some confetti I can throw?"

Aduchil narrowed his eyes. "Acceptable." He clapped his hands. "To your post, man, the evening depends on it!"

As the servant ran ahead, Aduchil scouted the surroundings. Ah yes. To one side, a tapestry detailing the history of this ceremony as a gruesome reminder of Elrond's tyrannical regime. And lest one might think he had grown soft, elsewhere, a host of Elves sat ready to sketch everyone passing by. The ultimate surveillance society – Sauron would be proud. Yet not for long! Elrond's regime, that was; Sauron could be proud for as long as he wanted, that was not Aduchil's business. He tapped himself on the chest, feeling the envelope tucked into the folds of his robe. The contents were explosive and would surely bring an end to the Half-Elven's iron fist, as long as it fell into the right hands. Tonight, Aduchil would ensure that happened.

Time was of essence, though. He could not hide his identity for long; despite his humble nature and quiet disposition, the very antithesis of flamboyance, too many knew his face. And Elrond had eyes and pointy ears everywhere. Aduchil would simply have to get in, get it done, get out. No time for distractions.

He crossed the stone bridge to enter the red carpet. As confetti rained down from the heavens, blessing his very presence, he struck a pose for the painters. That should confound them and buy him some time – none would expect the real and self-effacing Aduchil to spend half an hour posing for the canvas.

Entering the courtyard, he glanced around and grabbed a glass of Dorwinion red. The game was on – he needed full focus now to complete his mission. Drinking a glass of Pelargir sour, his vigilant eyes scoured the gathering, noticing every tiny detail. Yet as he went to refill his glass of Lindon white, he could not suppress a gasp.

Downing his glass of Annúminas rosé, he finally realised what that tapestry was about, the one that the fellow at the entrance had raved about. Seeing his name on it twice, Aduchil had assumed it was a list of Rivendell's most wanted. Yet as he finished his glass of prosecco, he realised it was some kind of competition. Having no memory of ever doing anything related to lore, he could only assume some kind of scoundrel had stolen his identity to capitalise off his fame. Hating anything related to capital, Aduchil fumed and would have strangled somebody if his hands had not already held a pint of ale and cider, respectively.

But, Aduchil considered with a cunning expression only briefly interrupted as he drank a tankard of hypocras, this villain could not have guessed that the true provocateur was in attendance tonight. All he needed to do, Aduchil thought as he gulped down his mead, was wait until the rapscallion revealed himself.

Drinking the araq and ouzo mixed together to save time, Aduchil's gaze swept over the crowd. It was not surprising that among these bigwigs of Elven society, one cur had gone so far as to impersonate the good – nay, immaculate name of Aduchil. He could barely taste the plum wine over his rising fury, nor did the mint schnapps help to calm him down. He felt his frustrations begin to boil over, leaving his throat parched – he needed a drink. But nothing that would cloud his judgement, Aduchil contemplated, grabbing a quick glass of Dol Almroth single malt just to help his thought process.

He glanced over the drinks table. Perfect! Pouring himself a few fingers of orange juice, Aduchil heard the sound of the gong. Already? He barely had time to touch the refreshments! Stifling a sigh of exasperation, Aduchil emptied the nearest pitcher within reach, indifferent to its content, and moved from the courtyard into the hall.

Baphởmet · Tue May 18, 2021 8:05 pm

Things were looking up for Jorgy. Not literally of course as Hobbits were very small and Jorgy was a Hobbit, absolutely for sure. But in a metaphoric sense, Jorgy was on top of the world. Not only was he going on a trip with Pearl, his favorite person in the whole wide world, but that trip was going to Rivendell! To be completely fair, when Pearl told him about this trip, Jorgy had no earthly idea what a Rivendell was. It was about three days into their trip through the countryside that he realized Rivendell was a place rather than a thing. And it was a place full of elves! Jorgy had yet to see elves since his transformation into a hobbit. What a sight it would be to look at one not from ground level and not, you know, evil. What would an elf look like from this height? Jorgy had so many questions that he spent the entire rest of the trip perpetually on the edge of bursting. He was quite certain Pearl took most of his facial expressions to mean he was gassy, which may or may not have been entirely accurate.

Upon arrival, they separated to go exploring. Well, that’s not quite true, as a matter of fact, as soon as they arrived in Rivendell Jorgy took off like a… well a lava snake, leaving Pearl to find her way (he did realize this several minutes later and felt sufficiently rotten for letting his excitement get the best of him). Rather predictably, for those who might be taking bets, he got lost. In all fairness though, even the most experienced people could get lost in Imladris, the place was a veritable maze of buildings and trees and more trees and statues and more trees. Jorgy was understandably flummoxed and believed half the time that he was in a forest rather than a city. But still, even the trees were magnificent and green. There were green trees in the Shire, wonderful shady ones with streams that ran by and had places to sit and fish or read, but they had nothing on the trees of Rivendell. Each one seemed impossibly greener than the last one. Was there a green that was greener than green? If so, this place had that color.

Somehow, he ended up in what he was certain was a feasting hall. It was rather quiet though, for a feasting hall, and there was no table. There were mirrors with water basins lining one wall, very fine-looking mirrors made with silver and finely sculpted ceramic bowls filled with crystal clear water, beside each bowl was an assortment of fragrant soaps. Jorgy grinned as he looked at his reflection. He cut quite a dashing young Hobbit if he did say so himself.

“I look like a dashing young Hobbit,” he in fact said. His words echoed down the room he assumed was a feast hall. There was a singular person standing in the corner, but he looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but here. Why was that Jorgy wondered. “Excuse me,” he said as he ambled over to talk to the man. “Can I ask why you look so glum?”

The elf rolled his eyes, deflated his broad shoulders, and sighed. It was such a sigh as to make one think his soul was exiting his body. “I’m not glum, little master, I’m…”

Jorgy thought he was merely searching for the right word or was pausing for dramatic effect. He discovered, after waiting a good thirty seconds, that the man was doing neither, that he simply was not going to finish.

“How rude,” Jorgy mumbled under his breath. With all the stories there were able elves, he thought they would be at least a little more agreeable but this one seemed to have sucked on an entire tree’s worth of lemons. With a loud “Humph!” Jorgy was off to explore the rest of the feasting hall. It was looking stranger and stranger. Where were all the guests? Surely he and Pearl had not been there first? Jorgy had accidently made them late several days in a row, there was simply no way they were early. This was most confusing.

He decided to take a seat. There were lots of seat available, even if there was no table yet. The seats were odd here in Rivendell. Even though he had his only little cubby to sit, the chair was built very strangely. There was a hole in the middle and there was water underneath. Was it for filling one’s water glass? Jorgy was quite certain that at a fancy feast like this one there would be as many different glasses as there were things to drink. He looked at the water in the porcelain bowl. He looked it for a long hard moment, considering. Either elves were very strange indeed, stranger than Hobbits, or he had in fact wondered into the bathrooms.

He turned red in the face.

With a hop, a bound, and a skip, Jorgy was racing out of the room that was not the feast hall. No wonder the man in there was such a sourpuss. Thankfully, with a heaping helping of luck, Jorgy found Pearl as the gong rang and she called out his name. “Well hello!” he said, determined to keep the embarrassment of the bathrooms in the proper place. “We Hobbits should stick together, no telling where we might end up if we get lost. Mmmmmm, can you smell all that food, Pearl? I bet they are almost as good at baking bread as you!”

Marceline · Wed May 19, 2021 4:38 am

Zôrzagar

As the pair of shadows made their way from room to room, Zôrzagar thought he felt the light touch of a stray hair or a loose, trailing thread brushing against his neck. He lifted a hand to push it away but found nothing there. There was, however, something which sent a shiver down his spine as his hand passed through the air - something invisible and somehow far weightier than any thread or wisp of ordinary spider silk. Ah, that must be it, he thought. At some point, Frost must have left behind an arcane gift for the inhabitants of the valley. He half wished they could stay long enough to see it take its full effect, but to do so would be to tempt fate even further than they already were wont to do. They had done so simply by setting foot in the valley. No, best to vanish with their pilfered treasures and leave the malignant gossamer to do its work.

Thus far, they had moved about the place furtively, stealing silently through the house. Then there came a loud crash of smashing stone. Zôr turned to see Frost walking away from the ruins of a marble statue, its pieces scattered across the floor. The figure’s face was shattered and unrecognizable; the statue was beyond repair. His likeness destroyed, perhaps the man would fade from living memory over time. Zôrzagar was amused by the notion that they might have played a role in erasing all recollection of whoever the man had been. “You are remarkable, the way you spin your webs and leave destruction in your wake,” he said approvingly as Frost followed him out of the room.

While Frost rifled through the contents of a desk in another chamber, Zôrzagar removed the garnet ring from his pocket and turned it in the fading sunlight, appraising its cut and luster. It was a fine stone, rich blood red and heavy, and he was already torn about whether or not to sell it. An item from the Last Homely House would make a fine addition to his collection, and its greatest value might just lie in what its possession would do for his reputation, and not in gold. There would be time to decide what to do later, of course, and with any luck, he’d acquire other, finer trinkets from the elves before they were done here. He pocketed the ring again and looked up. Frost had a fistful of papers in hand; a look of triumph illuminated her features.

Zôrzagar smiled. Since his youth in the Warrens, he had thieved first and foremost for his own gain. Sometimes that involved direct harm to others, but it usually amounted to slipping some desirable object away without notice. Frost, on the other hand, had long ago mastered the art of manipulation, and it showed in the contrasting objects they had each taken. Zôr had no idea what was in those letters, but he knew she would find a way to use them to her advantage. The two had crossed paths for the first time whilst she was engaged in some calculated scheme, and Zôrzagar had been learning from her since. Although he still had much to learn, he liked to think that he had taught her some tricks, too. They each had many teachers and gladly pooled their knowledge.

When they exited the final room in this wing of the house, the sun had all but set. In the courtyard below, Zôr saw torches and lamps flickering brightly; the guests entering the feast cast long shadows in the gathering dark. How marvelous. With the crowd occupied by whatever the festivities were to be, they would enjoy even greater freedom to move about the place.

Frost’s long, false claws were cool against his cheek. Though decorative, he knew them to be quite sharp. Zôr’s face split into a devilish grin. “Well do I know it.” He stepped aside and swept out his arm to indicate that she should lead the way. “I am at your mercy and shall do as I’m told.”

Nessa Saelind · Wed May 19, 2021 8:41 pm

The Right and Honourable Peregrin “Pippin” Took and Držiha – the humble chronicler and historian {actually a scholar, a royal scribe and fellow of the Rynd Permaith Iaur, PhD. Hist.},
Presenting the ARPY award for Best Lore Post
The Hall of Feasts

There is a saying in Gondor: Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Or in this case hobbit. Certainly not an elf, for they were the most unreliable narrators…

After his last grand adventure, the Right and Honourable Peregrin “Pippin” Took did not expect to see the Last Homely House anytime soon. He certainly did not expect to receive an invitation from the ARPY Triumvirate to attend the ARPY ceremony at Rivendell as a presenter. He was not very familiar with the ARPYs, it was one of those elven and Big Folk things {like the (hi)stories of old} that hobbits rarely took part in… However, as Gildor told his cousin Frodo on a hill above Woodhall “the wide world is all about you; you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out”. So Pippin sat down and solved this problem – no, challenge, there are no problems – by a round of correspondence with the Librarian and Archivist of Minas Tirith.

In addition to the information regarding the ARPYs, the correspondence with the Librarian resulted in a few interesting acquisitions. It was not yet a widely known fact, but after the smallest Guard of the Citadel and Knight of Gondor returned home from his grand adventures, he took a particular interest in the history of Númenor and the heirs of Elendil. So Pippin was extremely pleased and surprised when he received a copy of the Apókryphe Historía, a most intriguing book about the history of Númenor written by the Librarian of Armenelos. Along with the Secret History of Númenor, he had, quite unexpectedly, received a copy of a manuscript that was thought to have been lost in the Akallabêth: the Treatise on the Astrolabe by Theon of Rómenna. Both texts took a prominent position in the library of the Great Smials and, to the surprise of many Tooks, the young master could be frequently found in the library reading the newly acquired texts and making many notes.

The ARPY invitation was most fortuitous, as it coincided with another round of correspondence – this time with Strider {who now ruled the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor under the name Elessar, but Pippin still preferred to call him Strider} and Faramir {who acted as Aragorn's Steward} regarding his request for a scholar. Thus, by a stratagem and the will of Fate and Fortuna, it came to pass that the Right and Honourable Peregrin Took met the elderly humble chronicle and historian Držiha, who arrived from Minas Tirith with the rest of the Gondorian delegation, in the library of Imladris. As befitted the formal occasion Pippin was wearing a bespoke formal black three-piece suit with silk-faced lapels, and silk cufflinks in the shape of the White Tree of Gondor. An elegantly knotted cravat was held by a silver cravat pin in the shape of an astrolabe, and a silver pocket watch nestled safely in his pocket. Držiha, on the other hand, wore a warm dark umber habit.

Unbeknownst to both parties, Fate and Fortuna, fickle mistresses as they are intervened in the hour of their meeting. According to the ARPY invitation he had received, Pippin was supposed to present the award for Best Small Collaboration. It seemed like an easy enough task, and the young Took even considered presenting the award together with his cousin Merry {thus honouring both small and collaboration part of the award}. However, Merry was presenting the award for Best Comedic Post with Quickbeam of all creatures! He had to admit, cousin Merry had style. And a peculiar sense of humour, but that’s a story for another night…

However, an unplanned event occurred. The great and genius, but not a very pleasant {or street smart as the kids these days say} elf who was supposed to present the award for Best Lore Post had not arrived. {Apparently, connections with Valinor were atrocious these days, and let’s just say that the elf in question had not endeared himself with the powers that be… And the elves have long memories, being immortal and all…} In the Triumvirate’s hour of need the unlikeliest of persons, the smallest Knight of Gondor, a hobbit from Tuckborough, who was not known for wit and wisdom, or love of lore or scholarly prowess {unless you counted rapid-fire questioning Gandalf while riding on Shadowfax on the road to Minas Tirith love of knowledge and lore, then yes…} accepted this mission, quest, presentation thing. He would do it! He would present the award for the Best Lore Post!

{The account of what happened is as follows. I shall try to be brief for everyone’s sake, we have tarried long enough. Young master Took and I were having a pleasant conversation about history in Rivendell’s magnificent library when we were interrupted by the arrival of Marcellus’ niece, mistress de Argosy. The young lady, already dressed for the ceremony, holding a golden envelope and rolled up pieces of parchment apologised profusely for the intrusion and interruption and proceeded to explain the predicament the Triumvirate was currently in. The presenter for the Best Lore Post did not arrive in time and the award needed to be presented. Would the young master Took do her a personal favour and present the ARPY for Best Lore instead of the wayward elf?

“It would be my great pleasure,” Pippin said a bright smile on his face. Nessa beamed at him, relieved that the ceremony would proceed smoothly. “And Držiha will aid me, for I will need a little time to acquaint myself with the mater…”

And thus, dear reader, it came to be that I, Držiha the humble chronicler and historian, along with the Right and Honourable Peregrin Took found myself presenting the ARPY for Best Lore Post.}

~*~

Their entrance to the Feasting Hall was announced by the sound of trumpets, violins and violas.

“Marche en Rondeau, from Te Deum in D major, H. 146,” Držiha explained to Pippin as they both admired the magically flickering faerie lanterns.

As the tall elderly scholar and one of the two tallest hobbits walked over to the wooden lectern on the high dais they noticed that most of the tables were occupied. It was good to see so many nominees, presenters and other guests in this great hall. As they climbed the dais Pippin looked around for a stool or a bench, he was one of the two tallest hobbits, however, the lectern was meant for the elves and Big Folk. Fortunately for him, someone thought of everything so a stool next to the lectern so he climbed it, Držiha standing beside him, and prepared himself to present an award.

“Good evening, Middle Earth! Good evening, Rivendell!” Pippin spoke clearly, his voice carrying to the furthest corner of the Feasting Hall without any problem. He grinned, elvish magic, indeed. “For those of you who don’t know me, and for those of you that do,” he said with a grin. “My name is Peregrin Took and you can call me Pippin. Tonight I have the greatest of honours to open this ceremony with the presentation of the ARPY award for Best Lore Post! Before we find out who you, dear fellows, voted for and decided is the most deserving of this great award… Let us remind ourselves who the nominees are! In alphabetical order, of course.”

@Aduchil Response to "Why 13 Dwarves?"

@Androthelm Response to "LOTR Read-Along, TTT - Book III"

@Eldy Dunami Response to "A question of canonicity"

@Galastel Response to "Do you hate women?"

@Lailyn Response to "Did Saruman believe he could wield the Ring?"

@MistressofJesters Response to "Do you hate women?"

“And Douze points go to! And the winner of the Best Lore Post by popular vote is…

@Eldy Dunami with the response to "A question of canonicity"

Let’s have a big round of applause for our winner and welcome her to the stage! Please come over to take the ARPY statuette for the Best Lore Post, give a short thank you speech and put this adorably cute badge in your signature! Congratulations once again!

