The first ray of sunshine peered through the window by the dawn’s early light and shone upon the fair face of a sleeping maiden. She blinked unwillingly, revealing lovely violet eyes, then turned away from the unwelcome light. A strange reluctance to arise and begin the day filled her mind and made both heart and limbs heavier than was their wont.

Why should I go to my work? she thought rebelliously. It is not as though I am really learning anything from those so-called healers. All I do is empty chamber-pots all day. What can you expect when they tell the patients such contradictory things as, “Drink plenty of liquids and stay in bed”? And the only herb they know is always the same one: “Take two aspirinia leaves.”

Why, they do not even know that most overused herb, the remedy for all ills on every Elven quest, athelas! It grows here, but they call it a weed! And the other herbs…”

She began to hum the tune of an ancient lay of herbal lore that she had learned on her journeys, “Shireburrow Faerie”. Sage, she thought, that is what they call someone they consider wise, yet who is not even wise enough to recognize that herb when he sees it! Their maidens they name “Rosemary”, but think only of flowers, not of the healing herb. And thyme? They say, “Thyme heals all wounds”, yet I have never seen them use it!

Ah, and parsley! They have never heard of Elvish Parsley, that favourite herb of singers, which can heal sore throats and weary hips after long nights of revelry. What can I learn about healing here? Perhaps I should travel again…

Fully awake by then, Merisuwyniel (for she it was, of course) stretched her slender arms and yawned, most becomingly, as behoves one of pure Elven blood. Her finger tips touched the bow that stood beside her bed as always, even now when she no longer used the weapon. Immediately its thoughts flooded her mind.

It is time, it said.

“I know,” she answered. “I’m already getting up.”

That is not what I mean, came the prompt reply. It is time to continue our quest.

“But why? You have had your revenge, at great cost to me, if I may say so, and you have found companionship with parts of your Entish entity, the Great Foozle and Gravlox’ wooden leg.” Tears welled in her beautiful eyes as she gazed at the wooden artefacts, recalling her great love, dead, yet not forgotten.

I am not yet complete, the Bow answered. There is more to me than meets the eye, you know. The search for all pieces of the Ent That Was Broken must continue, and they must be joined again.

“How?” she asked, puzzled.

I do not know yet, but when the time comes, all shall be made clear – I hope.

“Well, I guess anything is better than chamber-pots,” Merisuwyniel mused. “Let’s find the others of the Fellow/Galship and see if they want to quest with us!” She arose with alacrity and chose her favourite wine red divided skirt (feminine yet practical, remember?) and a matching blouse, brushed her gorgeous golden hair to a blinding sheen, and left the room with a triumphant glance at the drab apron that should have been her garb for the Houses of Healing. The Entish Bow quivered with pleasure and excitement at being held in her firm grasp again.

Little did they know that their fates were bound up in matters much greater than they could comprehend…

Of Melvin Bluenote and the Flight of the Noodlar

It is said that Melvin Bluenote was originally the greatest of the Velour. The twin brother of Manuël Sántana, they were together the firstborn sons of Ilovetar. And in the First Age of the Light-Fittings, Melvin dwelt in utter contentment with his breth/sist-ren in the Land of Valleyum on the continent of Mogaddon, to the West of Muddled Mirth over the Blundering Sea. There too dwelt the three great races of Elves whom the Velour had brought (much against their will, as will be seen) from Muddled Mirth: the Vaniti, the Calamari and the Noodlar, together known as the Doolalliquendi (‘the Elves who took the Valleyum Trip’ or the ‘Dolls of the Velour’).

Now the Doolalliquendi had not been keen to come to Valleyum and a sordid mixture of threats, promises and force had been employed by the Velour to bring them there. And to ensure that they stayed, for the Valour enjoyed nothing more than managing the lives of passively compliant species, they were kept in a pacified and soporific state by the sedative food of Valleyum and by the strangely stupefying Musak of the Velour, a soothing mix of easy-listening classics which was piped throughout the land.

