Manwë's Birthday Party by Dawn Felagund, Tarion Anarore, Rhapsody, oshun, Isil Elensar, pandemonium_213, Beatrisu

Chapter 1: "Valmar of Many Bells" by Dawn Felagund

Read Chapter 1: "Valmar of Many Bells" by Dawn Felagund

"Blast these bells!" Manwë muttered to himself as he paced the length of his halls and attempted to rub away a flourishing headache. It was the day of his birthday party, and he was bundled neck to foot in a set of resplendent and very itchy party robes that Varda had had commissioned especially for the occasion. In Valmar below, they were celebrating the happy occasion of Manwë having erupted fully formed from the thought of Eru 45,000 millennia, twelve centuries, and five years ago. And they were celebrating the only way they knew how, bless their vapid blond Vanyarin souls. They were ringing the bells.

Constantly.
Incessantly.
Un-friggin-ceasingly.

And with each burst of chimes, a very eager Varda to came sauntering in the room, chortling, "Yoohoo!" thinking that the first party guests had arrived. Elbereth, Lady of the Stars, she who had quailed even Melkor and to whom all upon Arda cry in need became as giddy as Vana and Nessa with ten liters of Cherry Coke shared between them when the word "party" was mentioned, particularly when her husband's name "Manwë" was mentioned in the near-proximity of "party" in the same sentence.

Tinkle-ring-chime-dong-CRASH--

A fresh onomatopoeic cacophony rollicked up to the streets below, Varda pranced into the room--"Yoohoo!"--and flounced away again when she discovered it was just the Vanyar again and Manwë's headache tightened just a smidgen, just enough to make him wonder when at last his head would finally explode. Well, Varda would probably think it just some clever party confetti designed by the Aulendil and bearing a nice pretty pinky-gray hue speckled with shards of what resembled bone--

ROAR!!!

"What the fu--" he heard Varda enter the room behind him, yoohooing all the way "--Formenos?"

"Dear, Fëanor hasn't lived there for ages," Varda reminded him as she whisked again from the room.

From its inception, this party had been a nightmare. First, it had conflicted with Melian's baby shower. Melian--pregnant by Eru-only-knows-what this time--had insisted on a baby shower, despite the fact that Nienna's recently updated Big Book of Valarin Customs and Border Protection had explicitly warned against showers for any but the first-born child. Then, Varda had attempted to hire some Elves to clean the bird droppings from the terraces, only she'd made the mistake of hiring Noldor, and there had almost been another rebellion. Well, it wasn't Manwë's fault that Eru--in His supreme omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent wisdom--had decreed that Manwë be Lord of the Birds and that he had a constant entourage of eagles, hawks, and recently (disturbingly) turkey buzzards flying in through his windows. Finally, two days ago, there had been a fresh snowfall upon Taniquetil, and Aulë--eager to show off his technological prowess--had come stumping up the mountain with a newfangled contraption that he called a "snowblower," having been ordered by a frazzled Varda to clear the paths. Only the thing had exploded, leaving a thin coating of soot on the front of the palace and most of the snow, rendering it a filthy gray color. Back down the mountain Aulë had stumped, muttering about "beta versions" and "nuclear reactions gone awry" while Varda collapsed from a mixture of distress and rage and, coming to, had hired more Elves to clean up the mess. Luckily, she'd hired Vanyarin help that time.

Just when Manwë was sure that no one was going to come to his party--slightly relieved and more than a little embarrassed by that; even Mandos had had a bigger turn-out this year that he preferred to call "small and intimate" rather than "paltry"--and it seemed that the Vanyar had stopped with the "many bells" act, there was a tiny noise from the direction of the front door. tinkle-chime, it went. tinkle-chime tinkle-chime. Manwë cocked his head. He glanced behind himself, waiting for Varda to charge into the room. Surely it wasn't ...? No, surely, if it was the doorbell, then he'd have a set of size-eight footprints (size six if she was in Vana's company) peppered across his back; surely the poor guests would already be having crab balls, spinach-artichoke dip, mango salsa, and cocktail weenies being foisted beneath their noses; surely--

tinkle-chime

Surely not!