Code for the signature is as follows:

Code: Select all

[img]https://i.imgur.com/vygLW1h.png[/img]

Nessa edit: This idiot accidentally deleted the entire album with icons so yeah... The moral of the story kids: think before you hit delete!

Moriel · Thu May 20, 2021 2:50 am

Tilion was, as ever, fashionably late. How the invitation had reached him he couldn't be quite certain and indeed cared not too much for a deep investigation of that particular anachronism, but instead acquiesced to both the invitation to this odd ceremony known as the ARPYs, and to the request that he present one of its awards. Isil's pilot had harnessed his vessel to a star-whale for the evening and skated down to Endórë on a slip of stars to join the festivities. Truly, Tilion's reputation for waywardness was such that no one would notice or at least complain if the gentle creature pulled the moon slightly off course. He arrived in Rivendell in a shower of sparks, appearing as if from from the gathering dusk itself (which, of course, he had). Tilion had walked nowhere but the deck of his shining ship for many Ages, and the ground was unsettlingly hard and motionless beneath his feet. And it if had been as long (which it had) since he had assumed his bodily form in front of anyone but his fellow beings of the sky, this had served only to emphasize his appearance. Much like an elf he looked, as he had in Valinor, but taller, well-muscled, clad in breeches and a sleeveless jerkin of some sturdy but indefinable material. Although his form was like that of an overlarge elf, there would be no blending in for Tilion. He had always stood out, with his icy eyes and pure-white hair, but spending so much time aloft as the moon had imbued his form with a celestial glow, blue and white at once, suffused him and surrounded him like an aura, or like small flames, licking in the breeze as he moved. Still, he hadn't come to blend in at an occasion such as this, and marched with confidence into the courtyard.

The smells assaulted him at once, and immediately his mouth began to water. It had been a long, long time since Tilion had tasted earthly food or drink, though he had watched from above as the world's inhabitants grew ever more creative with such. He strode immediately over to a table and filled a large glass with thick, rich coffee, topped it with a generous measure of Dol Amroth Single Malt and poured it, wholesale and steaming, down his throat. With a satisfied "AHHHH," Tilion moved along the table, not noticing at all that the courtyard was practically clear now, and only those left around him were serving elves who were scurrying to gather everything up and move it into the feasting hall beyond. He was rather more preoccupied with a large dish of olives and guzzling them down, each salty-sweet-tart and oh so satisfying. These he followed with olive after slice of prosciutto, the most wonderful form of a pig. At length, he noticed a tugging on his arm, and looked down. An elf was looking up at him with some apprehension, having just released his arm.

"Uh, sir," he began, "I have to ask you to move inside now, the ceremony is about to begin." Tilion sucked a last slice of cured pork through his teeth and turned to face the elf.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded, not without humor.

"Er... no?" The elf replied, raising his eyebrows in trepidation.

"Excellent." Tilion turned away and caught up a nearby empty pitcher, which had no doubt been used to decant something or other, and proceeded at his leisure down the table, emptying bottle after bottle of wine into it, and ignoring the pained looks and protests of the servers around him. His bother filled, Tilion lifted the final tray from the table, which happened to be covered in crescent rolls, and proceeded into the feasting hall. Even as he entered, the first award was being presented, and Tilion halted behind the first row of tables to hear it. He did not know the recipient, but what did that matter? When her name was announced, he raised his booming voice and enormous drink with the rest.

"Huzzah!! Eldy!!"

Tilion took a humongous swallow from his vat of wine in Eldy's honor. This was going to be a good party.

Eldy Dunami · Thu May 20, 2021 5:34 am

Even in her home in Rohan, far to the south, Eldy had heard tales of the Last Homely House. If she had to make a long journey to reach the ARPY ceremony, in which she had been nominated, she supposed Rivendell was one of the best possible destinations. Indeed, its hospitality and homeliness lived up to its reputation, but she had little time to rest between her arrival and the ceremony itself. Someday, maybe, she would learn how to not leave things to the eleventh hour—but it was not this day.

Having donned her gown, applied her makeup, and put on her high heels as quickly as possible, Eldy made her way through the Courtyard to the Feasting Hall. Sadly, there was no time to graze on the tempting array of food laid out for guests. She took a seat near the rear of the Feasting Hall as Pippin announced the nominees for Best Lore Post. In this community, even a nomination was a great honor, but she'd been anxiously anticipating the announcement of the winner since receiving notice that she was a nominee.

Hearing her name read aloud, she made her way to the stage, blinking rapidly under the lights. Taking the statuette, she turned to face the assembled audience with a nervous smile. She had no problem pontificating—rambling, perhaps—at length in Lore discussions, but stage fright still reared its head in certain circumstances. Even so, she couldn't not say something after being recognized.

"Thank you very much to everyone who voted for me, and to the people who organized these awards in the first place. I owe the Lore community here a deep debt of gratitude for helping me learn so much about the subject, and perhaps more importantly, about how to express my thoughts in a more cogent manner than when I was first starting out. It would take a long time to fully communicate how much it means to me that people consider one of my posts to the best of an entire year, but please know that I feel very honored."

With a quick bow, she rejoined the audience to observe the rest of the ceremony.

Aduchil · Thu May 20, 2021 6:59 pm

Best Art and all that jazz

Aduchil squinted at the raised platform. No sign of the imposter who had stolen his venerable name, but it did not matter. Where was the confetti? The incendiary cocktails? The food poisoning? It was time to show these people how to present an award. Fortunately, the envelope within his robe could serve such a purpose. It would only require some slick thinking, and after sampling the entirety of beverages on offer, Aduchil's thinking was anything but dry.

Flourishing his robe with his usual ethereal grace, the Elf moved towards the dais with the confident stagger born of blood alcohol levels sufficient to pickle herring in. "Stand aside, peasantry!" he called out. With his hands, he shooed anyone in front of him, in particular the pink Dwarves blocking his way with pamphlets about their banking syndicate.

Taking centre stage – though to be honest, Aduchil was born centre stage – the Elf looked down on his robe. It contained something he needed. Cheese? No, delicious expired dairy would have to wait. He had to focus. If only he had a drink to clear his head. Never mind. Task at hand. A double whammy. Deliver the important news within the folds of his magnificent robe, and show the plebeians how one did this.

How did one do this? Aduchil had no idea. Time to wing it. With a flourish, he drew the envelope from his pocket. He read the words aloud. "Winner of best art." He stared. What the Udûn was this? When he had swiped this from the Imladris post office, he had assumed by the fancy calligraphy it contained Elrond's plans for the conquest of Eriador. Yet this seemed to be some mere description of random doodles. Could he have misunderstood?

Aduchil laughed heartily. No. Preposterous notion. Nay, there was only one possibility. This was code. But two could play at that game. Probably more than two. But right now, it was a two-player game. Like chess. Or Monopoly, you against the bank. Retrieving his emergency letter opener to cut the envelope, Aduchil began.

"In the depths of barbarous lands, where death lurks at every turn, only one thing may soothe the savage heart. Hear! The sonorous song of the Common Yellowthroat, as brought to us by @Lailyn." Throwing his head back, Aduchil engaged in a lengthy performance, tweeting the mating call of the bird. He continued until he heard crying from somewhere in the audience. Satisfied that someone had been moved to tears, namely himself, he wiped his eyes and continued.

"The dreaded circular wraith, as despicable as her hygiene is questionable, Winddancer made by @Narv!" Aduchil shivered appropriately, which was very little.

"In all of us flows a river," Aduchil spoke. "Though if you stab people, it tends to flow out. Who knew? Definitely a River Flows in You as performed by @Nia, that young scallywag." Pursing his lips, Aduchil whistled the tune until someone's eardrum had been pierced. "What is that? Again? As you say!" He continued with another piece inspired by a board of keys from same performer.

Blood dripping from his ear, he continued. "Are your hearts on fire? Not yet? Then feast your bourgeois eyes on this flaming portrait that I have no idea what depicts, yet somehow shows Obstacle 1 by some blackheart named @Hoglorfen!"

Here, the ceremony had to be paused as Aduchil fought off several frisky Common Yellowthroats.

"Can anything match the wisdom of the Ents? Probably! They haven't even figured out indoor plumbing. But those branches make for nice brushes, so enjoy Oak by @Oak! And no, that is not a perfume made by a self-indulgent, pompous fashionista!" Aduchil cleared his throat. "If you do require a new scent, though, seek out that known rake, Aduchil, and ask for his Aduchil no. 5 by Aduchil. Made with aged fungi only."

"What's better than drinking? Nothing!" Gods, Aduchil wished he had a drink. All this talking. "But the secondbest thing would be two people drinking! Because then at least you get half. Three would be a crowd. So enjoy these Two Friends Drinking by @Rior Laegiel!"

Grabbing his emergency absinthe, Aduchil drank until the green Dwarf promised to distribute the wealth of Erebor equally among the working class.

At this point, Aduchil's attention was entirely distracted by the appearance of a feline creature. "Kitty cat!" He looked at the parchment in his hand. "Wait, what about this woman who was shot today? Who is @Eldrith? Never mind. Moving on! Keep up or get thrown overboard!"

The Elf narrowed his eyes. A human child? Either that or those were the least pointy ears in Elvendom. "Would Howie's mother please come to the information desk? We have an update on Howie here, who's missing his mother @Tari. You got five minutes, or we get to keep him."

Aduchil squinted. He was used to reading double, but quadruple was a new high. "I have raccoons, a unicorn, some suspicious fellow named Belemir, and a pointy-eared lass. I assume these are barbeque recipes by @Fuin Elda, though I do not recommend roasting Elves. Meat's too stringy."

A brief intermission as Aduchil tried to eat the cheese embroidered on his robe.

He sorted through the papers. "Another barbeque candidate – those are popular. If you are into diminutive wolves, check out this tiny dog. Hurry up though, as @Tarawen is bound to eat it soon."

"Is this a log? Is this some creature's skeleton? Who knows? @Afird Splitax certainly doesn't. My money is on alligator." Aduchil licked his lips briefly at the thought of gator steak. Weird how hungry he had become all of a sudden.

Aduchil knew it was too good to be true as he emptied his second emergency absinthe. The green Dwarf was hoarding all of Thror's wealth. Betrayed yet again! Fighting back the tears, Aduchil shushed anyone trying to interfere. The show must go on.

"Do you like books? You do? What about lots of them. Like, a whole house full. We could call it a – book-house. Yes." Aduchil blinked at his own brilliance until he remembered the existence of libraries. He cleared his throat. "Nobody noticed that. Quick, @Naur, back me up! Smoke bomb! Or drawing of bespectacled orphans and their bibliographical surroundings! Your choice!"

"@Vorondir, your steed with the horse pendant RHN-H00R53 is parked illegally. Please move your steed, I repeat, pendant RHN-H00R53."

The time had come. Only one way to finish this. Stretching his limbs, Aduchil tore his robe away, revealing his tights underneath, and threw himself into interpretative dance. After numerous wardrobe changes and a thoughtful essay on the plight of farm workers in Dorwinion's vinyards told entirely through leg movement (using your arms was too easy for conveying information and felt like cheating), his final dance moves spelled it out.

"@Narv, you stand a winner! Not in the lame sense meant to instil a false sense of confidence in children by declaring everyone a winner, but the real meaning of the word!" From a pocket somehow installed on his tights, Aduchil withdrew his emergency confetti and let it fly.

Magic words that make the brag appear in signature:

https://i.imgur.com/hMPRIoW.png

Galadrihell · Fri May 21, 2021 8:49 pm

Sil presenting Best Poem

Late, late, she was dreadfully late! Silizlîn scampered over the rosy-petalled bridge to the gentle tinkling of elvish bells, accompanied by the counterpoint of the manacles she was trailing behind her left ankle and hastily broken off into a short length of chain. Obviously it was all a terrible misunderstanding and she had merely been testing... the ... quality of the grog and the attention of the guards. Honestly, people just didn’t appreciate her.

Her jumpsuit this time was a distressing orange, which had made Sil dreadfully conspicuous as she ran naughtily through the fields of wheat. But nothing would stop her getting to this party. She had a Task To Complete.

She elbowed past a pair of startled elf-guardians and dashed straight to the nearest fountain. The only occupant was an angry Goose, who honked aggressively at Sil as she went for the other fountain and stuck her head into it. Thank Gorthaur, this one was wine. She doused her entire curly head, shook her hair briskly so that it fluffed out, and burst onto the stage, brandishing a damp piece of paper and pursued by the Goose.

“Greetings, gentles all!” she announced. “I have burst the bonds of Rohan’s jail to be with you all today!”

She waited. Nobody clapped.

“Anyway,” she continued a trifle dejectedly, “my mission is...”

She opened the paper.

“Best... por? POEM. Best Poem.”

She cleared her throat.

“The first of our glorious bards,” Sil began, “is the noble @Androthelm with his poem, In Darkling Winter .

The next with a little ditty is the Duck, I mean, Goose...”

She trailed off. The goose had followed her onto stage and was standing Extremely close to her, leaning menacingly on her leg.

“@Goosil,” she falteringly continued, “with... this little ditty... ”

She paused as the Goose was now attempting to take the paper out of her hand and eat it. The dramatic pause was broken by several honks. Silizlîn shrieked several imprecations, several involving the words “plum sauce”. Finally, she subdued the creature by stunning it with her manacle and continued on nobly.

“Next up,” Sil continued, “@Allacan ob Burzum, totally not a secret agent, with her song Westmark Boys ;

And finally another Rohir, may Melkor rot all their accusatory souls for arresting poor totally innocent girls, the glorious @Wamba_the_Fool with Why Doth The Whimsy-mancer.

“And our glorious winner...”

She paused, but nobody sprinkled confetti over her. Alas, she hadn’t had the forethought of Aduchil. Sadly, Sil wrung a little more champagne out of her hair and sucked on a stray strand.

She unfolded the last piece of paper.

“Our winner is @Androthelm! congratulations! Take the stage and collect your priiiiIiaaaRRVGHHH”

Sil helplessly indicated the trophy that @Nessa Saelind was brandishing. She was unable to move further, as she was being attacked by an infuriated goose.

https://i.imgur.com/9Pvflrk.png to copy for your sig

Lailyn · Fri May 21, 2021 9:22 pm

Quickbeam
Quickbeam was well-known for his hasty manner among the Onodrim. Yet even the hastiest Ent may still be slow to make an arrival by other folks’ standards. Indeed, so it was this evening when the tall Ent made his appearance at last. But still he was in no hurry. He paused in front of the artists for so long they had to ask him to move along. He obliged them with all due respect.

His laughter rang clear at the sight of the fountains. How kind of the hosts to provide me a foot bath, he thought to himself. It was a long walk from Tauremorna to Imladris. He stepped into the fountain and let the cool water lap over his tired toes. Upon his crown of grey-green hair, he wore a circlet of red rowan berries. This was the sole ornamentation he bore for he was an Ent and was close to the earth and the olvar and thus did not need fancy garb. He was a Tree-herder, a caretaker of the rowans and all things green and growing.

His lids fell over his eyes, threatening to pull him into a brief doze, having entirely forgotten the purpose of his visit to make an announcement after excluding himself from the Entmoot to reach said decision--a very Quickbeam thing to do. HONK! The sound of the feathered-flocking-longnecked-flyinghigh-divingdeep-waterbird (he would most politely never use defecatingeverywhere even though it was true--Quickbeam was rather fond of geese for they made him laugh) roused him. Something about the timbre of the honk was a bit off--was the goose sick? Still, he laughed as he splashed his face and hair with water until it shimmered. He’d have liked to stay in the fountain all evening but the guests were dispersing from the courtyard like seeds on the wind. Scooping up some water in his hands, he cupped it to his lips and drank. It didn’t have the lovely depth of flavours as his own draughts but was cool and pleasant enough.

When he heard the ceremony was being held in the Valley of Imladris, Quickbeam had assumed it would be something like the Derndingle and indeed, that was all that seemed necessary to the Ent. A little hollow with a ring of trees. The Courtyard and Hall of Feasts were far from it. He did not understand all the pomp and circumstance or the need for hasty folk to invent causes for celebration when the world was full of lovely living things worthy of praise. As a guest of honour, he would not be a party pooper (leave that to the experts--the goose maybe?? Though Goose seemed to have his own unique struggles at present). Quickbeam was delighted to see young Master Pippin presenting an award and he cheered heartily for all the winners though he had no idea who any of them were.

Raisins · Sat May 22, 2021 6:22 am

The Courtyard

Fuin could not help but smile and cast her gaze over all of those that were arriving. This ARPYS has been long over due and that it was happening was welling a bit of pride in her chest though as she caught sight of @Winddancer it was lost for a moment. Perhaps it had been her near death and loss to the Void itself or becoming a wraith many years ago that had made her rather difficult to rattle but her first thought was in fact a strange one. And that her eyes would match Fuin's dress rather spectacularly. She gave a small smirk at the raise of the womans eyebrow an acknowledgement of her own before she found Bikki@Afird Splitax greeting her. She gave the dwarf a warm smile and returned the bow properly to the dwarf.

