Post by The Witch King on Jun 18, 2003 12:30:17 GMT
The last rays of the sun were dipping below the trees as the Witch King made his way back to the Shire Green.
The lush, rolling hillside of the Shire was silhoeutted against the darkening sky. Patches of evening mist nestled on the lowground, softening the landscape and the scent of blossom lingered on the air.
The festival lay before him, deserted and strangely still. Like the calm before the storm.
Everything was in it's place, all the last minute preparations had been seen to. The large expanse of grass had been transformed into a blaze of colour and decoration. There was nothing else to be done, except wait for the guests to arrive.
Long tables and benches had been arranged in the centre of the Green. Each was ornately decorated with white and yellow roses, silk ribbons and scented candles. A sumptous feast had been laid out for the guests. Along the length of the tables were platters of cold meat, joints of beef, lamb and venison. Plates of chicken and duck, pheasant and quail. Pies and pastries, made locally by the finest hobbit cooks were piled high on serving dishes. There was also a fine selection of fruit pies, cakes and sweetbreads.
The mouth watering aroma of slow roasting meat wafted from the large spits, where a hog was being cooked.
A seperate table held beverages. Kegs of ale, mead and beer. Wines spanning the length and breadth of Middle Earth and spirits and fruit juices.
A vat had been placed at each end of the table, both contained punch. The elf variety was made of fruit, white wine and sparkling water. The mordor variety contained brandy, red wine and hot spices.
The feasting area overlooked the stage, where the evenings entertainment would be held. A wide, flat area of grass, marked out by a ring of candles, was to be the dancing area.
There were also stalls within the marquee, selling local produce, crafts and weapons.
The Witch King sat down on a hay bale, watching the colored ribbons tied to the branches, flap and shimmer in the breeze. He poured himself a glass of Mordor punch and waited for the arival of his guests.
The lush, rolling hillside of the Shire was silhoeutted against the darkening sky. Patches of evening mist nestled on the lowground, softening the landscape and the scent of blossom lingered on the air.
The festival lay before him, deserted and strangely still. Like the calm before the storm.
Everything was in it's place, all the last minute preparations had been seen to. The large expanse of grass had been transformed into a blaze of colour and decoration. There was nothing else to be done, except wait for the guests to arrive.
Long tables and benches had been arranged in the centre of the Green. Each was ornately decorated with white and yellow roses, silk ribbons and scented candles. A sumptous feast had been laid out for the guests. Along the length of the tables were platters of cold meat, joints of beef, lamb and venison. Plates of chicken and duck, pheasant and quail. Pies and pastries, made locally by the finest hobbit cooks were piled high on serving dishes. There was also a fine selection of fruit pies, cakes and sweetbreads.
The mouth watering aroma of slow roasting meat wafted from the large spits, where a hog was being cooked.
A seperate table held beverages. Kegs of ale, mead and beer. Wines spanning the length and breadth of Middle Earth and spirits and fruit juices.
A vat had been placed at each end of the table, both contained punch. The elf variety was made of fruit, white wine and sparkling water. The mordor variety contained brandy, red wine and hot spices.
The feasting area overlooked the stage, where the evenings entertainment would be held. A wide, flat area of grass, marked out by a ring of candles, was to be the dancing area.
There were also stalls within the marquee, selling local produce, crafts and weapons.
The Witch King sat down on a hay bale, watching the colored ribbons tied to the branches, flap and shimmer in the breeze. He poured himself a glass of Mordor punch and waited for the arival of his guests.