But just in case--and mostly to save himself the pain of Varda's rage if she found out he hadn't (because he didn't care a whit for this stupid party, of course)--he went to the door. Just in case it was the doorbell.

Chapter 2: "The First Guests" by Isil Elensar

Read Chapter 2: "The First Guests" by Isil Elensar

Tinkle-chime!

He pressed the button with a flourish this time, knowing no one would see except the birds, of course. They wheeled and soared and swung all over, and yet, several surprised, inelegant squawks could be heard. Ah yes. His furry, four-legged friends had indeed followed him up here. And with such tempting flying morsels, who could blame them? A laugh bubbled up from his chest and a grin erupted on his face as he imagined the look on Manwe’s face when he caught sight of his guests.

Tinkle-chime!

Good grief, they answered the door slowly here, he thought. Of course, the bells down below had been ringing practically all day, so maybe the lord and lady couldn’t hear the doorbell. Oh well. He lifted his arm, extended his finger and prepared to ring the bell several times, in succession. Surely they couldn’t miss that, could they?

Tinkle-chime, tinkle-chime, tinkle --

The door whipped open and before him appeared the grumpy visage of Lord Manwe.

"Oh. So you heard me," Legolas said, unable to keep himself from laughing in the Vala’s face. "We came for the party." He bent to pick up the bag of Cokes and other various carbonated drinks, and also the several bags of alcoholic beverages of choice. Personally, he was ready for some coconut rum.

"We?" Manwe’s deep voice rumbled. Legolas watched him search for others. Obviously, they were not all present and accounted for, but another series of squawks heralded their location. Manwe’s thick brows lowered and almost met in a scowl as he looked to the skies. Birds were flying their way. They wheeled and soared and swung chaotically --

Coming directly for them! Legolas had just enough time to put down his offerings to the party when the first aerial assault buzzed over his blond head.

"Well, they were right behind me, but I’m thinking they got distracted again." He ducked another angry avian assault and glanced pointedly at Manwe. "Your birds don’t seem to care for them."

Awareness dawned on the grumpy Vala’s face. "You didn’t…"

"I did," he answered, even though it was a rhetorical question. "Of course, the cats had plenty of incentive to follow me." He nearly kissed the ground beneath his feet dodging another attack. "Can I come in?"

A speculative gleam twinkled in Manwe’s eyes, and a faint smile tugged at the Vala’s lips. "I’ve half-a-mind to leave you out here at their mercy," came the somewhat amused response. "I know how much you prize that pretty blond head of yours. To bring Queen Beruthiel’s cats to my party, frightening my birds?" They both ducked what seemed like an entire battalion of screeching birds. And then the cats came charging out onto the path. Manwe cried, "HOLD!!" The cats all stopped, but they gave him blatant, unamused kitty glares for daring to halt their hunt. Manwe snorted and issued a firm directive at them. "Harm one of my birds and you’ll find yourselves flying tail over whiskers back to your mistress. And I care not if you have to peel yourselves off the ground after your landing!"

Legolas was impressed at the show of contrition from the cats. They slunk their way toward the door, using maximum delay against ankles and the doorjamb as they went into the house. "I should have brought some Tylenol or Advil or something for Lord Grumpy," Legolas muttered to himself.

"I heard that," Manwe said, but he stood back and opened the door wider. "Varda will know what to do with your drinks." He gestured for Legolas to enter.

Legolas grinned and laughed again, doing his own slinking past Manwe with the bags of beverages in hand. He followed the sound of kitty adoration, and in the kitchen found them meowing at Varda. Their green eyes gazed intently at her hands, which held tidbits of raw meat. They sat in a semi-circle around her. Then, one by one, she tossed the bits at them and they were deftly caught by each cat, with nary a scuffle between them. Legolas managed to put the bags down on the counter before he doubled over laughing and Manwe grumbled from behind him.

"Eru deliver me…" he moaned, but the doorbell interrupted him.

Tinkle-chime!

"Wasn’t me!" Legolas laughed at Manwe again, who had scrunched his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Aren’t you going to answer the door?" Varda asked brightly.