"Though I am saddened that Drifa was not able to come, I am very glad that you are here in her stead." Fuin said warmly, "It is good to see friendly faces in these halls, if you need introductions to anyone I shall be quite happy to do so, I am not horribly busy with much until the end of the ceremony so you are welcome to come and talk to me at any time." Of course at this point Nessa passed a comment on this being their day off.

"Ohhh you and I both know that one should always be prepared for anything. After all we have Aduchil doing at least one presentation. I expect him to be demanding cannons and fireworks set off inside the hall or something along those lines." She said only to have Alcadir hand a missive to Nessa, Fuin for her part did not even spare the elf a glance and read the note over Nessa's shoulder, the advantage of the height being an elf was quite useful at times. "Ahhh Sil, well I am sure things will be interesting when they arrive." Fuin said with a chuckle only to find yet another friendly face, had slipped in two in fact if she was not lazy caught sight of both @Androthelm whom she had ventured about in a maze in Imladris what felt like only the other day and @Lailyn who was a picture of beauty in her dress and flowers. Fuin was about to make for both of them when Merry came asking about if they'd seen an ent. "I'm afraid not mellon, though as you already likely know, they are not the most hasty of creatures, but they tend to arrive when they are needed so I am sure they will be here soon." She said knowing full well that Merry and an ent (she wasn't sure which one at the moment for she had not been in charge of the presenters this year that had fallen upon the fantastic Sil and Nessa)were slated to present an award. She was about to go and great her Androthelm and Lailyn since Nessa had managed to slip away which meant that the awards would start soon when they were summoned to the Feasting Hall by the loud honking of a goose. A strange summons in the Valley but a welcome one.

Too late, but she knew there would be plenty of chances to speak with them inside the hall itself.

The Feasting Hall

Fuin was near the presenting area, a glass of wine in hand and her eyes over the crowd as the presentations began. Indeed the decorating of the room was most fantastic she cheered for Eldy and Narv as they won, she of course cheered louder for Androthelm for she knew him better of the three winners that had thus far been announced. Of course she was shocked at the state of Sil, though not surprised she'd managed to show up in time. She wondered if she wanted something more... elegant, maybe with a thigh sheath for a dagger instead of... well she wasn't entirely sure what her co-host was wearing. It was quite... daring? Loud? Garish? Fuin wasn't entirely sure what the right word would be, but it appeared it was about to be blood stained due to the Goose of summoning as Fuin had taken to calling the creature. Apparently it did not like losing.

Winddancer · Sat May 22, 2021 7:45 pm

The slightest of twitches graced her full red lips as the elf bowed before her. He garnered more than a brief glance as she made sure he was not doing it to mock her or challenge her. How she hated all this decorum, hiding away your true feelings and pretending to like someone's company or that you were enjoying yourself. This was a huge mistake. She should never have come. However, as usual, her undying curiosity got the better of her and despite thinking this was merely a trap, she had accepted the invitation. She had never heard of the ARPY's, had no idea what it was about, other than it being some kind of award ceremony. Nominations wasn't usually something that was done in Mordor. You fought your way to the top and stayed there by continuing to fight. Nobody bothered about nominations about who was the best at this or that. Your reputation was what was important.

Neverless she was intrigued, if nothing else it provided her the opportunity to see Rivendell again, as well as getting very close to some very important people. She would have been foolish to say no, even if it was a trap.

Trying to ignore the elf, she deliberately looked to the side as he finished his bow, however the Madame gained him a quick hatefilled glare. Lips twisting into a disgusted snarl, she gracefully stepped away, the shimmering dress twinkling as she followed the other guests into the Feasting Hall.

Again she found a spot that was in the corner, her back to a wall so there would be no one surprising her from behind and with a good view of the entire room. As the evenings announcements began, she dutifully clapped at the winners, though spent her time ignoring the food set before her and instead mentally taking notes of each and everyone there, occasionally wondering where the two she had seen earlier were.

Afird Splitax · Sun May 23, 2021 8:03 pm

Bikkie was still smiling at Fuin. Her kind words had made him feel less awkward when a tall lass with blonde curls made her way down the carpet of flowers. She was quite the pretty one. Then, a hobbit (dressed to the nines and looking quite dashing) entered the Courtyard and introduced himself as Merry Brandybuck. The name sounded familiar, but the young dwarf was unsure where he had heard it before. Perhaps, Drifa or Afird may have mentioned the name in one of the many travel tales that they had shared with him.

With his hand upon his breast (his hooded cloak now hanging in the cloakroom for the gathering had become a trifle warm, and his shyness had added some colour and heat to his cheeks), he bowed low before the hobbit, his beard almost sweeping the floor. Rising, he smiled and said.
"Bikkie at your service! No, I have not seen a tall Ent yet, but I would certainly like to!" Grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of actually seeing a true Ent, for he had never met or seen one, he bowed several times again in his excitement.

When he had calmed down some, he was ushered into the Feasting Hall with all the other guests. The room was filled with the sounds of trumpets, violins and violas. The sight of the tantalizing hors d’oeuvre almost drove him mad, but he held out, for the ceremony was about to begin. As he seated himself at one of the round tables, a fresh mug of ale by his hand, he took a moment to look around the hall at all who had come to the party...

He saw a woman with chocolate brown tresses who wore flowers in her hair.
There was a dandy elf whose silver hair shimmered, and when Bikkie had passed him by upon entering the Feasting Hall, he had caught a fragrant scent of lemon and some' flirty' flower whose fragrance came and went.
A very tall woman all in black with what he believed were slim stilts upon her feet, who, from her looks, made him feel very insignificant, stood beside a man in grey and black. The aloofness that was conveyed from the pair was unsettling.
His eyes found an elderly gentleman with the most wonderful helm upon his head. Not known for their love of horses, no dwarf, regardless, could deny the craftsmanship that went into making the helm. It was superb.
And then, the young dwarf felt dread creep upon him as his eyes caught sight of the women female with pale white skin and ruby lips. Her hair was as black as night, and she wore no shoes upon her feet. He felt a chill run down his spine when she turned her head suddenly in his direction, and he saw her eyes; they were red eyes like a lick of flame from the tip of a Balrog's whip that he had heard tales about when he was so much younger. Turning his head quickly so that he would not meet her eyes by accident, he drew in a breath. Then suddenly, the ceremony began, and he had no more time to dwell on the feeling of evilness that emanated from the women with the red eyes. He breathed easier.

He clapped his hands as the awards were presented. His mentor, Drifa, had been nominated in the Art category. She was not the winner, but all who were nominated were winners in his mind. There were more nominations to come. The ale and the tantalizing hors d’oeuvre were going down smoothly and deliciously. He was having a great time. Looking over at Fuin, he winked and raised his mug.

"Great party, don't you think?"

Marceline · Mon May 24, 2021 2:10 am

Pearl Brockhouse

A gong sounded. Oh, they would be so late! And they did not, being hobbits, have the perfect excuse for lateness which wizards enjoyed (that is to say, arriving precisely when they mean to). No, hobbits could indeed be late, especially when in the company of elves and men - Pearl did not think herself worldly or important enough to set the terms for when she ought to arrive.

She looked around anxiously. Night was falling around her. Torches and lamps lit the way along the red carpet and into the feast hall, which was blazing with light and humming with conversation. Anxious as she was, she would not go in without finding Jorgy first. Now the question was, how long would it take to find him? Was he sleeping inside his room, or had he wandered off along one of the many winding paths in the valley? If he had, she would not blame him - this place was perfect for exploration, and long walks, and lots of thinking. But they had a party to attend.

Fortunately, Jorgy found her. Pearl smiled widely to hear him speaking of hobbits sticking together. “I certainly can smell it!” she replied. “And we’d better get into the feast before it’s all gone!” She took Jorgy’s hand and practically skipped over the bridge, so excited was she to see the elves, enjoy the feast, and see so many of Middle-Earth’s best and brightest all in one room.

They entered just as a burst of applause erupted in the room. Someone (a very large someone) called out the name, “Eldy!!” She joined in the applause which followed when an artist by the name of Narv was announced. And then there was another award for poetry. The winner of that prize was a wise old man, judging by the looks of him, and Pearl nodded her approval that a wise one should compose poems fit for the elves.

Once the first round of excitement had simmered down, Pearl ventured further into the room. She did not think herself important enough for a position at one of the tables toward the front, so she took a seat at a small, unoccupied table in a far corner. She drew in a deep breath, finding herself unaccountably nervous to be among such company. There were elves, hobbits (and famous ones at that!), ents, men, and perhaps even greater powers such as wizards in this room. She wanted to soak it all in and remember it forever. It wasn’t likely she would find herself in such company again!

From the array of food on the table, she plucked a star-shaped biscuit; she also helped herself to a glass of mead from the fabled Beorn’s Hall. Her eyes lit up after the first bite of biscuit, for it was marvelously savory and sweet all at once. Who made these? she wondered. I could do with a recipe to try at home! She looked around, hoping to spot the baker in their midst, and jumped in her seat when she saw a tall elf, seemingly wrapped in shadow, observing the room with fiery red eyes. None of the tales they told in the Shire spoke of elves with red eyes - she would have quite a story to report when they got home. Turning back to her drink, Pearl nervously swallowed a mouthful of mead, all thoughts of finding the biscuit-baker forgotten. “Jorgy!” she whispered, hoping he wasn’t too far away. “Help!”

Baphởmet · Mon May 24, 2021 3:30 pm

Elves. What a strange concept they were, Jorgy was realizing. Here in the heart of their kingdom, there were a dozen of a dozen different shades of elf. There were fancy elves, fancier elves, rude elves, uppity elves, elves that might drown if it rained because their noses were so stuck up in the air. Jorgy never imagined he’d see such a kaleidoscope of strangeness outside his own mirror. Hobbits were, by contrast, a study in the mundane and ordinary. Hobbits didn’t float or glide or saunter (well, that last one wasn’t really true, Hobbits were excellent saunterers). They didn’t spend twenty minutes talking only for the listener to question if they actually said anything. Hobbits didn’t seem like they were only half in the world and half somewhere or somewhen else. Elves were strange.

None more strange than the fellow (@Aduchil) that just presented that award (so that’s what ARPYs were? Awards? Who could have guessed? Not Jorgy). He looked, covered in confetti, that he belong in a circus rather than a high society gathering. Jorgy decided that he liked this one quite a lot. He might not enjoy fishing (a crime but a forgivable one) but he certainly liked his food and drink! Jorgy, leaving Pearl’s side for just half a heart beat (surely she’d be fine in the midst of all these “fair folk” for a few minutes), decided he was going to meet and introduce himself. It was very uncharacteristic of Jorgy, normally an overly awkward and shy fellow, but he was feeling very adventurous (accidental trip to the bathroom notwithstanding).

“Hello good sir!” he piped in the most cheerful voice he could manage (likely sounding a bit overeager to an experienced ear). “My name is Jorgy, Jorgy Underash, uh, at your service. It’s quite a wonderful spread of stuff they have around here, wouldn’t you say? Although I bet they have something a bit stronger here than some whisky.”

Jorgy was, clearly, unaware of who it was he was really talking to.

However, his attention was brought back to Pearl in an instant. Something, or someone, had scared her and Jorgy was about to go into full protection mode. Yes, he was not sure who or what it was, but that didn’t matter. Once, whilst out wandering in the forests around the Shire, Jorgy came across a boy in a white bear hat and a weird stretchy talking dog. They talked about being heroes and saving people. It struck a chord with him and he’d spent much of his time since then (apart from Pearl’s social lessons) trying to be a hero. The pair told him about a special book that would help him: the Enchilada (surely that was correct, right?). Jorgy read the book over and over and over (because it was very hard to read and often he had to read things four or five times to understand what was being said) and was certain he was on his way to being a hero just like Finn and Jake.

It was time for him to leap into action and that’s exactly what he did! Literally. He jumped from where he’d been standing next to the elf and bounded to where Pearl was. It did not take long for Jorgy to discover who it was that was terrifying his best friend. It was an elf, @Winddancer, (because, well this was Rivendell). But this elf was strange. He almost thought he recognized her from back in his lava snake days. Those red eyes were very distinct. But Jorgy would not be dissuaded! He puffed out his tiny chest and put his fists on either side of his hips, making himself as big and wide as possible. “Now you listen here,” he said with a surprisingly angry tone (though he was aiming for brave). “I don’t know who you are, but if you scare my friend Pearl again I will have to deal with you. And I can promise you it will not be pleasant!”

That’s the kind of thing heroes said, right?

Tharmáras · Tue May 25, 2021 7:30 am

Tol Noldarë, Mole Island west of Lindon

Set Between the Spring Masquerade and the Arpies

It is therefore a foolish and perilous thing, besides being a a wrong deed forbidden justly
by the appointed Rulers of Arda, if the Living seek to commune with the Unbodied, though
the houseless may desire it, especially the most unworthy among them. /
Some are filled with bitterness, grievance, and envy. / To call upon them is folly. To attempt
to master them and to make them servants of one own's will is wickedness. / The wicked among
them will take bodies, if they can, unlawfully. The peril of communing with them is, therefore,
not only the peril of being deluded by fantasies or lies; there is peril also of destruction.
For one of the hungry Houseless if it is admitted to the friendship of the Living,
may seek to eject the fëa from its body; and in the contest for mastery the body
may be gravely injured, even if it be not wrested from its rightful habitant. Or the Houseless
may plead for shelter, and if it is admitted, then it will seek to enslave its host
and use both his will and his body for its own purposes.
- Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring: The Later Quenta Silmarillion (II)
- Of Re-birth and Other Dooms of those that go to Mandos

"Of all your reckless harebrained schemes, this venture is perhaps the most precarious," icily remarked Herentortha. The glowering blond Exile, lean and sinewy, wandered outside the Summoning Circle. It was formed of Herumacil's carved black candles resembling Moles interspersed with the sprinkled blood of Maeglin's servants.

"Worked the last time," Hatholdir replied to his chief counsellor and minister of mine safety in blithe ignorance, binding his cut hand. The master smith and King of the Moles, a High Elf who was once Maeglin's prominent captain in industry and war, was strong and mellow-spoken. He wore a coat and breeches of red and black damask. On his bejeweled belt Anguirel - the sword of Aredhel's son - was sheathed in a gleaming black scabbard of tardur , a metal of his own making nigh identical to Eöl's shining black steel. Mannish stubble he groomed well over his chiseled jaw and a circlet of Númenorean mithril crowned his short raven hair. It was crusted with crystals of elvish-glass he devised. Imprisoned shadows of dark caverns were meshed in the unbreakable enchanted casing and to each Hatholdir given hearts of ebony flame.

Beneath a chryselephantine statue, a towering effigy of Maeglin built of whale ivory and blackened gold, Hatholdir led the Moles of the Iron Circle and some of their children. Inside the hallowed burial vault they assembled before the sarcophagus where the remains of Turgon's nephew were interred and revered. It was largely constructed of serpentine and galvorn which Hatholdir once liberated from Nan Elmoth following Gondolin's fall. To evoke the semblance of Mandos, the floor and pillars were of jet. Hatholdir had magically ensnared tendrils of Rhudaur fog; the mists were enchanted with his Eldarin power to perpetually enshroud the tomb to mirror the dim silver-lit gloom of Namo's dreary halls.

"The prospect of watching you fail miserably is somewhat intriguing but I have tunnels to protect." Herontortha walked out, shaking his head ruefully.

"We have all components to begin the séance, Atto ("Daddy," Quenya)!" gushed Alagossel, grasping his sleeve. His youngest daughter resembled a mortal girl in her preteen years. She was loyal to her father, being similiarly devious and violent, obsessive and utterly deranged.

Milmitra, Hrango's child who was nine years old and affectionately known as "Mimi", tugged Hatholdir's opposite sleeve. The Elf-girl was small and meek and golden-haired. She was the only Mole present
wearing green. "I don't want my hand cut," she confessed timidly. "It'll hurt awfully bad," Mimi assumed, wilting under Hatholdir's fake stern gaze. "Atto says I don't have to..." She avoided the Mole King's mock gimlet stare. She glanced at her father. Muscular, bald-headed Hrango grinned at her with his red-gold aurichalcum teeth.

"Fortunately, your older brother has given his blood so the rite may commence without your contribution," he assured her. Hatholdir smiled warmly. He patted Mimi when she clung to his leg in gratitude.

"I dunno," said Alagossel, wresting Mimi away and cackled when her cherubic best friend shrieked in dismay. "We might need a sacrifice! You're the only innocent Mole on this island!"

"Good evening, idiots!" cried Ornatari, suddenly entering the chamber. "What have I told you about scaring the Baby!" Herontortha's daughter scolded Alagossel. Both girls habitually referred to Mimi as "The Baby" since she was a few years younger than themselves. The Elf-girl, older than the Mole Princess, pulled Cousin Mimi to her side. Since she was the eldest member of the trio and a scholarly student related to the King's advisor, Ornatari considered herself to be a voice of reason and authority. She was just as tall, sarcastic, and egotistical as Herentortha. She inherited her mother Ilmalaurië's cool temper, love of crystals and stylish dresses (all Mole black), her obsession with fountains, and fondness for flutes.

