PARADISA

[ The journal is often cruel, such as now.

There's only anxious breathing to be heard at first, a quick patter of bare feet and the sound of a room being torn apart; books tumbling to the floor, tea cups shattering and even the bed toppling over. Panic gives one unnatural strength. Soon there's a tiny voice muttering to itself, growing in volume and pitch. ]

No. No. No. Where is it? Who took it? Bilbo. The Lady. Who? How dare they? It's mine. It was given to me. I claimed it. It's mine.

[ Now the bookshelf falls to the floor, accompanying a frustrated groan after Frodo has exhausted every hiding place. Disheveled and visibly anxious, he patters out the door to wander the hallways with an uncharacteristic urgency. He must find it or else-- or else-- it frightens him more than death itself. ]

( Galadriel )

[ ooc; so it begins! ]

Well, I say that should put me off pies for quite awhile, mushroom or not!

But stories are always in short supply, at least in my reckoning, and I thought others might like to join me in sharing a few tales over a cup of tea --and mushroom pies, if those are to your taste. I would tell you of Tom Bombadil the Eldest, who once went boating down the Brandywine to meet the Little Folk, and Goldberry singing her rain-song to usher in the new season.

To spring, I hope.

[ Frodo arrives rolling and tumbling across the floor.

There was a great shadow over him then, something with a terrible stench and legs too numerous to count. And now, light. He shields himself from the brightness and scoots back until he bumps against the wall, then scrambles to find shelter behind a couch. It hurts his eyes. The air is suddenly too clear, everything too clean. He fears it is a trick.

He speaks in a hush, afraid to alert the enemies but more afraid of being alone. ]

Sam? Where are you, Sam?