Manwe chose not to answer that, and Varda laughed with Legolas who was practically rolling on the floor.

Chapter 3 "It takes a kinslayer too..." by Rhapsody

Big thanks and I ower her a lot: Isil Elensar. For encouraging me, betaing what I wrote and telling me I could do it (writing humour is not my specialty).

Read Chapter 3 "It takes a kinslayer too..." by Rhapsody

Tinkle-chime!!

"Will this day never end?” Manwe muttered as he quickly covered his ears, yet the chimes seemed to keep on tingling his Valar –senses.

Tinklechimekabloinkdoiiiingtinkletinkle....!

Manwe halted in his steps and, just in time, he suppressed a squee. Outside he heard two persons arguing, but soon he heard a loud boing, while another voice replied harshly.

With a big smile, Manwe opened the door and saw Celegorm try to re-arrange some chimes that now made a miserable sound.

Tingletonkitonk.

“I am sorry, Manwe. My brother here destroyed your doorbell.” The bard started once he looked up to the tall Valar. “I asked him to haul the harp up this mountain and all went fine until those final yards.”

“Now wait just a minute. Why does everyone immediately assume it was me? It was this doormat!” Celegorm scowled and pointed to a huge doormat that pictured the Vingilot. Manwe tried not to smile too broadly and suppressed the urge to hug this elf for what he just did. He only wished Varda wouldn’t find out who killed her ingenious doorbell and maybe, just maybe, this day wouldn’t be that annoying after all.

“No worries Celegorm! That’s one of the best things you’ve ever done, kinslayer!” Manwe said as he clapped the Noldo on his back. “I know you’ve had long conversations with Mandos about this whole killing of kin business, but killing the doorbell was the best idea you’ve ever had! Noldo craftsmanship: it takes a Noldo to kill it!”

Tingletonkitonk.

“Well…” Maglor started, but halted as he tried to figure out whether he should be insulted or not. After all it was Varda who insisted on having his harp present at Manwe’s birthday bash – a phrase he picked up from the energetic Bilbo – but he wondered if Manwe realised he was on a fast road to have those tiny wind chimes relocated somewhere else.

“Don’t answer that.” Celegorm answered and prodded the silly sounding chime again.

Tinktongtonto.

WHACK!

With one efficient blow, Celegorm smacked the doorbell and appraised his handiwork smugly. “There! Killed it! Since we still have a reputation to live up to, I’d rather do this thoroughly since you so appreciate this in the first place. If your wife doesn’t agree, I’ll send her to you telling you insisted.” Celegorm said as he winked roguishly. “Now, where do you need this instrument?”

For a moment Manwe wondered if he should rebuke Celegorm, but then thought the better of it. After all, the doorbell dying was a very good thing and would reduce his headache enormously. All he had to be sure of was that he was not around when Varda found out and, even more so, keep Celegorm away from the door before he proudly told anyone he was instructed, nay encouraged, to do this for him. Maybe Oromë was right after all.

"You can take it to the veranda, if you don’t mind.” Manwe suggested kindly and as the elves moved the object over the marble floor, he heard more voices approaching his house.

Chapter 4: "Everybody Loves Fingon" by Oshun

Read Chapter 4: "Everybody Loves Fingon" by Oshun

 

Maedhros and Fingon climbed up the steps to front door of Manwë's place. Maedhros slid on the first step, still slippery with bird shit, clutching Fingon's arm almost causing him to fall. His friend turned to him, deep concern flittering across upon his handsome visage.

"If you don't want to do this we really don't have to. It is not too late to go Melian's baby shower with your mother," said Fingon.

"Surely you jest! I'd gone to enough baby showers within our close family alone to last me until end of Arda while I was still a youth."

"I really was surprised actually that you were invited to Manwë's birthday party."

"Are you kidding? Even dad was invited, although of course he loves baby showers so there was no possibility he would accept. But Manwë had to invite all of us. If he didn't it would prove what we always said about him was true-that he is a mean bastard who always had it in for us."

"Well I suppose that is true," Fingon said pensively.