"So, what I feared is true." Ornatari heaved a melodramatic sigh. "My counsel has been ignored again!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "Father and I we're hoping we'd appeal to your senses but perhaps we're foolish ourselves for believing you had any. Playing with a demonic talking board of Rhudaur is not a good idea. You might summon a Balrog or devil of Angmar by accident or, Ilúvatar forbid, a gigantic gluttonous spider from Outer Void!" Ornatari received amused stares and sulked. She had the curse of being right and knowing more than everyone else. "Listen to the loremaster!" she whined in bratty rage and stamped her black garnet slipper.

"Lore apprentice," remarked Astaro pointedly. Ornatari smothered his chuckles with a firm press of her black lace glove.

"There are wicked elven spirits seeking hosts among the living," Ornatari explained for the umpteenth time. "They're bodysnatchers. Crabanel possessed Nariel Eregwen for one example."

"That's going to be an Arpy winner!" Alagossel broke the Fourth Wall. "Er, next year."

"Did you ever stop to think that Maeglin's houseless spirit would force the soul out of your own flesh so he can inhabit your body and rule Mole Island?" Ornatari snapped at Hatholdir who said nothing, blinking in astonishment. "No," said Ornatari, "because you're incompetent."

"He would have harmed me on the shores of Lindon if he desired to," Hatholdir objected in sure conviction. "Your concern is noted. Surely you underestimate our chances but I have high hopes nevertheless."

"FINE." Ornatari rolled her blue eyes and retreated toward the chamber door. "I'm going to stand here so I can make a swift getaway if a Humongous Dimensional Elf-eating Spider appears to kill us all." Ornatari ordered her cousin to follow, treating Mimi like a hound she was calling to heel but was politely refused.

"I want to do something important," Mimi professed to Hatholdir.

A slow grin of triumph contorted the Mole King's otherwise handsome features. "Very well, darling. You are appointed a special task..."

Hatholdir gestured at the Rhudaur Talking Board. The runéd divining tool was one of many used by Morgul sorcerers to contact evil spirits and fell creatures. This one carved of black birch was lettered with Tengwar of Rhudaur Dúnedain and the numbers 0–9 including words "yes", "no", "hello" and "goodbye." A planchette, a heart-shaped piece of wood, was used as movable indicator to spell messages during a séance.

Ornatari rushed toward Hatholdir to tackle the Mole King but she was intercepted by Idrasaith and Hrango. They backed her into a corner. If Maeglin could be ushered through the ether, they wanted their daughter to be given the honor of returning him. "Seriously? He's endangering Mimi so he doesn't have to risk his life. You both are mad!"

Hatholdir ordered Mimi to communicate with Maeglin with the planchette as he spoke. "Angyarhon, your Beloved await your glorious appearing. You are to be a guest at a ceremony commemorating the art of storytellers. A tale of two Moles, an account of your heir and his First Bow meeting, is ranked among the nominated. Will you present the award for best dramatic writing and support your acolytes?"

Mimi's hands moved in a blur then frozen abruptly in mid-motion.

The ensuing silence was ultimately shattered in a cacophony of gasps, screams, and muttered oaths. Mimi sat unburnt in a pillar of golden-red flames. Her thick flaxen curls stirred, windblown. Her blue eyes were now pupil-less and shone with a piercing brightness of the Calaquendi.

"Mimi-" Hatholdir uttered but he choked on his words, driven to his knees and clutching the invisible hands gripping his throat.

"Mimi is not here anymore," she answered with the great and potent voice...of Fëanor.

Ornatari squealed. "I told you so!" hollered the scholar in exultation.

Fëanormimi levitated herself amidst the column of blazing fire with her hand outstretched to continue throttling Hatholdir. "You abandoned my army to chase a girl."

Astaro belted out laughter but yelped when Fëanormimi sneered at him. "You're a prospector, not a husbandman." Fëanormimi slapped the black cattleman's hat off his head.

"I...am...a king..." Hatholdir rasped, still writhing.

"Of betrayers," rebuked Feanormimi, seething.

"What have you done with my child's soul, Fëanáro?" Idrasaith demanded. She trembled, outraged. For once she couldn't unleash her fury. She could not wound the body of her own babe.

"She is safe for the moment," he gently assured Idrasaith. She was once his smithing colleague in the mansion of Aulë and a friend of Nerdanel. "I have not robbed her House. I pleaded for her admission and, in sympathy, she let me in. I use her tongue to speak. I swear to you I have not enslaved Milmitra... but I will destroy her, alas, if I'm not given what I want. I hold her life as ransom. If Aredhel's whelp is given permission twice to leave Mandos to attend a party then the same fortune must be bestowed upon me!"

Chuckling disembodied laughter emanated from a sable cloud of billowing smoke....

@Ercassie , it's showtime.

Baphởmet · Thu May 27, 2021 11:53 pm

They thought she was dead. Fools. What is dead can eternal lie, and in this strange aeon, death will die. She was hunger personified. As long as famine, greed, and want existed, so would she. She would outlast every single creature on this earth. She would be the last thing this gasping dust would know before she swallowed it up. She was eternity, boundlessness. She was everything. She was Ungoliant, the Queen of the Spiders, Goddess of the Empty Spaces, the Devourer of Worlds, the Monster under the Bed of the Gods, the Nightmare at the End of the Book. There was nothing she could not do, nothing she could not devour. And there was a light here in the valley, a light she wanted to extinguish forever. If a spider could smile, she did. On eight legs as massive and heavy as the very mountains she trampled to barrow hills she travelled soundlessly. Unlight dripped off her like putrid sweat, with each step, the darkness increased. The unlight poisoned the very ground it touched. Light and life were a thing of the past, darkness eternal would reign as she devoured and devoured and devoured.

The sounds of merriment increased the closer she came to the valley. Her rage increased exponentially with it. How dare they rejoice, how dare they find ways to celebrate. What did these pathetic beings have to celebrate? She would show them. Oh yes, she would show them. A thousand eyes looked in a thousand directions, she could see everything, and she hated it, lusted for it, wanted it. She devoured the light of reflected moonlight in shallow pools, devoured the starlight reflected in dust motes, leaving naught but emptiness and depravity and sorrow in her wake. Everywhere she went, doom and despair followed. Where she took light, nothing could come back. Soon, she would devour the entire world. Perhaps then her hunger might be satiated. Perhaps soon, she would turn her thoughts to the Void and he would lay chained within, and there she could have words aplenty, she could show him true darkness and emptiness. The thought sent a shiver of glee over her tenebrous bulk.

Soon, Ungoliant, Mother of Doom and Lady of Pain, Goddess of Hunger and Master of Horrors, was close. She could smell the light as it dripped off the flesh of the creatures inside, the craven two-dimensional thinkers who believed her a myth or a horror long since departed. She raised her front legs in a show of aggression She could nearly reach the height of the Firmament, she could almost feel the cold air of the starry realms above her. Her jaws opened and nothingness spilled out of her, she vomited darkness so bleak and terrible that the very earth itself shuddered beneath her, attacked in a way that it could not defend itself. Horrid joy reached her mind as she crept along.

Then, the Last Homely House appeared to her, a pathetic thing, a dilapidated outhouse compared to the glories she’d seen and devoured in her aeons. The claw at the end of her foot was ready to strike. On her lesser children, the tiny ones that acted as spies, weavers, and spinners, the hooks were barely visible, only the most dedicated of natural philosophers knew of them, but on her, the Great Spider, the claw was as big as a dragon’s fang. It slammed into the wall of the house, causing the entire thing to shudder and shrivel. She drank in the light that spilled out, it satiated her but made her hunger for even more. She slammed her great head in the hole her claw had made. And again and again and again. Until finally, like a monstrous tick, her head burst through the stone and wood walls of the elven dwelling. There was so much light! Soon, there was naught but unlight and desolation. She smiled and drank it all in. Even in the utter absence of light, her eyes could see them. They were awarding themselves, devolving into an orgy of self-congratulated larking. How was it that such mewling quims had survived so long to suck on the teat of the universe? These grease covered apes were disgusting, they all had a sheen of putrid sweat and hundred different auto erotic pheromones wafting about the rancid enclosure.

They wanted an award? She would give them one.

The Best OP

The Nominees her soul extracting voice sounded in each of the dung beetle’s heads.
@Annúnfalas for Lindon Masquerade – Spring Ball
@Dwim for Oogie Boogie's Wheel of Fun
@Dwim for The Periannath Walking Club – Journey to Woody End
@Fuin Elda for Buccaneers of Belfalas II
@Goosil {Sil} for PROTETCS MY NUTS!
@Lailyn for Misty Mountains Free RP
@Moriel for Angmar: The Northern Lands
@Oro for The Clans of Khazad-Dum
@Oro & co. (credits to the original ERC creators) for Rangers (RPG) Chapter 1: A Growing Threat
@Tharmáras for Ages of Arda IV: Mantle of Darkness
@Winddancer & co. (credits to Naith) for City of Umbar – The Haven
@Winddancer & co. (credits to Tzu, Moriel and Naith) for The Shadows
@Afird Splitax {Drifa} & co. (Frito Bandito & Narsilion) for The Dwarven Express (Post Office)

She waited an appropriately dramatic amount of time, something these liminal worms got all hot and bothered over then…

The Winner… @Oro for The Clans of Khazad-Dum
The Runner-Up… @Lailyn for Misty Mountains Free RP

Come get your statue… if you really want it.

Lailyn · Fri May 28, 2021 5:22 pm

Merry
“Hullo Bikkie!” Merry greeted the dwarf who had a most impressively long beard that was likely the envy of his brethren. “It’s very nice to meet you!” He rubbed his own bare chin in concentration at Fuin’s comments. “Yes, I think you are right of course! I ought to know better than to expect Quickbeam to arrive too early. Ha! Almost as bad as a wizard. I will be glad to see him again and I promise you, Bikkie, you’d have to be blinder than a bat to miss him! Perhaps you and I might have a smoke later?” He offered to the dwarf, giving his own breast pocket a fond pat, wherein lay his beloved pipe and leaf.

Merry surveyed the Feasting Hall in search of the table bowing under the weight of the most food and sat down once satisfied he had picked the most plum spot. He quenched his thirst with a mug of frothing golden-amber ale straight from the Shire and cheered and clapped for all the winners. Mid-bite into a deliciously sticky, gooey Bear Paw he realized...he was up soon!

Quite the opposite of an Ent, he jumped up and raced forward with the Bear Paw still in hand. On his way backstage, he ran into none other than the Right Honourable Peregrin Took fresh from his own presentation. “Hey Pip!” He exclaimed with his mouth half-full before he swallowed. “Did they pull a last-minute switch on you? I thought you were set to present Best Small Collaboration! You were brilliant-- how good of them to pick someone of intelligence for that category!” He said with a cheeky wink leaving it unclear whether this comment was meant genuinely or sarcastically.

When Quickbeam arrived, the two had a very pleasant reacquaintance in the greenroom backstage. Quickbeam remarked the room was not green in the least, not in color or with plants, so why was it called that? Didn’t elves know about the importance of Naming things? Even the Eldest were hasty folk to a hasty Ent. Merry half-listened, managing to nod and “hmm” in all the right places, stifling a yawn. (For all he was paying attention he might have agreed to give away his as-yet unborn firstborn child to the dreaded Krampus come Yuletide.) He felt so sleepy he barely noticed the building shake under Ungoliant’s claw. Safe behind stage, the two were blissfully unaware of the dark goings-on in the Feasting Hall.

And then, it was time.

Merry and Quickbeam present Best Comedic Post

The ARPY triumvirate had decided to bestow the envelope upon the pair only just before they gave the announcement. This was a rather wise decision because being a creature of the earth and olvar, Quickbeam was not likely to hold onto anything for long unless it had roots, shoots or leaves (even those he lost sometimes). Likewise, though Meriadoc Brandybuck was a most respectable gentlehobbit, scholar and Shire-storian in his own right, he was at risk of accidentally setting the paper aflame when he lit his pipe after one too many pints.

It turns out, the real unforeseen danger was the Bear Paw! Now that Merry’s fingers were coated in sticky honey-syrupy goop, he was not allowed to touch The Envelope. “Are you sure that’s the right one?” Merry asked. “We wouldn’t want to announce the wrong winner--they’ll never let us live it down even if the paper’s to blame, not us! I don’t want to be part of some Envelopegate!” He was not satisfied until Quickbeam lowered it for him to inspect himself-- the outside read: Best Comedy.

“Phew,” Merry breathed just as Quickbeam said, “let us go!”

So it was that the Ent preceded the hobbit onstage and stood towering beside the lectern, allowing Merry to pull up the stool and stand behind it. “Evening one and all!” He addressed the room at large with a flourish of his hands. “I am Meriadoc Brandybuck and I am proud to introduce my old friend Quickbeam--” He bowed to the Ent beside him, who interjected:

“Hoom yes, I am called Quickbeam by hasty folk or Bregalad by some. I have many other names as well. It would take you folk a long time to listen to my names, and it is your luck that someone with my experience is charged with reading the list of names.”

“--and we are here to present the award for Best Comedy!” Merry proclaimed fluidly as if he had not been interrupted by Entish commentary. Without further ado, Quickbeam unfurled a scroll as long as Merry was tall and held it up for the two of them to read out the nominees, alternating between them. After a very dramatic clearing of his throat, Merry began.

“The hilariously genius nominees are:

@Aduchil , dancing or dueling, I’m not sure which, as the White Flame and as his parfait Chef self in the Cooking Contest. Cooking contest? Why wasn’t that held in the Shire?!” Merry demanded in outrage.

“@Afird Splitax (Drifa) going a bit postal opening up the Dwarven Express (with extra special thanks to Frito Bandito and Narsilion). It’s much easier to send things by mockingbird mail if you ask me…” Quickbeam commented.

“@Allacan ob Burzum as as Arod the Poopy leaving a special gift for his human friends.” Merry was a respectable gentlehobbit, yes, but he sniggered at this one.

“@Amhran, valiant Rider of the grasslands who was possibly bested by, well, I didn’t see that coming--” Quickbeam laughed. “A badger!”

@Annúnfalas writes a heartfelt letter to a friend about making a birdhouse out of a…” Merry erupted into a series of choking sounds. “Uhh let’s move on. Who’s next?”

“@Boromir88 as Globuk the Dumb Orc wanting to become warg fodder. Burárum! I would like to see that! Can I buy tickets to watch?”

Merry jumped in fast in case Quickbeam was getting roused at the mention of orcs… “@Burnt Toast smoldering undercover and dropping stinkbombs in the Green Dragon So that’s who it was!”

"@Goosil (Sil) as a Horrible Goose in the Dog Contest and Silendris modeling a onesie with patented bum flap. Hoom...I know many languages but I do not know what these words mean…”

“@Lailyn as Hathaldir on the receiving end of Ms Irma’s spittle.” Merry shuddered, then mumbled, “hope he made it to the Houses of Healing in time after that…”

"@Lirimaer as Henna Took finding herself stuck in an awkward situation.” Quickbeard laughed. “You hobbits are always getting into mischief, aren’t you?”

“@Menolly as Cutiepants Cuddlebuns VonFluffykins, definitely a dog with a very convincing woof.” Merry scanned the audience. “C.C. VonFluffykins?! Are you here?! See me later if so!”

“@Nia as Square the squirrel who could rival even the wittiest Ents, including myself, with those nutty puns!”

“@Prometherion (Frost) as Fleeg
and the sheer brilliance of the moment he thought up the Uhhhhh Spa,
learning about the birds and the bees, or rather wasps, in the Black Market and that one time he
nearly drowned going fishing. Hmm, you can’t be doing it right if you’re going for a swim!” As a Brandybuck, Merry knew the do’s and dont’s of fishing.

“@Shivased, another valiant Rider of the grasslands and Marshal of the Mark, who is terrified of...a spider. Oh what a silly thing to be frightened of.” (May we remind you Quickbeam was oblivious he had just missed the Mother of Terrifying Arachnids Herself.)

“@Tarawen as Reg and a Cloud of Ash that--I am NOT saying that in this fine company! Go read it for yourselves if you want to know.” Meriadoc did have some standard to uphold and was not about to say crapt in front of these esteemed guests.

“And last only as determined by your strange alphabet: @Yávië as Aerlinn falling asleep, oh do I understand that, and Yávië committing sabotage by tail-wag.”

It was all going as smooth as the pool at Bywater on a still summer morning! Now to announce the winner...but Quickbeam laughed again and began to speak. “It appears to me there are many tearmaking-gutcracking-laughinducing-stomachtickling-- comedians among you! They say ‘laughter is the best medicine’ but what do I know of medicine? I am a Tree Herder, whom you call an Ent. I live in the woods among tree and root, rock and stone, moss and fern, meadow and hill. Beneath sun and cloud, and star and moon. But I do laugh a lot and I have lived for a long time. Hoom. So perhaps there is something to the old saying after all. There are many things to laugh about. Sunshine in the morning and daisies in the afternoon! Waterfalls and rainfall and small spritely butterflies! Rabbits racing, squirrels chasing nuts and birds gorging on fermented berries until they’re drunk...”

