Edoras, Rohan
Middle Earth
A door in the side of the great hall of Meduseld opened onto stone steps, the sounds of laughter and merrymaking within escaping into the night breeze, celebrations of the victory over Saruman's army at Helm's Deep a few days prior. The hobbits Merry and Pippin emerged from the festivities, Merry carting a tankard of ale.
Sitting down on the stone with a sigh, Pippin looked the skies with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. Merry plopped down next to him, hiccupping.
"Lookit the stars, Merry."
"Hunh?"
"Lookit them. Shouldn't there be more?" The pair gazed upwards and beheld the stars fading.
"Whush happ'ningn?" Merry gurgled softly; unable to discern whether he meant the stars or his general condition, Pippin thumped Merry's back as he burped.
"The darkness," said a coarse voice behind them suddenly, causing the two small hobbits to jump. Gandalf was looking at the sky as well, poised in the manner of the Very Wise. "Yes, the darkness hath cometh at last. Soon, our Doom shall be determined, and the Doom of Men."
The hobbits shifted uncomfortably as Gandalf stood solemnly, awaiting a reaction – perhaps awe and amazement. Yes, awe and amazement would do.
Pippin cleared his throat. "Well. Hmm. Best not leave the laundry out to dry, then."
"Indeed, Master Peregrin?" Gandalf said incredulously, looking down at Pippin over his large, crooked nose.
Merry, shaken from his drunken stupor, babbled his agreement. "Yesh, launder—launder—M'mam put th' launder out n' she'll kick me head if'n I take th' cabbage."
"Hundreds of thousands of men shall be massacred," boomed Gandalf. "Blood shall stain the fields of Pelannor for generations to come—"
"But their shirts will look crisp! Musn't be a Negative Nazgul," chirped Pippin, pleased to have thought of something helpful. Merry, drooling on the ground, grunted incoherently.
Gandalf's eyes flashed for a moment, but he managed to overcome the sudden desire to drop-kick the hobbits and left in a flurry of robes.