"Here we are. You go first. Everybody loves Fingon."

Chapter 5: "Aman, Meet Lon Guyland" by pandemonium_213

Read Chapter 5: "Aman, Meet Lon Guyland" by pandemonium_213

Thanks to Celegorm’s ingenious destruction of the infernal doorbell, Manwë was no longer subjected to its cheesy tintinnabulum. Tinkle-chime indeed. Unfortunately, the guests now charged right past the threshold. He heard a commotion in the foyer. His curiosity piqued, he ambled to the entryway to see that those two glorious specimens of male Elfhood, Fingon and Maitimo, had arrived.

Excellent! They should liven things up,” thought Eru’s right hand man. Then they opened their mouths and spoke not with their accustomed mellifluous tones, but with a grating, nasal whine. These Quendi now nattered with the most bizarre accent that had ever hit his quasi-divine ears.

Varda suddenly made a grand appearance, inexplicably wearing a black blouse, black trousers, and a cheap patterned polyester jacket. Her silver hair was teased into a stiff coif as high as the peaks of Thangorodrim. She eyed the board game that Fingon, smiling radiantly, offered to her.

“What? Another sex game?” Varda kvetched (Wait a minute, Manwë thought. What’s kvetch?). “Didn't you have enough with that other sex game you and Maitimo used to play all the time when you were kids?”

“What?” Maitimo’s jaw dropped.

“You know, the one with all the colored dots... “ Varda said.

“TWISTER?” Fingon blurted.

Manwë was perplexed. Where was this weird accent coming from? The bad dialogue?

Olórin, who had slipped through the door while the rest were distracted by Fingon, Maitimo, and his wife’s shtick, sidled up to him and whispered.

“That’s what is called a Lon Guyland accent. Maitimo unfortunately invoked a long-running TV sitcom when he uttered that…that phrase.”

“A TV sitcom? What the…? “ Manwë eyed Olórin suspiciously. “You’ve volunteered as a guinea pig again for Aulë and Namo’s temporal experiments, haven’t you?”

“Errrr…say, did Legolas happen to bring that pale ale, umm, what’s it called… Sierra Nevada? Here, I’ll get you one!” Olórin was off in a flash – literally.

“Damn but that Maia can make a grand exit,” thought Manwë.

At that precise moment, the Elder King heard a riotous cacophony: the crash of shattering glass, the sound of sloshing fluid, the indignant yowling of felines, and a shriek of gleeful greeting that emanated from the wide-open door.

---

Chapter End Notes

With sincere apologies to the screenwriters of Everybody Loves Raymond.

Yavanna Brings the Moonshine, by Dawn Felagund

With apologies to canatics ... okay, not really.

Read Yavanna Brings the Moonshine, by Dawn Felagund

Manwë was flummoxed. So far, his living room was crowded primarily with kinslayers with the exception of a (very pretty) Avarin prince; a rather flashy-yet-nonetheless-bookish Maia, and a pack of cats. And Fingon. Make that primarily kinslayers, two (very pretty) Quendian princes; a rather flashy-yet-nonetheless-bookish Maia, and a pack of cats. Who, he saw with dismay, had gotten into Varda's crab dip and had torn the streamers Varda had Scotch-taped to the ceiling to shreds.

To make matters worse, not a single Vala was yet in attendance, except for Varda, who had not only married him but had organized the party and therefore--on two counts--had zero choice in the matter. Manwë wrung his hands. He'd long suspected his declining popularity among his minions employees colleagues, especially after getting rid of casual Fridays and using WebSense to lock down the Department of Elvish Customs and Border Protection computers from accessing any sites originating from Wetwang*.

* Which was primarily porn sites, but according to his disgruntled minions employees colleagues, suddenly everyone's webhost or web-based email came from servers in Wetwang.

But, Manwë thought, that was neither here nor there. He would have thought the other Valar would at least possess the dignity to attend the birthday celebration of the King of All of Arda and the Official Head of Eru Ilúvatar's Breakdown Crew.