On and on he went.

Drool trickled from the mouths of audience members. Heads lolled, tilting to expose the backs of throats. Some of them had given up all appearances of paying attention and had begun to scratch doodles or notes to pass their neighbors on little scraps of paper. Others occupied their boredom by filling their bellies with smoked salmon and salted pork, cheese and olives, hib and bear paws, and oh dear boughs above, Merry was growing tree-ish and thinking in lists! He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

Quickbeam was oblivious to the effect he was having on the audience even when the orchestra struck up a few warning notes to steer him toward a conclusion. This was an indignity normally reserved for the winners’ thank you speeches, not the announcers! It was unusual but the conductor had One Job and he was going to do it. With a flick of his wrist and baton, bows set to strings, quiet at first, then they grew into a crescendo of increasingly passive aggressive pressure.

Merry could not take it any longer. He left the stage and embarked on a quest: to save the audience from the Ent’s drolling, rolling tones and announce the winner. He returned with a ladder, which he promptly unfolded and climbed to the top. Leaning over precariously, he plucked the Envelope from Quickbeam’s long fingers.

“And the winner of Best Comedy is…” Merry called in an extra loud voice, hoping to regain the audience’s attention.

"@Aduchil as the White Flame! Congratulations! Please come up and collect your trophy.”

Quickbeam held the trophy aloft (very high) for all to see before the elf came to claim his prize. “And I’m pleased to announce the runner up and honorable mention is... the masterful Chef @Aduchil!”

Merry tried to applaud but his efforts were muted by the flapping Envelope now stuck to his fingers.

For your signature:

Galadrihell · Sat May 29, 2021 10:40 pm

Alcadir

It is a sad, nay, a tragic day, when the best flourish Alcadir was able to summon is unable to draw so much as a smile from a beauteous elf-maiden. Alas, it was far more than a smile with which @Winddancer failed to greet him; indeed, she would scarce meet his eye, contemptuously looking elsewhere- as though *anything* could be more interesting than his hat (Reasonably priced for the feathers, too, plucked at great expense of silver and danger to your fingers from the finest birds) and the Elf who wore it.

But at the word “Madame” that fell from his fated lips, the beauty turned to skewer him with a snarling glance so rage-filled that Alcadir physically recoiled. Her burning gaze was no less than a glimpse into the fires of Udûn.

This kind of thing really spoils the mood at a party.

Stumbling back a few steps, he tore his eyes from her spiteful face, trembling in such a way as to delightfully jingle the bells fashionably (or not) sewn into his jerkin. “Thank *you*,” he mumbled, retrieving two glasses from a passing.., plinth and downing them hastily, only to find a blonde-curled lass in a lilac gown doing the same (@Lailyn).

“Oh, you met the eyes of Ms. Incarnate Evil too?” he commented wryly. “Oh, look, they’re making more announcements!”

He could do with listening to an Entish lecture for the next forty minutes in order to wipe the embarrassing memory of that encounter from his brain: nothing like Entisms to reduce your mind to mush.

Baphởmet · Sun May 30, 2021 12:30 am

Black clouds gathered from all ends of the earth, brought to heel by the call of their malignant master. They sped across the plains, casting their dreadful shadows a land bereft of joy and hope. Those caught by their penumbra were brought naught but horrid nightmares and an unyielding sense of impending dread. Night followed in their wake, a wild megatherion on a tenuous leash. They came to the head of the vale and simmered. The world went from a roar of gale force winds, like the roar of a dragon, then died to the uncomfortable sound of a whisper, like a snake slithering through dried leaves. The pleasant smell of fresh rain and a dozen different varieties of flowers was subsumed and replaced by the smell of decay and rot, of rancid petrichor and opened graves. The joviality of birds singing back and forth was interrupted by the sound of boots formed before the very valley itself had taken shape. The hush of nature, the intake of disbelieving breath. How could He be here? But, how could He not be here? At first, He was naught but a bit of freestanding shadow, unlight that dripped off the back of the Mother of Abominations. But slowly, painstakingly slowly, substance was added the form. Two eyes, gleaming like a thousand suns, torrential rage, malignant glee, savage cunning. They appeared like rogue stars on the horizon but they grew and took their place atop the mounting shadows, monstrous and cat-like. Hands black with sorcery and metallurgy formed, delicate yet filled with feral, daemonical energies. The Ring was missing, but that would be alright for now. He would not need it for what he had planned for tonight. A crown of lightning flashed across his brow, deep red hair streamed down, like a cascade of blood. He looked every inch what he was, the Lord of the Earth. He was Mairon, the Admirable. He was Annatar, the Giver of Gifts.

He was not invited, a rather rude oversight on behalf of the youngling half-breed that supposed ruled this place, but a lack of invitation was not going to stop him. He inhaled the smells of the valley and grinned. He had a very, very special vision for this place. He could see it now, through his foresight. Naught but bones would live here. Bones of the elves, bones of the trees. This valley would stand as a monument to the failures of the Firstborn and His correction of those many, many failures. He might looked like one of them now, but he was as far beyond them as they were above the worms they did not even deign to think of. They were barely sentient compared to him. They were ants scurrying about their hill of dung without the greater knowledge that something lurked above them, ready to destroy them should the whim take hold of him. He flexed the fingers of the body he’d not worn in so long. There would be few that remembered him like this, the rage of the First Age had burned away so many of the weak and unworthy. Yet, what had been left were not much better. These so-called elves were childish imitations of their older brethren. Cowardly little lambs that fled into their caves at the first crack of thunder.

He entered the sacrosanct halls of Imladris. It had been far, far too easy to do so. He had expected some resistance to His power, His strength. Yet, like all places on Middle-Earth, the flower opened willing for Him, wretched and insincere, and He plucked it for His own amusement. He felt nothing. Hundreds of beings had walked these halls and felt a sense of awe and wonder, of fear and trembling. He had felt true power, had tasted the true honey of wisdom and creation. This would not have even been a garden in the hallowed world beyond. In the world to come, in His world, such places could exist again, and he would make sure that this pitiful macaroni art would be forgotten. The ARPYS. He didn’t really care what it was or what it meant to these traipsing besuited apes, only that it was something that He could use and manipulate. There was always something to celebrate for the elves. All play and no work. That’s why this world was in such a state of disrepair and disorder. These creatures were too eager to drink and fornicate and too unwilling to work and create. They thought they knew art? Their greatest treasures were nothing compared to even His most mundane daydreams. Still, they could be used. Twisted and bent into a shape He could make useful. His shadow shimmered independently.

He moved among them for a time, observing and detailing them all. He masked His utter disdain for them as best he could. Walking among insects was not something He liked to do. Yet, sometimes it was necessary. Such a mission could not be trusted to even his most loyal and powerful subjects. They attracted far too much attention. He required subtlety today. He passed by them, none of them seeming to realize the utter depth of their luck to have been passed over. To one though, a tall finger with black maleficence in her eldritch eyes, he whispered, “Well done, my good and faithful servant. Do not fail me. You know what will happen to you should you displease me. A thousand deaths await you at mine own hand should you muck this up. Remember who it was that plucked you up from the ash and reformed you from a little mouse into what you are today. I can easily return you to that form. I am watching you, Winddancer.”

He slipped away, oily smoke passing from room to room. He moved with listless disinterest until He found what, or rather who, He was looking for. The elf was gormless looking fool, a feckless, obsequious toad. He was standing in front of a mirror in the hallway, apparently readying himself to present the next award, telling himself to "just imagine them all naked, it wouldn't be so scare that way."

“Figwit,” He whispered venom into the man’s ear. “Why don’t you leave this next award for me? Perhaps you should explore the bottom of the fountain for any coins for your little collection.”

Without saying a word, the easily manipulated servant slumped off toward the fountain. He stood in the edge for a moment before falling flat on his face into the shallow water.

Mairon laughed and took the award and the envelope Figwit had been meant to present.

Ercassie · Sun May 30, 2021 1:29 am

Maeglin, The Dark Prince, Founder and Lord of the House of Mole. Long time Dead.
At Tol Noldarë: the opening act.

There is nothing like showing up late to make an entrance. And even showing up to find another already enthralling your expectant audience did not daunt the Dark Prince. There were opening acts, after all. And then there was the big show. The latter was the reason that you even bought a ticket. The former was what you agreed to sit through, to build up anticipation for the grand event.

So all eyes were elsewhere as the eddying smog gathered form. And the quashing of all lesser light in the sepulchre might have appeared a cowed accedence from the candle ring to the volatile fire god in their midst. This was however, not the case. Amusement observed their perfidious distraction, as a shadow clambered out of the cradle of his very grave.

Maeglin was scarcely startled that Hatholdir had the gall to perform such arcane acts. The self-proclaimed King had impersonated Mandos, the Master of spirits himself, at a recent party, and the very expensive costume had clearly gone to the arrogant Noldo’s head, if he was now usurping the rights and powers of that deity to commandeer immortal spirits ! It was just this sort of belligerent assumption which had seen the current Mole King seize what his slain leader had seen stolen, at that most pivotal moment. For to lead a company of the most devious and shrewd, the most indomitable and unrepentant Elves ever depicted in the history tomes written by their foes, it took such a one who was not afraid to do … whatever …. it took. There was no question that Hatholdir was the perfect Successor. The greater question was why Hatholdir had been allowed to succeed ... sort of .. with his seance.

In order to have a rather passe celebrity come present an award ? Well, that fool Glorfindel had been brought back for who knew what exact reasoning, and who was the Dark Prince to argue with a day out from the doom of nothing ? Anyone who has ever spent any amount of time in a waiting room would be familiar with the unique sense of frustration and helplessness. The entire sense of waste raised woe and wrath in equal measure and the Halls of Awaiting stole the crown for such circumstances. Reflection and remorse led to rebirth, and only for those Elves deemed worthy. But those charged with the ‘most heinous of deeds’, who spent their days stewing afterward in resentment and the utter unfairness of lost promise, were granted no reprieve. Unless perhaps their unrelenting arguments for justice wore down even the most stalwart of sentries ?

Exceptions had been made before. Most notably, of course, for a Mortal Man, Beren. It seemed that exceptions were always made for Men.

Throwing eyes to the utter ignorance of his devoted acolytes, Maeglin’s disembodied spirit fled its place of restless peace, and determined to not squander a moment of this opportunity. Mindless time spent in inspecting Vaire’s tapestries, had told him all that he needed to know. And where he ought now go. To be avenged upon the descendants of those who had took all from him. He could care less for some award ceremony, he was going … to imladris !

Still Maeglin, The Dark Prince, Founder and Lord of the House of Mole. Long time Dead.
Now though inexplicably come upon the ARPY Award Ceremony, the Big Show !
at The Feasting Hall, Imladris

The setting was inexplicably ideal, with an open door policy allowing for even some truly questionable candidates to enter. There were waiters rather than guards standing as sentry, a vast gathered audience of ultimately wide representation to bear witness, and the arena itself promised the presence of his target. The Peredhel, host of this ‘Homely House’, was a most unnatural abhomination, borne of both Elf and Mankind, a direct scion of Tuor the Usurper and a symbol of all that ought never to have been allowed.* The immense relief with which folk met Maeglin’s arrival was beginning to push the boundaries of his expectation, but if this were all some quite delightful fantasy, it was a welcome respite from his usual endless agony of existence. He was quite content to allow it play out it’s rather enjoyable interlude. So when the disembodied spirit found himself encouraged unto the spotlight, to a rousing round of applause no less, he was beginning to believe this could not quite be real. Was it all some underhanded ploy of Manwe to torment him, or perhaps to test him ? To see if he should truly revel in the downfall of those he accounted responsible for his death ? And for ruining his life ? The last time he had attended a party so ostentatious, the last time he had been pressed to fulfil his most fervent oath … well, it could hardly go as badly as the last time, now could it ?

Stepping up to the readied dais was, however, no small achievement, and not because he was nervous but because, Maeglin realised belatedly, he was not quite corporeal ! A neat prompt of an envelope was propped within his reach, and yet beyond his capability. Scrutinising the awaiting crowd, he could not identify Lord Elrond, and struggled to make purchase on the tiny piece of paper which was being indicated by no small number of people, just offstage. The irony of his understanding, finally, that he was here to satisfy the contract of his rising, to present some award … was not lost on him. Neither was he, ever, lost for words. When faced with his Cousin’s suspicions, when placating his Uncle’s fears, when confronted by the malice of Morgoth himself … he had always managed to talk his way out of a difficult situation. Even when he did not fully comprehend what he had got himself into, until it was too late. Like now, for instance. For, if ever there were a more convenient ruse, it was being mistook for some pretender, pretending to be his real self. What better alibi ?

“You asked for dramatic,” No one had, in fact, done so, still he commenced, with the show. The tell. “I promise you shall not be disappointed.”

If he feared anything it was disappointment. No small amount of time, after all, had been allotted to the concept of revenge, when he had (before) possessed unlimited amounts of time. Wherein lay it’s utter self-sabotage. For there were endless means and measures that Maeglin would, and had, wished to befall the House of Elrond. The urgency of this now opportunity to do so was forcing his hand, and without a true corporeal self to strike from, there were many elements that he was forced to consider, as they each came apparent. So many, many choices from which to select just the right one. So inspired, the spiel, the assigned role found it’s form.

“A nimiety of diverse choices could win out tonight, every one of them completely altered from all others, save in one important fact. Drama. That build up of anticipation, the step by step, word for word, journey through a myriad of emotions, that leads you to the hard-hitting conclusion. To the end. That satisfaction that must, must, be slaked, the taut stretch of nerves, that pounding of adrenalin, the hunger which compels you to absorb each strand of the carefully woven string. The art of a truly perfect drama is one which robs your breath and leaves you baying for the next, even more compounding, piece. Until the end finally is upon you, and it is such an end, you wish that it had never finished.

That. Is why I am come here, this night. To see that the one who is .. most deserving .. gets exactly what they are owed.”

A rather helpful, or else impatient, assistant ushered up toward the dais and unfastened the envelope for the apparently incapable presenter. Eyes as black as the deepest chasm, the likes of which shall never reach it’s conclusion, watched the kind Aide bid a hasty departure. A single cough erupted from the expectant and perhaps confused now audience. Elrond was nowhere to be seen. Maeglin rolled his eyes and feigned the sheer number of contenders for the award as the cause.

“But first … and for your entertainment, let it be stated that due consideration has been merited for the dramatics of :

@Allacan ob Burzum as Grimthain
@Bereth as a prospective apprentice
@Ercassie as Ilisys Azrûbel in a "Little bit of ick"
@Ercassie on the private writings of Isildie Nariel
@Ercassie as The Visitor
@Giliathriel as Naureth
@Giliathriel as Silvien
@Goosil/Sil as Amaris (1)
@Goosil/Sil as Amaris (2)
@Lailyn in the vicinity of her house with Æric
@Lailyn in Lake-town
@Lantaelen in Elenion Sunquele
@Moriel as Kamion
@Moriel as Tavari and Davos
@Moriel as Tavari and Gellam
@Moriel as Tavari and Oromë (Roccotaurë Part 1)
@Moriel as Tavari and Oromë (Roccotaurë Part 2)
@Nessa Saelind in an episode "Colourful fruit salad in the Houses of Healing"
@Prometherion/Frost as Beranwine
@Prometherion/Frost as Carníheiniel
@Prometherion/Frost as Eril
@Prometherion/Frost as Lews Tryfan
@Prometherion/Frost in the Storm Crows
@Thalionwen Hunigfolm in Thali's Pop-Up Infirmary
@The Elf Imperishable/Rivvy as Eärcolanté
@Winddancer as Borfang and Mord
@Winddancer in the MT Dungeons

“But there can only be one who, very deservedly, reaps … the prize for most dramatic post, and that is …” @Giliathriel as Silvien

As all eyes scanned the room to applaud the talented winner of this category, Maeglin stepped appreciatively out of the spotlight, that Giliathriel might accept her rightful place on stage and her award. From the ever so helpful, and conveniently corporeal, assistant who once again stepped in to tut at the wordy but otherwise worthless presenter.

Aduchil · Mon May 31, 2021 1:01 pm

A voice spoke, and Aduchil had the distinct feeling it spoke to him. He looked to his left and saw nothing. Neither to his right. His sixth sense told him nobody was behind him. The voice spoke again, and this time, Aduchil wondered if his latest batch of mushrooms were so powerful, they had kicked in before he had even taken any.

Finally, he looked down to find his kneecaps engaged in conversation. "Well met, Shireling," Aduchil replied. He could not remember the demonym for the halflings at present, but he assumed he had come close enough. He realised the curly-hair had introduced himself, and societal convention dictated he did the same. But! He could not reveal his true name. He quickly glanced around to come up with a cunning cover name.

