One reviewer (fattybolger) wanted me to have a character say "Let's motor!"  I didn't use that phrase exactly, but at the end of Chapter 1, Elrond now says "Let's mount up!"  Close enough?

Dis Thrainsdotter, I know it's not realistic to leave the bodies unburied, but, hey, is there anything about this story that's realistic!  J

Starlit Hope, I'm still leaving the relationships, uh, in the closet.

            The Fabulous Fellowship of the Five had finally scrambled its way deep into Moria.  Elrond paused to consult his scroll.

"O.K., according to this map, we've got to count thirty-two columns, then take a doorway to the left.  The directions are very specific, and if we don't follow them, we may end up making over a balrog instead of a Dwarf—and I don't think I'm ready for that."

The others nodded their agreement and began to count off columns.

"You know," said Celeborn thoughtfully, "the workmanship of these columns is very impressive.  We may be able to build on this, décor-wise."

"But," replied Thranduil, "don't you think the whole thing is just too, too—overstated.  Something on a smaller scale, a little more intimate, don't you think?"

"Mmm," murmured Legolas, "intimate, yes, intimate is good."

"That's a Dwarf all over, now, isn't it," said Haldir.  "They build everything so big.  I think they are trying to compensate for a small—.

"Hey," called Elrond, "I think this is it."

The Elves stared apprehensively at the door that he was pointing to.  It was decorated with parchment posters of Durin's Demons playing Grendel's Goblins—using a troll-head for a ball, of course.

Thranduil sniffed in disdain.  "Great, this Dwarf's gonna be some sort of testosterone-soaked ball jockey."

"Ball jockey?"  Haldir looked interested.

"Not that kind of ball, Haldir," groaned Elrond.  He knocked tentatively on the door.  They heard someone shuffling inside, and in a few minutes the door creaked open and Gimli peered out.  His face was unwashed and his beard tangled.

"Oh," apologized Elrond, "I guess we got here too early.  You haven't had a chance to tidy up yet."

Gimli stared at him, puzzled.  "Course I've tidied up.  Whaddya take me for, an Orc?"  "He pulled the door open and gestured for them to come inside.

"Ah," said Celeborn, catching sight of the mithril chain-mail tossed onto a table, "Mithril is just coming back in style.  That design is too busy, of course—all those itsy bitsy links—but we may be able to combine it with a fetching tunic with a neck that leaves just a teensy weensy bit of the mithril exposed at the throat.  What do you think, Thranduil?"

"Oh, yes, but let's have a little mithril show at the waist, too.  Cut the tunic short—not too short, of course, just enough to cause the eye to sweep appreciatively down his torso, from his neck down to his waist."

"But why have the eye stop at the waist?" asked Celeborn.  The two Elves wandered into the corner to continue their discussion, taking turns holding up the mithril chain-mail to one another.

 Elrond meanwhile was looking over the rest of the room.  He wrinkled up his nose as he looked over the assemblage of tools scattered haphazardly over Gimli's workbench.

            "Gimli, hasn't anyone ever told you to take care of your tools!?"

            Gimli looked offended.  "Whatever tool I'm holdin' at the moment, I take care of!  So what's your problem?  You don' believe me, well, let me have a tool to work with, an' I'll take care of it!"

            "Ooh, ooh, me first," clamored Haldir.  "I've got a tool that needs to be taken care of!"

Elrond cleared his throat.  "Haldir, you take care of your own tool!"

            Suddenly they heard someone tramping toward Gimli's room.  The footsteps stopped and a heavy fist banged on the door.

"Gimli," a voice boomed, "Are yeh in there, son?"

"Quick," whispered Gimli, "into the closet."  Gimli gestured toward a sagging door that opened into a dark, dusty space half-filled with dented shields and rusty swords.

Haldir peered cautiously into this hole.  "Oh, no," he protested, "I'm not going in the closet."

"Yeah, Gimli, Haldir has spent so much time in the closet—give him a break, why don't you?" chimed in Elrond.

"Well, I don't mind being in the closet," declared Legolas.

"Haldir suddenly looked less horrified at the thought of pushing into that small space.

"Well, I guess if Legolas can be in the closet, then I can, too."

Legolas pranced into the closet with Haldir hard on his heels—but then Haldir pulled the door shut before the rest of the Fabulous Five could follow.

"Hey," protested Elrond, "What are you doing?"

"It's too crowded in here," Haldir called back.  "Legolas and I are practically being thrown into each other's arms as it is."

"Curse this armor," came the muffled voice of Legolas.  "Something long and pointy is pressing against me."

"Let me make you more comfortable," Haldir declared.  "Is that better?"

"Mmmm, much better.  But there is this one spot—Oooh, yes, Haldir, YES!  Mmmmm—"

While the Elves had been arguing over the closet, the room door had been reverberating from the blows that Gimli's Dad had been raining upon it.  Suddenly it came crashing down, the frame shattered.  In stepped a very irate Gloin, whose eyes widened in astonishment when he saw that his son was consorting with—Elves!

"Gimli," he roared.  "How could you!?  What will your mother say!?  What will your grandmother say!?  What will your great-uncle say!?  What will your great-great-great-aunt on your mother's side say!?  What will the priest say!?"

"Um, Dad, interrupted Gimli, "about the priest…."

TBC