Then, from the door area, arose a cacophony that nearly made him wish for the repair of the forsaken doorchime, and a slew of curses erupted in Valarin: "DizznawbitvazamakaboomazzzzzivifuhC--" and all the Elves clapped their hands over their ears and whined, "Aaaiii …"

"Which in Valarin," said Olórin, "translates to, 'Oh. What the f--' "

"Yavanna! You came!" Varda squealed as she sauntered into the room. She planted a kiss on each of Yavanna's (very dirty) cheeks and seemed not to mind that Yavanna's overalls (worn braless and barefoot, Manwë noticed … with dismay, of course) looked like they hadn't been washed since the Third Age.

Somehow, Yavanna had not only tripped over the threshold but had brought the entire doorframe and some of the decorative bricks Aulë had recently installed on the façade of the house down around her. Rumor went that Yavanna had wanted Nessa's position as the dancing queen but was far too klutzy and had been assigned to plants instead. Since then, she hadn't been much for personal hygiene.

"Well, happy birthday and all that," she mumbled as she passed Manwë and shoved something into his hands that revealed itself to be a Venus flytrapper. That immediately latched onto his finger.

"Ouch!" he shouted.

"Which in Valarin," quoth Olórin, "translates to, 'Ai!' "

"May I interest you," Varda was saying to Yavanna, "in a fruit punch or a Sprite or a--"

"To the Void with that!" said Yavanna, and she began to rummage in the voluminous pockets of her overalls. "I've been brewing this out back Aulë's shop with the corn my Yavannildi have left over and it is some strong sh--"

"Great!" Manwë chirped nervously as Yavanna brandished a Mason jar full of a clear substance that smelled (even with the cap on) like it might ignite at any second. "Then let the party begin!"

Chapter 7 - "Loosen Up, Leggie!" by Oshun

My personal most words written in the shortest amount of time.

Read Chapter 7 - "Loosen Up, Leggie!" by Oshun

 

"Legolas!" squealed Yavanna. "I hoped you'd be here."

Now, thought Legolas, why in the world would that woman, who could take any form she wanted, wish to look like nothing so much as a down-at-the-heels wood-elven girl on the verge of a nervous breakdown after losing her feckless boyfriend in that notorious fiasco called the Last Alliance. Well, that big hulking husband of hers can never be bothered to clean the grime from under his fingernails. That could account for her lack of care in her appearance. He flicked a bit of lint off his shoulder and extended a graceful hand.

"My Lady Yavanna. It is an honor, indeed," he said, bowing from the waist, releasing her hand and studying his own, wondering if it would be rude to use the hand sanitizer he had tucked neatly in his back pocket for just such an eventuality.

"Cut the crap, Leggie. Loosen up. Have a drink. Manwë! Manwë! Get back here with the hooch. Give the cute Moriquendi boy a drink. And to think I was told your sort was loose and wild. How did that rumor ever start making the rounds?"

"I wouldn't know, my lady. Perhaps it was my father. He has quite a colorful reputation."

"Colorful? That's rich. Where is the wily old reprobate? Now he at least knows how to party."

"I am sorry, but he has not been going out much lately. Complains of too much light and not enough trees, I'm afraid."

"You are such a Debbie Downer! Don't talk to me about light or trees. Thanks, Manwë. Whoops! A little of this goes a long way," Yavanna said, jerking back the plastic champagne glass, gaining her a vicious scowl from Manwë and slopping a generous amount down the front of Legolas's leggings. He didn't have time to even fret about the stain before it dried right before his eyes and he felt a tingling burning in his loins. "Bottoms up, sweetie. No permanent damage done. If you think that burned, wait until you swallow it. We'll have you swinging from the rafters and dancing with the cats in no time."

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Finrod the Endearingly Stupid, by Tarion Anarore

We apologize in advance for any trouble Finrod causes.

I'm not sure if thanks are in order to Dawn Felagund for the use of her excellently eccentric (and naughty) Finrod muse, but technically he's really hers, not mine. Therefore, I claim no responsibility whatsoever! ;D So thanks, Dawn, for letting Finrod come to play with me! (Don't even think it, Finrod!)