"I am..." He spotted an image of Elrond, that adder. "Ad-" He was suddenly reminded that his debt to the Dwarven scallop cartel was due. "Du-" Someone sneezed. There was a chill in the air. "Chil. Aduchil. A pleasure, I am sure." He exhaled in relief, his cover intact.

Only then did he realise what the hairy-foot had said. Something stronger than whisky. A clue. A desire. An urge. With two fingers, Aduchil withdrew a small bundle of cloth from inside his pocket. "Whatever you require, my crimson-eared comrade." He let the little bag fall into Jorgy's hands.

Ahoy! The imposter! Their name was being called out! Well, Aduchil's name, which someone had... imposted? Imposed? Imposternated. Tapping his fingertips against each other with glee, the Elf looked around. The moment that this cur showed himself to accept the award, Aduchil would fall upon him with drawn rolling pin.

None showed. Only one thing to do. Impersonate the impersonator, rousing his ire until he revealed himself to reveal Aduchil as the impersonating impersonator. A brilliant plan, genius in all its simplicity.

"Yes!" Aduchil flung his arms wide open. "It is I! Your-" What was he? "-favourite ballet dancer!" With elegant steps and half a pirouette, he floated to the stage again. Swirling around, he grabbed his trophy, keeping his other hand ready to brandish a rolling pin. Nobody attacked him. Just for good measure, Aduchil performed the first part of Swan Lake, using the trophy to interpret the finer points of toe-standing.

Still, nobody assaulted him. None tried to garotte him. Not even a blow dart tipped with curare. It always amused Aduchil when they tried that; he was immune to all known and unknown poisons, though lactose sometimes did give him gas.

Disappointing. He had looked forward to the satisfying crunching sound of a rolling pin cracking a skull open. Ah well. He could not waste more time. The annual skillet tournament was about to begin, and if Aduchil did not hurry, they would stick him with the small omelette skillet, and it was nearly impossible to knock a man out in one blow with such a small weapon.

With a final flourish and another pirouette, Aduchil withdrew.

Winddancer · Mon May 31, 2021 9:40 pm

Many, maany times she had heard the saying "If looks could kill." However there was one difference from that saying and her glares, they did actually kill. Of course they were often aided by a sharp blade, but still. Bored beyond belief at the Ent's speech and wondering yet again why she had even come, her attention had been drawn to the young female Hobbit who seemed to be choking on her cookie. A slight twitch of her brow was all the Hobbit was going to get, wondering how a Hobbit managed to choke on her food. Probably stuffing too many cookies into her mouth in one go. Glutinous little beasts. A disgusted snarl followed, as she tried to return her attention to the grating sound of the Ent's voice, a slender finger rising to rub at her temple as a headache began to form. Boring people to death, definitely a new form of torture.

Just as she was about to reach out to reposition the wineglass on the table for the fiftieth time, someone jumped towards her. Her hand immediately went to her thigh where she kept a hidden blade, her head swivelling toward the impending threat as she shifted on her chair so that she could easily step away from it and use it as cover if needed, only to realise it was just another Hobbit. Taking a slow deep breath, she surreptitiously moved her hand away from the blade and gave the newly arrived Hobbit one of the looks that would have killed if they had not be in the middle of Rivendell. She could likely kill this little hothead, who was now telling her off, with two fingers while still seated. But unfortunately for her his heated tone had several people turning around to see what was going on, mostly because they too were bored.

Instead of quickly disposing of the nuisance, she locked her gaze with his and coldly sneered at him before giving him one of her fake smiles, baring her impossibly white teeth from behind her red lips. "Please, forgive me, Master Hobbit. I mean you and your Lady friend no offence. Please accept my apologies." However with the words followed a look that promised death to both him and his friend, along with their entire families, a look that was only broken as several of the guests began clapping as someone was finally given an award.

Turning away from the runt, she suddenly froze. Drawing in a deep breath through her nose, she shivered, goosebumps riding up her spine and making her sit up even straighter than before. He was here. Her blood red eyes did not dart around looking for Him, she could feel exactly where He was, feeling Him creep into her mind, settling into that spot He had claimed thousands of years ago. Terror filled every fiber of her being, as it did every time she was in His presence, hand trembling slightly as her fingertips brushed the wineglass. His words echoed in her mind, both piercingly loud and a whisper that none other than she could hear, His words making her stomach roil. The pressure in her head seemed to grow with each word that He spoke, to the point where the pain was so great that she could not see anything but a blinding red eye before her closed eyes.

The moment He finished the threat, she let out a shaky gasp, eyes blinking open in an attempt to see clearly again though the red eye remained each time she blinked. She could sense he was still close, but for now He had left her mind, her body trembling as her shaky hand reached for the wineglass and in one gulp downed the wine she had never intended to drink.

Baphởmet · Mon May 31, 2021 10:25 pm

“I think we should try and see what secrets the Lord of Imladris is trying to hide down this hallway,” Frost whispered huskily, drawing close enough to Zôr to feel his heart thrumming in his well sculpted chest before pushing him back with at smile that promised many things. “You are very good at doing what you’re told. I think after this is all finished up, you will have earned a nice reward.” Her deep, ocean blue eyes stared into his for a long, lingering moment before passing to a figurine on a table behind them. She sauntered over, nail guards clacking dangerously against the rich wood. She picked up the figurine and examined it. It was not made by some master craftsman. It was barely something that could be call “art” in any sense of the word. It felt more like that work of a sugar addled child who had been passed on to a desperately tired nanny. Maybe it was supposed to be a representation of Elrond by one of his little urchins when they were young? Frost rolled her eyes and set it down. His children could have clearly benefitted from the parenting she had received from her mother. The kind of parenting that teaches a child that only the best is worthy to be praised and pushes them toward what his best. She walked passed the table and hip checked it, upsetting the balance just enough that the ceramic figurine teetered between balance and chaos for a heartbeat before tumbling off the table and shattering with a loud, satisfying crash. “Whoops,” she said without giving the table a second glance, “Maybe it should have been made a little better, then it wouldn’t have fallen to such a measly bump.”

She continued down the hallway, passing from shadow to shadow as effortlessly as a wisp of smoke. She didn’t look back to make sure her partner was following her, she had enough confidence in his own stealth not to be concerned or bebothered with his progress. The further down the winding hallway they went, the more an excited, almost giddy, bubbly feeling swept through her, the kind of feeling that told Frost that they were getting very, very near to their goal and something even greater. The air itself felt electric with expectation. She watched her spidery shadow leap from wall to wall, coiling around the torchlight and catapulting through the air like a dark will-o’-the-wisp. The moon was bright and full, it’s light was bright and silvery. The world looked serene and quiet under that gaze. A devilish smile crept over Frost’s lips as she imagined a hundred different ways to disrupt that serenity.

They came to a massive double door and instinctively Frost knew this was his door. Who else would need such a tawdry reminder within his own home exactly where his bedroom was? She pushed against the doors. Naturally, given the amount of festivities going on tonight, the doors were locked. “You’re still going to sing for me,” Frost whispered maliciously into the keyhole. She touched the lock with all fiver fingers of her right hand. At each point where she touched the door, a spider appeared and vanished into the mechanism. It swung open without a hint of protestation. “Told you,” she smirked triumphantly. Locked doors were so pedestrian.

Entering with enough pomp and magnificence (all the cheering going off in the confines of her own mind sadly), Frost made her way through the epically large and brobdingnagian chambers. They really were chambers made for a king (or a queen, she mused with a short chuckle). She could imagine herself in a room like this, hung with fine tapestries, supported by thousand-year-old trees found nowhere else in the entire world, paintings from artists whose names and histories had been utterly lost, and stained glass that looked as though it belonged in a cathedral. “One day darling,” she said lazily looked back at Zôrzagar, “we’re both going to have rooms like this and a thousand servants to attend to our every whim. We’ll be the kind of queen and king this world deserves.”

She began to look with a more discerning eye at all the lootable items simply out in the open here. Elves were so trusting! She wanted to laugh, but any unnecessary sound from their location deep within the confines of the master of the valley would bring out a hundred unwanted visitors. There were astrolabes, spyglasses, a farmer’s almanac, a dusty book of elven poetry (likely a cognitive dissonance between bemoaning the state of the world and wondering why everyone disliked the elves), a dozen historical tomes, a treatise on sails, a letter from Figwit complaining about someone stealing from his coin collection. “Poor fool, he makes me laugh.” Frost mumbled as she read and pocketed the private letter. Eldûrien will appreciate this no doubt. It was next to the bed that she found the most interesting of things. It was in a chest, locked. With a twist of her wrist, the spiders returned and the lock was disabled. In it, she found something that overcame her wariness. She burst out laughing. Silk ropes, a brass ball gag, a gimp mask, bondage cuffs, a cat of nine tails, and a chastity belt. Frost was never one to kink shame or discourage anyone from finding what made them happy, but finding something like this in the most intimate chamber of Elrond was quite a find. “Well, well, well! Look what we have here!”

Baphởmet · Tue Jun 01, 2021 9:46 pm

He rolled the award sculpture in his hand and examined it with mild disinterest. It was nice, well-crafted, and delicately balanced, but it was utter without function. Much like most of the things the first born created. They were masters of beauty without purpose, form without function. If he had been asked (well, if they’d begged and pleaded and prostrated themselves before him) he could have created an award that was fare more fitting and far more beautiful. Still, Mairon couldn’t deny it looked pretty enough. He traced the golden lines of the bird with a delicate finger, masking the black scarring with a simple illusion. What a pleasure it would be to use this as a weapon against them, a catalyst to for their undoing. He was always a fan of poetic justice. Pride goeth before a fall was one of his favorite maxims, though he usually edited it to be “undeserved pride”. He had pride himself, but he was vaulting ambition personified. Pride was simply a byproduct of his eternal majesty. “I owe you a fall,” he muttered using his Black Speech to send ripples of dark energy through the foundations of the city.

He'd ripped open the envelope as soon as he sent Figwit to drown in the fountain (someone had really better check on the poor boy soon or he was going to drown in less than six inches of water). The award he would be “presenting” would be The Best Canon Character. He had no real idea what that was supposed to mean, but he assumed there had been some play or musical or operetta in which a distorted view of reality was presented and applauded. His cat eyes darted quickly over the nominees and finally the winner. There was a small hint of a smile when he noticed one name, but most of the others produced nothing but eye rolls and muttered curses. He knew all these names, hated all of them (save for a few). Indulgent and decedent as ever. He wanted to spit, just seeing some of these names, names of his adversaries and opponents and rivals, awoke the feelings of pure, unfettered rage that he had felt so keenly in the younger days. He did. The ground sizzled and melted, as if he’d spat the very heart of Orodruin onto the floor. It was a satisfying sight. He began to hum a tuneless melody and stitched the floor back together, placing an illusion over the hole so that some poor misbegotten dotard would find it and break their neck (if his uncanny luck held out). It felt good to use the power of his voice again. He’d not done that in far, far too long. It was beyond time for him to revive some of his more youthful habits, he decided. Starting with this little presentation.

He hummed another tune, one that was light and bouncy, the kind of tune that might give a listener diabetes if they listened long enough. Soon his appearance, fearsome and dominating, shrank and dissolved. It reformed into a perfect simulacrum of Figwit, save the eyes. With a sinister smile he strode past several haughty looking elves, appearing at least half drunk (which would work to his advantage later). They shuddered, looked indignant that it was Figwit giving them such a fright, then shuffled off, full wine goblets in hand. He purposefully nudged Winddancer again, giving her an approving but threatening look that anyone but her could interpret in a hundred different ways (she would know only one interpretation, the real one). He stood on the dais and waited for the crowd’s cacophony to die down. When it did not, he coughed and snapped his finger, sending a minor shockwave through the air. Nothing too large and dramatic, most would mistake it as a well time gust of wind.

“Excuse me, all,” he said in his most simpering voice. “I have come to announce the winner of the BEST CANNON CHARACTER. So if you don’t mind…

@Boromir88 as Ted Sandyman a character of wit, wisdom, vinegar, and virility.

@Ercassie as Thingol a… tall fellow with a love far beyond his station

@Laintaen as Beleg a character who shouldn’t go out on rainy nights

@Legolas as Legolas the pretty one that never runs out of arrows

@Prometherion {Frost} as Sauron Mairon, well now... I mean, what an evil bad, wickedlyhandsomeandterriblypowerfullordoftheearth, guy

@Moriel as Thuringwethil the best vampire to ever grace the skies with her daemonical shrieks

@Prometherion {Frost} as Ulfang a study in what can happen if one is pushed too far

@The Elf Imperishable (Rivvy) as Fangorn something about a tree, I don’t know

@The Elf Imperishable as Melkor/Morgoth the one that start it all (and then got his arrogant ass handed to him because he had no vision)

“and the winner of this fine statue,” he held the award aloft “is… @Ercassie as Thingol. Come and claim your well earned prize.”

Mairon began to hum again,a much more sinister tune as he stepped off the dais to allow Ercassie, whoever she was, to accept her award. His appearance melted again, the gormless form of Figwit becoming the powerful, imposing, dramatically malevolent and fear inducing form of Mairon once more. “Congratulations, better the devil you know” he said with a snap of his finger.

Moriel · Thu Jun 03, 2021 3:34 am

Tilion watched the goings on of the ceremony with deep interest and entertainment, applauding and cheering the winners as they came. What a remarkable evening of accolades this was, and the jungle juice he had created in his massive drinking vessel was quite wonderful as well. As a celestial being Tilion had a very high tolerance for that sort of thing, but it had indeed been a very long time since he had drunk any kind of intoxicating beverage, and found himself experiencing a delightful sort of lightness. His wits were still sharp enough to notice (how could you not notice, though) the various malevolent entities about the room, such as Ungoliant, and elf he didn't know but whose eyes could only mean malevolence (Winddancer) and was just contemplating how there was something off about the current presenter (Figwit) when he revealed himself to be Mairon. Oh no, Tilion thought to himself, shaking his white-maned head as he took another swallow of his vinous concoction, I'm on vacation. Not my problem.

It was, however, his turn to present an award. With a slight murmur of an incantation that would cause anyone who tried to touch it to experience effects similar to the worst trip of a moldy mushroom, the maia sat his pitcher down on the nearest flat surface. As he made his way towards the dais, he passed Mairon, who was descending. Just in case Aulë's erstwhile acolyte was thinking about getting any funny ideas, Tilion leaned in to him as they passed each other.

"I am on vacation, cousin," he hissed out the side of his mouth, and continued resolutely forward, eyes front, pulling out the shiny envelope from within his jerkin. Ascending the dais in a few light strides, Tilion allowed his glow to grow brighter, the aura like silver-white flames about him licking in a nonexistent breeze.

"Attention all!" he called in a booming, jovial voice, "I have the honor to present Best Character this fine evening! And the nominees are...

@Allacan ob Burzum plays Kruzheld Zheng, Goblin Defence Lawyer

@Androthelm plays Quagomar/Crowhome

@Boromir88 plays Globuk the Dumb Orc

@Dimcairien Luiniel plays Éomund

@Elarith plays Amethyst Copperpick

@Goosil {Sil} plays “The Snowy Owl”

@Lailyn plays Maecheneb

@Lirimaer plays Henna Lightfoot

@Nessa Saelind is Nessa de Argosy

@Prometherion {Frost} plays Beranwine

@Prometherion {Frost} plays Fleeg

@Prometherion {Frost} is Frost

@Prometherion {Frost} plays Jorgy Underash

@Prometherion {Frost} plays Pazuzu

@Tarawen plays Regdûsh

and the winner is.... @Prometherion as FROST!! Congratulations!!"

Tilion vacated the stage to allow the winner to accept their award, and made his way back to his drink. Duties thus discharged, he could simply enjoy the rest of the evening! Retrieving his pitcher, he cast about for a likely looking place to settle his behind for some relaxation and companionship, and spotted a table where a couple of hobbits (Jorgy and Pearl) were sitting. Hobbits! Tilion loved hobbits! He had never actually met one, having been up in the sky since before they showed up from who knows where, but he had watched them with delight for a long time. Enthusiastically, he bounded over to their table and pulled out a chair noisily, dropping down into it without having been invited. "Why fellow there, halfling friends!" he cried, "Tilion, at your service. And who might you be?"

Nessa Saelind · Thu Jun 03, 2021 5:05 pm

Nessa de Argosy, the perfect (invisible) hostess
The Hall of Feasts

Hosting a successful party was as much of a battle as it was an art form. You gather intelligence, observe your surroundings, thinking carefully about the placement of decorations, like a general would think about the placement of their units on a battlefield. The perfect hostess makes plans within plans, tries to anticipate and prepare for any eventuality… She creates stratagems, tries to bring order from chaos… To smooth ruffled feathers, reconcile the unreconcilable, to please, to bring joy and merriment… To host the perfect party. The perfect hostess they called her (Nessa did not cry over it in her bedroom), she had the makings of the perfect hostess.

