"Round the side is the horse coral." –Gaia caecilia, "The Mount Doom Cocktail Bar"

Ossë nodded, and swam around the bend in the reef to view his young companion's work. Surely enough, in the midst of the Tubastrea polyps there arose the skeleton of a new species of coral, as pure and shining white as the coat of great Nahar, and marvelously like in shape to his profile as he was wont to arch his neck in scorn of Morgoth's creatures.

"Is it all right, do you think?" said the once-mortal maiden nervously. "I wanted to pay proper tribute to Lord Oromë, seeing as how it was his horn that summoned me out of the 21st Century and gave me my animal-shaping gift, and I always got the sense he was disappointed that the Maia form I wound up in was more of a mermaid than a dryad or whatever, even if Ilúvatar did will it so in order to counter the new sea-serpent version of Gorthaur's breed – so, you know, I just hoped that…"

Ossë laid a finger on her lips, and smiled down upon her. "You have wrought finely, child," he said. "The Beast-Tamer will be mightily gladdened."

"Grey shapes looms about the fringes – but she wasn't sure what they were." –Calthis, "When Walls Crumble"

"Was it so?" said Éomer. "Strange, indeed. I should have thought Lothíriel would surely know a loom when she saw one; she has watched enough weavers at work in her day, Manwë knows."

Winston Churchill chuckled. "Well, you must understand, sire," he said, "when the Cabinet was transported here from A.D. 1912, and settled down about the fringes of Fangorn to start our little business in craftsmen's tools, poor Grey's joining skills were still a bit on the shaky side. His early looms looked more like abortive harpsichords than anything else; it's no wonder your lady couldn't recognise them."

"Oh, chuck it, Winston," Edward Grey snapped. "It isn't as though you were any better at shaping those monstrosities you called blacksmiths' forges…"

"The singing up button took him to a place with the signup form." –Wengon Calmacil, "Username: KeeperofSecrets"

"There you are, then, sir," said Miss Goldberry, sliding a blue sheet of paper across her desk. "Just fill out your name, talents, and references, and we'll see if we can't fit you somewhere into the Mirkwood Follies next month."

The fair-haired man grunted wearily as he took the form, causing the pretty clerk to look up at him with concern. "Something wrong, sir?"

"Headache," said Théodred through clenched teeth. "I got into your lift on the ground floor, and, as soon as I'd pressed the up button, it started singing in this tinny little high-pitched voice, 'Hey rol! derry dol! here we go ascending! High times shall there be at your journey's ending!' And it went on like that non-stop for 37 stories."

Goldberry, understanding, smiled sympathetically. "Yes, that's one of our founder's little eccentricities," she said. "A word to the wise, since you seem to be in fairly good condition: the next time you have business in a high floor of the Bombadil Building, take the stairs."

"Legolas then stopped his horse, and forced it to go backwards a few steps before he pressed it into a full galop again." –DLotus, "Tempestuous Relationship"

Aragorn shook his head. "Ah, Legolas," he said, "will you never tire of torturing that poor beast?"

"Torture?" said Legolas. "Nay, 'tis simple kindness. You have seen how he looks at that dappled mare in Elrond's stables; how can he impress her properly if he knows not how to dance? Come, Arod! Cross right, kick right; cross left, kick left!"

Aragorn laughed. "Well, be it so," he said. "Yet you might at least let him practise something other than a galop now and then. A pleasant minuet, perhaps?"

Legolas wrinkled his nose. "Oh, Valar, no," he said. "What in all Arda is drearier than a minuet?"