Also, no insult to blondes intended. ;)

Read Chapter 8: Finrod the Endearingly Stupid, by Tarion Anarore

Finrod Felagund raised a hand to ring the chime and noticed two things: firstly, there was no conveniently placed button at eye-level to press. Secondly...well, there was no door at all. Finrod stared for a long moment, blinking in a way that suggested incurable blondeness, hand still half raised. He wondered vaguely if this was Manwë's idea of a joke, or if the Vala had resorted to tricking Elves into cleaning his bird baths.

 

Thinking it might not be polite to enter the Lord of Arda's ridiculously large house...palace...whatever it was...without announcing his presence first, and seeing as there was no doorbell - and no door - Finrod did what was, in his mind, the next best thing.

 

"Helloooo000oooOOoooooo0oooOOoooooooo??"

 

He waited for maybe three seconds - an eternity - before finally deciding that he should just walk in, since he didn't see anyone coming to answer the...entrance (even if he squinted really hard). He didn't want to miss any more of the party, and it had taken more time than he had anticipated to climb the stairs.

 

Only tripping twice on the threshold, he eventually made his way to the living room, where the party seemed to be centered. Not that it appeared to be much of a party, in his opinion, given the small number of guests so far. Though upon further look at the guests, he decided that, given what happened the last time his cousins had come together at a big important party, it might be exciting after all. (Though he hoped that this time the excitement wouldn't end with anyone kicking the bucket.)

 

"I'M HERE!! I brought......" Finrod trailed off, realizing that he had drank the bottle of wine that was to be his contribution to the party along the way. (What? Those stairs were steep and he had been thirsty.) Mentally shrugging, he switched courses. "...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" He beamed, pleased with his quick solution.

Manwë’s simple reply of “thanks” was nice enough, though a look crossed his face rather like - well, like his awkward nephew-by-marriage had shown up at his birthday party – before it was replaced by an indulgent smile. Something which Finrod, predictably, failed to notice at all.

 

---

 

Chapter 9: Things on the Doorstep or The Valar Make a Grand Entrance by pandemonium_213

This is an unsolicited birthday fic for Dawn. In it, I give a nod to her affection for the genre of horror (not to worry, nothing gruesome) and her deep, abiding love and respect for the Valar. Heh. - pandemonium_213

Read Chapter 9: Things on the Doorstep or The Valar Make a Grand Entrance by pandemonium_213

After twelve separate explanations, each a stultifying exercise in dumbing down, Manwë was finally able to direct the vapid Finrod toward Yavanna and her jar of volatile liquor. The Elder King rolled his semi-divine eyes, their lovely sapphire irises reflecting azure light in every direction, as Finrod attempted a random walk toward Yavanna, Legolas and the alternately truculent and jovial Kinslayers.

“So what’s with all the Elves and just one Maia and one Aini?” Manwë ruminated as he surveyed the guests milling around Yavanna and her potent potation. “Where are the rest of my divine kindred? Doesn’t anyone like me?”

As if on cue, the earth trembled, the sky darkened, and the wind howled with the haunting voices of the outermost netherworld. What strange and terrible portent was this? Had Melkor managed to slip past the accretion disk? No, that was impossible. Why, that would violate the laws of physics! Not that there's anything wrong with that, thought Manwë, as he justified several hundred thousand similar violations that he had committed in his eternal lifetime.

In the midst of the geological tumult, he recognized the horrific screeches, whistles and dental fricatives that constituted the very purest form of Valarin. The directionality of the din indicated that whatever emitted these gruesomely strident sounds was rapidly approaching his grand home. The Elves immediately covered their ears again, wincing in pain indescribable as the unsavory sibilants hit their sensitive ears, which may or may not have been leaf-shaped. However, Varda and Yavanna brightened immediately upon hearing the bedlam, toothy grins spreading across their incandescently beautiful visages. Olorin, in his typically inquisitive manner, made for the remnants of the door to see just what manner of monstrosities were making their way to the party.

Manwë summarily shoved the bookish Maia out of the way, grabbed Varda’s exquisite waist and pulling her to his magnificent masculine humanoid form, whispered in supplication to her: “Please, dear! Distract Olórin, would you?”