But no battle plan survives first contact with an enemy. Nessa did not expect it to, de Argosy women raised no fools. “Dark wings, dark words,” she thinks when the message that the original presenter for the Best Lore Post will not be arriving on time is brought to her attention. The young healer finishes her coffee and places the demitasse cup on the saucer and leaves it on the plinth for a server to pick it up later. With a gentle smile and sincere apology she quietly departs, leaving the pleasant company she was in to sort the matter at hand. As she walks her pace is brisk and purposeful, her silk gown rustles, the colour shifting from emerald green to coppery red and back to green again. Her face is a picture of calm and serenity as she smiles warmly acknowledging and greeting people. The perfect hostess. A balance between blending in and standing out.

She stops a member of Lord Elrond’s household to ask where she could find the Right and Honourable Master Took, for the appearance of his friend and cousin gave her an idea. Plans within plans form as she is directed to the magnificent library. She walks through the halls listening to the sounds of the Last Homely House, sensing the mood, observing, gathering information… On the way she stops by the ARPY War Room, the chamber Lord Elrond gracefully made available for the Triumvirate and picks up a golden envelope and parchments with the lore posts in question. When she enters the library she is pleasantly surprised when she finds Držiha there with Pippin engaged in a conversation about history. Nessa does not hide her pleasure for meeting both of them, nor the relief when the smallest Knight of Gondor accepts to present the award for the Best Lore Post.

A radiant smile graces her face as she thanks the scholar and the knight and hands over the prepared materials. Pippin accepts them eagerly and she stands there unobtrusively for a few moments, watching the old scholar and the hobbit as they divide the parchments between them and reading the lore materials between them with great care. There is a gladness there between these two unlikeliest of people, sitting in an elvish library enjoying scholarly pursuits. She slips quietly from the library, unnoticed by its occupants, thinking how the unlikeliest of choices can sometimes prove to be the right choices. As she walks there is lightness and excitement in her step. Soon the gong will sound its honking call summoning their esteemed guests to the Hall of Feasts where the awards will be presented.

~*~

The start of the award ceremony goes without a hitch and Nessa cheers and claps for the winners with the rest of the crowd. A mixture of emotions swirls within her, relief, pride, happiness, amazement and so many other things intertwined that she cannot distinguish or properly express. All she knows that it feels good, nay amazing to finally acknowledge everyone’s hard work with this ceremony. It is simultaneously not enough and everything, but it is among the best things she has done and she can do to give thanks… As she stands there in the Hall of Feasts, invisible but present, the perfect hostess ready to step in and help everyone who needs her, she delights in the variety between the presenters’ styles and approaches to the award presentations. It spans between the somewhat serious, comic relief, hysterics and hilarity, sheer drama to outright megalomania. Fitting for both the awards and the guests gathered in Imladris tonight.

It is a wonder to behold and Nessa finds that she is amused by all of this. None of this amusement shows on her face, save perhaps in her eyes that shine with mirth. She idly wonders if anyone can see or sense her mood as she unobtrusively moves in to assist the presenters that need her assistance. However, it becomes increasingly challenging to be the perfectly invisible helpful hostess when she moves in to aid the released spectre of the Dark Prince of Gondolin. Still, her mask holds, her composure is unbroken as she does her duty with style and grace, observing sultanzade Maeglin as she does so. His ghostly visage is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing and Nessa muses if the sultanzade is even aware that it was her hand who brought his spectre here tonight, to this ceremony. A wry quirk of her lips, the hint of her thoughts shown as she moves away and lets him present the award for Best Dramatic Post. She does not entertain delusions of grandeur like some… It was not her hand that brought the spectre of Gondolin’s Dark Prince to Imladris, although the plea and invitation were written in her hand.

Still, great oaks from little acorns grow. However, those thoughts are for later, when the work is done and the dancing begins. As presenters step off and on the dais she withdraws and fades into the background, becoming almost invisible. The is an art to it, the skill of being invisible and unnoticed at a grand party… Nessa had mastered this craft of fading and appearing seemingly out of nowhere when she is needed. She moves around the room noticing that many of the statuettes for the presented awards were not collected. Perhaps the nominees were late, or were otherwise engaged… The buffet was a delightful diversion, however, she was certain there were other distracting delights in Imladris for their guests to pursue... To each their own.

A lull between presentations allowed her to sort the currently announced, but unclaimed award statuettes. She gives instructions to the elves regarding those and only when she is certain she is not needed in the Feasting Hall she exits briskly and moves to the Hall of Fire. Not far from the entrance to the Hall of Fire a lively, bewitching sound of a pipe reaches her and she stops in her tracks. Her pulse quickens attuning itself to the music. She stands unmoving in the hall enthralled by the music, feeling her heart beating to the rhythm. An ethereal voice fills the space between, singing, and the verses join the music in perfect harmony.

Vesnianochka, vesnianochka,
De ty zymuvala?
U sadochku na klenochku
Sorochechku priala
Tam u lisi na yuzlisi
Sova v vodu duye
Zaspivayu spivanochku
Nehay vona chuye.

Zapletysia, shume, barvinochkom,
Ya tobi spivayu vesnianochku
Siyu, siyu, siyu, siyu konopelechky
Siyu, siyu, siyu, siyu zelenesenki

A surprised gasp escapes her lips as she finally recognises the verses of the old folk song. Nessa did not expect to hear it sung here, in Lord Elrond’s home, for it was not an elvish song, despite the fact that the voice undoubtedly belonged to an elleth. It was the voice and the way the elleth sang that threw her off, she mused as her feet unconsciously led her to the threshold. Shum was an old folk song that dated back to the First Age and Bór's people. It was usually sung in springtime in forests or groves as part of a folk ritual that summoned spring with songs and dance.

Nessa stood unmoving at the threshold, her right hand on the wooden door to keep herself steady, her breath held as she listened to sweet music in perfect rapture. A roaring fire burnt in a great heart that stood between the carven pillars upon either side. Its light illuminated the hall in golden hues and provided warmth to the whole room, although it was not needed. Faerie lanterns in various colours hung around the hall, providing enough soft, flickering light. But neither the heart, nor the faerie lanterns, nor the display cabinet for the awards (the reason she was here in the first place) drew her gaze. It was a group of elves that danced to the enchanting music of the piper that drew her gaze.

Seregloth & Dúathel

The pipe player, an ellon whose long unbound hair was as dark as the night, sat on a stool next to a pillar. The elleth with the enchanting voice stood next to him, and unlike her companion, her onyx black hair was braided pulled into a tight bun. The hairstyle accentuated her high cheekbones and a lovely complexion. Neither of them were dressed in typical elvish garb, or at least what Nessa assumed was typical for the elves. Both wore bespoke three-piece suits, his was teal and hers midnight blue, and ankle boots made of black leather. Nessa stood where she was, her hand holding tightly to the wooden door. She dared not move for fear of interrupting despite the spellbinding siren song of the bards that called to her sweetly. She somehow persevered and only when the song ended and the dancing paused she dared to move and clapped her hands applauding.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she spoke feeling somewhat breathless like it was she who danced and sang a moment ago instead of standing entrapped at the threshold. She entered the Hall of Fire properly now and walked towards the group who greeted her warmly and she greeted them in kind.
“There is nothing to forgive, milady,” the singer replied to her as Nessa reached her. This close she saw that the elf maid's eyes, lined with black kohl and smoked out, were malachite green. “We were merely testing the dance floor,” she said as a smile blossomed on her lips.
“Nessa,” she corrected the elleth. “Nessa will do, I am not an aristocrat,” there is a hint of pride in her voice as she says that, de Argosy’s had a long history of refusing noble titles. “Did you find the dance floor to your satisfaction?”
“A pleasure to meet you,” the elf-maid replied with an amused smile. “I am called Seregloth, and my companion,” Seregloth gestured to the minstrel who stood up holding his instrument. “Is Dúathel,” the elf inclined his head slightly toward her expressing his pleasure of meeting her.
“Would the hostess like to test the dance floor herself?” the minstrel asked his umber eyes shining with mischief.
“Alas, I fear this gown is not made for such wild dancing,” she replied somewhat regretfully, softening her response with a laugh.
“Dúath can play something slower,” the singer replied exchanging a look with the player and he put his pipe away and reached for another instrument. “Your dress is perfectly fine for this type of dancing,” Seregloth said as she looked over her dress and extended her hand.

Nessa felt a slight flush colouring her cheeks at the comment, but she straightened her back and lifted her head. This was a challenge of sorts, an unusual one she had to admit, and if she was honest with herself she had wanted to dance. She looked the elleth in the eye and took the offered hand and let herself be led to the dance floor. The music started and they danced.

Seregloth was right, her dress was indeed perfectly fine for this type of dancing.

Nessa edit: This idiot accidentally deleted the entire album with icons so yeah... The moral of the story kids: think before you hit delete!

Baphởmet · Thu Jun 03, 2021 10:34 pm

Little Jorgy was about to have the fight of his life, he was very certain of it. The scary, terrifying, pee inducing elf had actually set her sights on him and… and… apologized? Jorgy’s muscles tensed and then relaxed. Well, that was very polite of her. Clearly, he was more intimidating that he expected. Oh dear, what if he was too intimidating and accidently scared this elf? One the one hand, that was a good thing because she was terrifying and Jorgy know that to live a world with terrifying things you had to be scary too. On the other hand, he hoped he wasn’t too scary, he did not actually like the idea of scaring elves like that. Perhaps he should get her a drink and apologize for his protective display. She’d understand that it was just to protect his bestest best friend in the entire world, Pearl. Elves, other than that one in the restrooms, were a sympathetic folk, surely she’d understand. “I well, I, well…” what does one say to an elf you accidently scared half to death, by accident? “My name is Jorgy, my lady,” he pronounced the words slowly, trying to remember all the right phrases. “Jorgy Underash, at your service.” Jorgy, being Jorgy, did not, in fact, notice the terrifying and venomous look the elf gave him. If he had, well it’s best not to dwell too much on what the little hobbit might do if he were actually scared. That’s one thing he has, blessedly, not experienced in his time as a hobbit.

He was about go off and get a drink for the demon-eyed elf to make friends when he realized he was holding a bag of something. It was a simple looking bag made of cheesecloth. Where had this come from? For a long (longer than it would have taken most) moment, Jorgy stood frozen, staring at the little bag. He began to recount his evening. He decided it was best to start all the way at the bathrooms, just in case. He could think of nothing. Oh, oh, oh! Jorgy almost forgot that he’d met another elf that evening, an elf that never gave his name. How odd. Hey, wait a hot second, the scary elf hadn’t given her name either. And he’d given his name to both! How rude! Still, there was this little bag of, what was actually in his bag? He sniffed it, and immediately regretted it. It was mushrooms, that much he was certain of, but these mushrooms were perhaps the most pungent ones he’d ever smelled. He sniffed again. Yup, those were stinky mushrooms alright. Better do it a third time, just to make sure things were exactly as they seemed. Yup, still mushroom, still stinky. He opened the bag and pulled one out. It didn’t look like a stinky mushroom. It looked like a very interesting truffle. He licked it. In retrospect this was not the best idea that ever popped into his head. The little mushroom did not taste at all bad. In fact, it tasted quite funny. Jorgy giggled. He bet Pearl would find these mushrooms hilarious too. Stinky and hilarious mushrooms, elves were so weird.

Forgetting that he was going to get a drink for the scary elf (which probably saved his life), he wandered back over to Pearl and gave her the wide, dumbest grin he’d ever had. “Pearl!” he announced with tiny bit of a wail. “I am so glad you brought me here. I am having the time of my life. You’re really the best, did you know that? Really the best. Say, I ran into an elf, not the scary one, the one with all the…” he began to wave his hands about trying to mimic the award presenter. “I think he gave me something. Mushrooms. They’re… silly and stinky and I think we should take them home and put them in a remedy, no that’s wrong, a rosary, no… uh, uh, risotto! That’s it, risotto. I bet it would be fantastic. Here,” he produced a mushroom and held it up to Pearl for her inspection.

Then…

“Whaaaaaa…” someone that looked like an elf, but looked more elf that elves did, a super elf, sat next to them. Jorgy blinked and shook his head. Nope, the super elf man was real. He was real, real handsome! “Hello mister!” Perhaps it was the funny mushroom, but Jorgy got over his shock and unease in an instant. “My name is Jorgy, Jorgy Underash, at your service. This is my best friend, Pearl, Pearl Brockhouse. We’re all the way from the Shire. That’s where the hobbits are from and we’re both hobbits, as I’m sure you can see.” He beamed, his smile somehow increasing in size and brightness, it was almost as if the moon was reflecting on him or something.

Lailyn · Fri Jun 04, 2021 12:30 am

The prosecco was not nearly strong enough to dull the chill that lingered over Lailyn. Hearing her name amidst the darkness that fell after tremors wracked the building did nothing to assuage it, either. She considered turning tail and heading for home, chiding herself for coming all the way here on her own. Independence was a thing she prided herself on but she wanted to see the remainder of the awards. It was wonderful to celebrate the winners. Still, she found herself wishing for a friendly face. As if summoned by her thoughts alone, Alcadir (@Goosil) approached with impeccable timing.

A single look at him, from his conspicuous feathered cap to the jingling bells and azure cape, gave her the sense that this guest, at least, was well-meaning. His snug trousers did not pass her notice, either, and she thought it rather daring, potentially even trendsetting. One never knew where the next fad would arise especially after the bumflap had taken the Mark by storm. Perhaps tight pants a la the interpretive dancer (Aduchil) and this ellon Alcadir were going to be the next thing. At the moment, she was a bit uncertain how she felt at the idea of Riders in tights gallivanting on horseback around the fields at home...she might need to see it in reality in order to reach a firm opinion.

“Yes…” she lamented but the corner of her lip curled up. “I promise I don’t normally drink like this.” As if to drive the point home, she abandoned the empty wine flute and skimmed her fingers along the stem of the second glass. “Perhaps we ought to stick together so she won’t be able to decide which of us she hates most...strength in numbers and all that.” She whispered to Alcadir with a hopeful air. The pleasant scent of lemons and violets wafted her way.

Marceline · Fri Jun 04, 2021 2:10 am

Zôrzagar

Zôrzagar relished the heat of Frost’s form when she pressed herself to him. “A reward? How very enticing,” he murmured in reply. “In that case, I shall try triply hard to follow your lead, my darling.” He lifted her hand and kissed it in half-joking reverence, grinning at her all the while. On silent feet, he stole after her down the hallway, merely shaking his head in mock lament as another relic crashed to the floor. “Such a pity,” he said tonelessly.

The long hall was lined with single doors, each of them strong and thick and locked. Zôr had never met a locked door he couldn’t master. At each, he withdrew a thin metal object from an interior jacket pocket and unfolded a variety of lock picks, testing the lock and finding that it yielded to him soon enough. Once inside, he found that all the rooms were dark and silent, abandoned in favor of the light and noise of the festivities taking place below. Zôrzagar slunk from desk to wardrobe to dressing table in search of hidden treasures; he found several more trinkets to commemorate this adventure. His pockets heavier, he emerged from the last room just in time to see Frost throw open a magnificent set of double doors. Heavy as they were, they yielded to her touch with ease and swung on their hinges without a sound.

“Separate chambers, eh?” he replied. “While I do need privacy from time to time, I do hope you’ll be amenable to the king visiting his queen every once in a while. Perhaps with a guest or two in tow.” With a grin, he made it his business to mimic Frost’s earlier pilfering of correspondence. Zôr peered into the many drawers and compartments of the writing desk positioned near a window which looked out into a lush canopy of trees swaying in a gentle wind. If Zôrzagar had cared about picturesque scenery, he would have conceded that this was a lovely vantage point from which to compose letters and emotional poems. But he did not care for such things, nor was he overly sentimental.

He ran his hands along the edges and sides of the desk, searching for the minutest of gaps in the wood which would betray a hidden compartment. In less than a minute, he found it. He applied a gentle pressure to the panel and it popped open, revealing a long, thin compartment containing a thick roll of parchment. Greedily, he withdrew the treasured papers and unrolled the bunch. Zôrzagar’s eyes, alight with interest, followed the tidy, elegant hand which had inked the first page. A grin spread on his face when he came to the signature across the bottom. “Celebrían’s wedding vows,” he called idly across the room. “Sappy ones, too.” He flipped the parchment over, hoping for a postscript. In this, he was disappointed. With a sigh, he flicked through the stack of papers until he came across several letters in the same neat writing. His eyes grew wide when he saw the contents of these. The lady of the valley had certainly been in charge. “My, my,” was all he could think to say. He rolled up the parchment and deposited the whole bundle into a jacket pocket. Somewhere through the ages, he thought, the rumors among mortals about elven women had reduced them to delicate, innocent beings, willowy and harmless and passive, like slender blades of grass blowing in the breeze. In the case of Lord Elrond’s wife, though, those stories were far off the mark. It was a pity she had fled West. He wouldn’t have said no to an encounter with her, knowing what he knew now.