Varda nodded and complied. She turned to Olórin, smiled winsomely and cooed, “Pull my finger.”

The Elder King picked his way past the bricks that Yavanna had knocked asunder. Once he was past the wreck and ruin of the clumsy Aini’s destruction, he ran down the path, hoping to intercept the Things That Should Not Be before they reached his capacious domicile. He rounded a curve in the path, and there they were, writhing before him, their odious voices splitting rocks and their noxious fumes causing Varda’s jaunty posies to wilt precipitously.

A shapeless pulsating entity of sickening putrescence led them. Behind it was a cluster of undulating tentacles, gelatinous quivering protoplasm, viscous sticky bubbles, multiple articulated legs, a prehensile proboscis, and scaled and horned dread. In their wake they left a trail of fetid green-yellow ichor. A noisome cloud of sulphurous vapors hung over the unspeakable horrors. The leader of the group extended a single pseudopod toward Manwë, and the other five hideous beings shrieked in unison:

“Iä! Iä! N’gah Kthun, Cthulhu! N’gah Kthun!”

Manwë was appalled yet so aroused at the sight that several tentacles snaked their way out of his forehead. He quickly suppressed his unseemly corporeal outburst, and his head snapped back into its smooth and perfectly ethereal shape.

“Great Eru’s fire, Cynothoglys! Ix-nay on the Ulhu-cthay!” He tried to hush the pandemoniac cacophony. “There are Elves and a Maia here. Quick, put on your raiment before they see you!”

Necrotic blackness swirled around the terrors on the path, and when it cleared, six angelic forms of breathtaking beauty stood before Manwë.

The tall, beyond-darkly-handsome fellow draped in amethyst-purple robes shuffled his feet, grinding his last bleb of goo into the ground, and addressed Manwe distractedly.

“Eru? Eru who? Oh, yes! Yog-Sothoth sends his blessings, Cthulhu, uh, I mean Manwë.”

“Cyno - er, Námo, that was too close for comfort.”

“We are so sorry,” said Shub-Niggurath, the Ghastly Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, now transformed into the scrumptious form of fleet-footed feminine pulchritude called Nessa. We just thought as the High Priest of the Great Old Ones, you’d like it if we all appeared at your celebration clad in our original birthday suits.”

“I appreciate the thought. Really, I do,” Manwë said to his radiant kindred. “But remember the Elves and the Maiar - well, they don’t know about us!"

“Ummm,” mumbled Azathoth in his heroically muscular form of Tulkas. “Then what should I do about this?” He proferred a present to Manwë. Only a few spots of slime stained its delicate wrapping paper. The Elder King immediately tore into it.

“The Necronomicon? Oooh, and it’s a signed first edition, too!” Manwë effused in delight. “Thank you so much, Az. I’ll just disguise it.” With a snap of his fingers, the unholy volume of abomination unimaginable turned into a tray of canapés.

He scrutinized his colleagues. The fellows were acceptable enough. The three Valier had cleaned up rather nicely, too. Shub-Nessa had broken out into a gleeful dance, tripping the light fantastic. Byatis and Atlach-Nacha were visions of the feminine divine as they adjusted their gossamer raiment of Estë and Vairë, respectively, not an arthropodic limb nor a serpentine proboscis in sight.

“Right then. You’re all presentable now. Follow me, please.”

Manwe led his glorious comrades to his house, hoping that the party would really take off now that more of the Great Old Ones - that is to say Valar - had finally arrived. Before he stepped across the jumbled bricks, he turned to smile at his friends, and then recoiled when he saw sickly phosphorescent coagulum smeared across the garden path.

“Irmo, you’re still oozing. Please do something about it.”

“Right-o, Chief! Sorry about that,” the Master of Visions and Dreams said as he gracefully stepped over the piles of bricks into the Great Dread’s crystalline – and brick - castle, leaving only one gobbet of foul slime behind him.

---

Chapter End Notes

This might be influenced by H.P. Lovecraft, who was a one odd dude. A list of the Great Old Ones of the Cthulhu Mythos may be found here.