It was with a renewed appreciation for the departed lady that Zôrzagar gazed upon two life-size statues of Elrond and Celebrían in a corner of the room. Hands entwined and with ribbons in their hair, they stood frozen forever in a joyful dance. The lady’s expression betrayed nothing of her appetites. Zôrzagar supposed it was not polite to reveal such things in high elven society, and certainly not whilst posing for a sculpture. Perhaps he and Frost would flout such standards when the time came to cast their likenesses in bronze or stone. Zôr shrugged. Whatever her proclivities, Celebrían had been queen of this light-infested place. But she had long ago sailed away, and now the Lord of the Valley was alone. Zôr had just begun to wonder how the Lord of Rivendell managed to fill that particular void when Frost’s laughter disrupted his reverie.

He knew all the varied tones of her laughter: cruel and cold; sardonic sneers bestowed upon the unworthy; unbridled mirth when she was truly pleased . . . He loved it when she was pleased, and he was skilled at pleasing her. His curiosity piqued, he meandered through the massive chamber and peered over her shoulder at the source of her amusement.

“Well now,” Zôrzagar breathed. “You really ought to read this.” He withdrew the roll of parchment and extracted the juiciest letter from the lot, then handed it to Frost. Zôr was intrigued. Why would these things still be here? Surely, the lady would have had uses for them in the Undying Lands. Perhaps they had taken turns? One eyebrow rose with interest into the lock of hair which fell into his eyes. Once Frost had looked up from her reading of the naughty letter, he pulled her to her feet. “I never would have guessed that the Lord of Imladris and I have something in common.” He lifted the cat of nine tails from the box and looked fondly upon it. “If you’re not in a hurry, I have several ideas for how we might pass some time.” He laughed lightly and kissed her, then pulled her onto the Lord of the Valley’s bed. He kissed her again. “You did say you like it when I’m forward.”

Some time later, Zôr put on his jacket and prepared to depart this most luxurious of chambers. At the door, he turned to gaze upon the statues once more. The Lady Celebrían wore the mask, and Lord Elrond held the cat of nine tails tucked into a bent elbow. Sadly, the gag had not fit into the sculptor’s rendering of either of their mouths, but it made a fine headband and graced the Lord of the Valley’s brow. The ropes and cuffs lay discarded upon the bed, which had not been remade. He and Frost had agreed that they wouldn’t want their host to think his secret was safe, after all.

Nessa Saelind · Fri Jun 04, 2021 7:40 pm

Nessa de Argosy
Presenting the ARPY award for Best GM
The Hall of Feasts

She sings the body electric, Nessa musses as Seregloth smoothly leads through the dance. The elleth’s right hand rests on her back in the proper and correct position above the waist but below her left shoulder blade. Her left hand rests on the elleth’s right shoulder and their hands are clasped together at shoulder height. Proper, correct and yet, with every move, with every twirl, she feels like a strong current is rushing through her and over her.

The dance is not so fast-paced that the two of them cannot converse and the two women speak as they fluidly move through the steps. At first of mundane things, Nessa compliments Seregloth’s bespoke midnight blue suit – it seems only fitting after her gown was studied and found perfectly fine. The elleth smiles and inclines her head allowing Nessa a good view of a tattoo on the left side of her neck.

“An astrolabe,” Seregloth answers the unasked question. “In memoriam of a woman I loved and lost.”
“I’m sorry,” the healer offers her condolences to her dance partner and receives a soft, enigmatic smile in return.

They glide through the next few turns and as the elleth hums along with the melody Nessa finds herself relaxing as she enjoys both the dance and her partner. This dance is a different experience, the movements are formal, exact… Her gown and her sandals were not chosen with dancing in mind and she should feel restrained and self-conscious and yet… Rarely has she felt so relaxed in a formal ballroom setting in such an ill-suited robe and a partner she is not acquainted with as she does now. Perhaps it is because she is older, or she is not in Gondor, not that she would care where she was… Mayhap it’s the magic of the place or the magic or the night, but for this dance, she lays down her burdens and simply is.

“You have an enchanting voice,” she tells the trobairitz who, after a while, had stopped humming and was observing her dance partner and being observed in return. “Who taught you to sing like that?”
“A jinn,” the trobairitz responds smiling that enigmatic smile again, as she leads them in another clockwise turn.
“A jinn?” Nessa repeats surprised as she arches her eyebrow, her steps newer faltering. “Truly? Upon your honour?”
“Upon my honour,” Seregloth replies and smiles again, this time in fond remembrance.
“I would like to hear that story if you would be willing to share it?” she asks watching the elleth lest she accidentally offends.

Whatever response she might have gotten is interrupted by the arrival of a messenger with a golden envelope in hand. The tall blond elf had come to fetch her, for it was time to go back to her duties. The award for the Best GM needed to be presented. Before she leaves she curtsies and murmurs her thanks and apologies to the trobairitz who bows and thanks her in return. Nessa wants to say something, to beseech the promise that the story of how the enchanting Seregloth learned to sing from a jinn would be told… But time is a cruel mistress and there are being watched, so she does not. Before she turns and leaves she pulls out two helichrysum shaped pins from her hair and places them in the elleth’s hand. Seregloth’s eyes widen slightly and an amused smile graces her face.

“A token,” Nessa tells her but is herself unsure of what. She finally turns, her dress shifting from warm coppery red, to emerald green. As she walks out of the Hall of Fire her face is set in a serene expression of a perfect hostess. She does not look back, does not notice the trobairitz watching her with a strange expression on her face. Neither of them notices that Dúathel was observing their interaction with interest.

~*~

She reaches the Hall of Feasts and the high dais in a daze. Her thoughts whirl and spin like the elves that danced to the old folk song. As she climbs up and stands behind the lectern, golden envelope in hand, she pushes those thoughts away. There will be time for those thoughts later when the work is done and the dancing starts. She needed to focus now.

“Buonasera, signore e signori, fuori gli attory,*” she greets the crowd somewhat cheekily. A mischievous smile blooms on her face as she observes the reactions of the crowd. Some remain clueless, some are shocked, and some, those in the know share knowingly amused smiles. She does not speak aloud the rest of the verses “Vi conviene non fare più errori / Vi conviene stare zitti e buoni**” She continues as if nothing untoward happened.

“It is my great pleasure to present the ARPY award for the Best GM. The competition has been tough, but before we open the envelope and find out who you, the voters, chose to award let us remind ourselves who the nominees are. In alphabetical order:

@Allacan ob Burzum for Edoras Burnt – Firefighting RPG
@Annúnfalas for Lindon Masquerade – Spring Ball
@Goosil {Sil} for WHERE are my NUTS?!
@Moriel for DIE: Orodruin Obfuscation
@Tharmáras for Ages of Arda IV: Mantle of Darkness

And the ARPY for the Best GM, by popular vote, goes to...

Everyone’s favourite soap opera director! @Tharmáras for Ages of Arda IV: Mantle of Darkness Congratulations!

The runner up and honourable mention in this category goes to:

@Allacan ob Burzum for Edoras Burnt – Firefighting RPG

Let’s have a big round of applause for our winner and runner up! @Tharmáras please come over to the stage to take the ARPY statuette for Best GM, give a speech and put this cute badge in your signature! Congratulations once again.

Code for the signature is as follows

Code: Select all

[img]https://i.imgur.com/FRu5DWD.png[/img]

*Good evening ladies and gentlemen, get the actors out
** You better not make any more mistakes / You better shut up and be quiet

Nessa edit: This idiot accidentally deleted the entire album with icons so yeah... The moral of the story kids: think before you hit delete!

Baphởmet · Sat Jun 05, 2021 5:03 pm

He inhaled the scent of fear and apprehension in the air. He’d gotten used to that scent. It was a hard, spiky scent, with animalistic heat. Lemons broiled with hellfire. Mordor was all brimstone, fire, death, and desolation. Here though, here the scent came through loud and clear. There was nothing to muddle it, nothing to attenuate it. It had been a long time since he felt this, this powerful. How far back had it been since he felt this way? Back to the elder days when he tore down Minas Tirith and remade it as the Isle of Werewolves? When he seduced Celebrimbor and they created the Rings of Power together? When he was on Númenor in its death throes? His cat eyes sparkled with malevolent glee. He had nothing better to do at the moment, he’d come and achieved his small goal (maybe not so small in the long run, but that remains to be seen), he’d revealed himself in a blaze of terrible glory, and he’d managed to cause more than a bit of strife, looking at the aghast faces in the crowd. Though, those faces could be due the massive hole in the ceiling where the Mother of Abominations had come through. She had vanished like smoke on the wind, delivering her sibilant psychic threats, but the ill feeling of her presence would linger in this place. The unlight that dripped off her would not be so easily scrubbed away. The magic of these so called Eldar was not enough to push her back, even if they possessed the Rings. She was the most terrible thing to ever have existed, she caused gods to fear.

Mairon felt like staying around though. What good was it to say “Boo!” and then vanish? Watch the little insects scurry about and squirm in the harsh light of reality. There were enough of his servants here, he watched Winddancer still moving through the crowd with a savage kind of grace, he knew there were a few others sneaking around the place as well. He could feel them, feel their intent. All of that strengthened him. Why ought he to leave so early?

Then Tilion showed up. Tilion, the dutiful favorite of the Hunter. Tilion, the silver-haired fop. Tilion, the Man in the Moon. Mairon wasn’t overly concerned with his “cousin’s” presence. If push came to shove, well, there was a reason one of them hid inside a celestial monument.

“Cousin,” he drawled with a sarcastic bow. “It’s so good to see you again after all these aeons. Where have you been hiding yourself? Oh,” he laughed with a harsh bite, “silly me. Must get lonely up there. And cold. I do hope you’re keeping warm, but not too close to the Sun, eh? She’s got a bit of an intimacy issue that one.”

An idea flashed in the Admirable One’s mind, a devious, rather petty idea. He smiled, toothy and monstrous. With a look, he dismissed the musicians and what they were playing, a melancholic bit of background music, the kind that intentionally goes unnoticed and unappreciated. Strange that elves would desecrate such a powerful idea in this way. But they always were more than a bit wasteful. He cleared his throat though, gave the gathered folk a disarming, enchanting smile and began to sing.

I see the bad moon a-rising
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
I see bad times today

Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise

I hear hurricanes a-blowing
I know the end is coming soon
I fear rivers over flowing
I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise

Hope you got your things together
Hope you are quite prepared to die
Looks like we're in for nasty weather
One eye is taken for an eye

Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise*

Singing the full song wouldn’t be necessary, not with the powers he still possessed. These three verses would be more than enough to send his message. The entire time he sang, unblinking, he stared at Tilion, give him the sweetest, most suggestive smile he could come up with. Once the song was done, he steppe down from the dais, waved his hand dismissively at the rest of the musicians, and gave his "cousin" a wink. Let them continue their blasphemous, unappreciated work. He took a seat a table near the front of the courtyard near the stage where the awards were being presented. He wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a thing, or that he wasn’t missed.

OOC: *Lyrics taken from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

Raisins · Sat Jun 05, 2021 11:43 pm

Fuin was knew that Merry would find his ent friend soon enough after all ents were slow to arrive. She was comfortably seated and her breath caught when Ungoliant showed up she remembered what it felt like near her home as a child with just her spawn there and it was strange to feel that once more. However people seemed to be having fun and she caught Bikkie raising a glass to her. She raised her own and nodded. Indeed this was going well and she hoped that people were having fun. When she frowned her sharp elven ears picking up a commotion even over Mairons singing, which was oddly enjoyable to her she felt like she knew that song from somewhere.

A loud honk and the tromp of heavy heeled boots and lighter ones behind them. She narrowed her eyes, as the honking got louder and if possible angrier. There was even a hiss and then a deep voice that she recognized and she was on her feet in an instant likely shocking everyone around her for she'd been sitting quite serenely.

"ACK the ducks bitten me beard!" Came the call from the back stage and another voice followed, a womans voice full of laughter,
"Maybe let it go you got the ruddy award Captain Tight Pants." Her eyes went wide. WHAT were they doing here? The sound of heavy flapping wings smacking against a rather solid body and angry honking was clear to anyone even over the quick raps of Fuins high heels as she rushed around to the side of the stage where the presenters could slip in and out.

"Get lost you gammy fool or I'll spit roast you." Another set of honks and giggles, this time from two people back stage as Fuin slipped behind the curtain her eyes norrowed to see three people standing there goose feathers all over the place and a goose who seemed to be rather upset about being called a duck attempting to beat Captain Ruindils leg and biting at his knee cap. The tall red headed mans lips closed and his bright green eyes wide as he caught sight of Fuin marching in her eyes norrowed about him stood Mylien, his first mate and Afarfin. Afarfin for his part grabbed a hold of Mylien about her waist and attempted (being over half a foot taller than her it was a poor attempt) to hide behind the fiery first mate and member of their family. who in turn did a much better job of hiding behind Ruindil who was trying to find a place to hide as well while dealing with a still angry goose.

"WHAT IN ERUS NAME are the three of you doing bothering the Presentation Goose?"

Silence. Even in the audience, one could hear the last feather from the goose settling on the ground. The goose seemed to realize that they had an ally and honked again several times but stopped beating on Ruindil and folded their wings letting the last few feathers settle and eyed the trio sideways with a hiss.

"We were going to surprise you?" Ruindil offered, he was a good bit more timid off of his ship than he was on his ship this was and Afarfin had told him as much as well Fuin's domain and misbehaving could have... consequences. Fuin narrowed her eyes and strode towards the three who huddled closer together for safety. She stopped fixed the gooses neck bow and smoothed its feathers and told it to go enjoy some fresh caught fish from the buffet that she would take care of this award. There was a honk of shock that Fuin was taking on this award and then serveral more angry honks before it marched out onto the stage honked angrily at everyone that was watching and waiting to see what the commotion had been about back stage before flapping off to do as suggested and perhaps go swimming in the wine fountain.

Fuin stood and eyed the three for a moment. They were dressed to the nines. Well Afarfin was always well dressed but their two pirate lovers, well, they were dressed in clean oiled and shiny leather pants, finely stitched shirts and Ruindil even had a velvet jacket on in a rich dark black with gold trim that made his pale skin and long tumbling curly hair look fantastic, with one exception. She walked forward and the Captain despite standing at equal height to Fuin when she wasn't in heels lean back his eyes wide. She stared at him for a moment then plucked off a white goose feather from his jacket tugged the lapels straightening them and looking him over.

"Mylien is right, those pants do look pretty tight." She said with a smile and gave him a kiss which was of course returned. She then bent low and gave Mylien a tight hug and kiss as well "I thought you two were off annoying Dol Amroths Navy?" She said happy to have them here as Afarfin reached in as well and all four of them ended up hugging tightly.

"Did you really think we'd miss your big night with these awards?" Ruindil said with a laugh, "You've got sand in your britches if you thought that, I even wore me fancy hat." He said motioning to the black wide brimmed hat on his head that had a white ostrich plume sticking out of its brim

Fuin laughed and wiped a small tear away. "Right we'll talk more after we award this next prize. Let me look at the lot of you make sure there is no goose poop of feathers on you before we go out. I don't think anyone has seen all of us together before so we had best look stunning." A few downy feathers removed later the four of them swept onto the stage arms linked together.

"Sorry for the delay." Fuin started,

"Being the best RPer is more than being able to make good posts." Afarfin continued solemnly in the same sort of tone as Fuin

"It means being versatile, creative and quick witted," Mylien added her face lit up with a cheeky grin as Fuin looked at them as they spoke... These buggers had been plotting this for a while.

"And able to change characters or pacing at the drop of a hat as needed in order to keep the story going smoothly and efficiently." Ruindil stood proudly having worked and practiced his proper common rather than his standard sailor speak that even Fuin had had a hard time understanding when she had first met the two of them years ago now. The three of them looked at her as if they expected her to know their rehearsed lines.

She stood for a moment, just basking in the fact that her entire family was together on stage in front of everyone for a moment the reward forgotten for a moment.

"And they surprise us at the best of times with their glorious posts. We are pleased to award best RPer to one of the following nominees."

@Allacan ob Burzum

@Éolath

@Ercassie

@Goosil {Sil}

@Lailyn

@Moriel

@Nessa Saelind

@Prometherion {Frost}

@Taethowyn

@Ta'leus Shieldsong

@Tarawen

@Thalionwen Hunigfolm

@Tharmáras

@Winddancer

@Yávië {Aerlinn}

The drums began to roll as Afarfin produced a small envelope from his pocket and broke the wax seal on it and handed it to Mylien beside him who opened it up , Fuin, Afafin and Ruindil all leaned into the smallest of their family so they could read the name on the slip of paper, and together after a deep breath they announced the winner together as a chorus.

Congragulations to @Prometherion {Frost}@Prometherion the winner of Best RPer!

Best RP-er signature banner

Mylien saw the other note on the award and laughed, "And apologies to Goosil for stealing this award from you to do the presentation, you were our runner up & honourable mention, have another fish on Ruindil"

@Goosil {Sil}

Ruindil for his part leaned behind Fuin and whispered something in Myliens ear which made the other three blush and Fuin gave the tall man an elbow in the ribs as she held the award waiting for the winner to come up and claim their prize bringing a weeze out of the solidly built Gondorian man.

"Behave." She whispered to him through a smile moving her mouth as little as possible while they moved back and to the side for the winner to have the spot light

OOC Goose abuse with permission