But Melvin began to tire of the idyllic, yet uneventful, existence that the Velour enjoyed in Valleyum. He began to long to see other lands, to hear more vibrant and trendy music and perhaps to organise the lives of other beings; possibly even to build quite large settlements for them. Then, in time, his ennui gave rise to musical differences between him and his brother. For Manuël and Melvin began to argue over which tranquil tunes and mellifluent melodies should be played within the Musak of the Velour and, one night after a particularly rancorous squabble, Melvin took it upon himself to switch the Musak off. For this sacrilegious act, he was summoned before a Counsel of the Velour where, unrepentant, he continued to speak out against his brother. Too apathetic to argue with him, but nevertheless craving a peaceful life, the Velour ejected Melvin from Mogaddon, condemning him to wander alone in the Darkness of Muddled Mirth.

Feeling bitter and twisted at his rejection, and also rather fearful of the dark, Melvin took with him all of the Light-Fittings of Valleyum. And included amongst these were the three marvellous Lava Lamps, known as the Silmaroils, which had been crafted by the (relatively) fiery and hot-headed Noodlar Elf, Feeblenor, in rare moments of full consciousness and wherein he had captured the Languid Lava of Valleyum. In later days, Melvin wore them in a groovy crown in which the Lava of Valleyum glooped and swirled in psuitably psychedelic fashion.

Now in all the confusion, no-one had remembered to switch the Musak back on, nor to keep the Doolalliquendi fed on their regular narcotic diet, and the Noodlar, who had always been the most sentient of the Doolalliquendi (although frankly that is not saying much), awoke from their tranquillised state. And Feeblenor, who regarded the Silmaroils as his greatest creations, was sorely grieved by their theft. Whereupon he stirred up uncharacteristic rebellion in the hearts of the Noodlar so that, in open defiance of the Velour, they followed Melvin to Muddled Mirth there to engage him in battle. But in so doing, they committed the terrible act of the Kinhoodwinking, when they tricked the King of the Calamari, Paellaë, into looking the other way while they stole the Calamari’s treasured Squid Ships.

Of Môgul Bildûr and the Redevelopment of Dairyland

In the meantime, Melvin, on reaching Muddled Birth, had immediately laid claim to its North West region, called Dairyland, wherein lived the Smartiquendi (‘the Elves who had sneaked off when the Velour came and so successfully avoided enforced relocation to Valleyum’). The greatest of the Smartiquendi were the Sindiar, who, under their King, Thingy, and with the assistance of the three Great Houses of the Fodderain (of the newly awoken race of Man), had turned the wide plains of Dairyland into a highly successful dairy farming concern. Melvin, however, had other plans. He wished instead to turn the entire piece of highly desirable real estate into highly desirable luxury apartments and highly lucrative industrial estates, shopping malls and food halls. So he entered into dread negotiations with the Sindiar. And thereafter, he became known to Elves and Men as Môgul Bildûr, ‘the Dread Developer’. And he was smart and businesslike, albeit somewhat sinister, to behold.

In that time it is said that, to aid him in his negotiations, Môgul committed one of his most terrible atrocities. Capturing lone Elves and Men, he tortured them in the dungeons of his fortress, Slangbad, filling their heads with ancient texts and useless lore, until they became as twisted and devoid of humanity as he. And so they became the Korprat-Loyers, subservient to the instructions of Môgul and obedient to his code: cruel in their logic, treacherous in their drafting and merciless in their negotiating stance.

And so, with the aid of the Korprat-Loyers, and other minions that he drew unto himself (Orcs, Trolls, Vampires – you know, the usual), he brought the Sindiar to the brink of capitulation. But then, just in the nick of time, the host of the Noodlar arrived: bold, valiant and somewhat dull-witted and led by the slightly demented Feeblenor. Whereupon Môgul was forced into hasty retreat. But, in their hour of unwitting victory, tragedy struck the Noodlar. Chasing the host of Môgul back to Slangbad, Feeblenor was set upon and slain by Greedhog, Senior Partner of the Korprat-Loyers. And, when his seven sons, Mugglin, Muddlehead, Celegormless, Currentbun, Curedham, Ramrod and Rumpus, came upon his fallen body, shredded by the terrible clauses of the mighty Korprat-Loyer, they stared in sullen surprise as it fizzled and crackled into nothing in a rather pathetic and anti-climactic pyrotechnic display. And in their fury and disappointment (the latter prompted by their father’s rather unflattering demise), they vowed never to rest until Môgul had been defeated and the Silmaroils regained.

So it came to pass that the forces of Môgul were held back for many thousands of years by the combined might, pig ignorance and blind foolhardiness of the Noodlar, Sindiar and Fodderain (the truest and most loyal of whom became known as the Canon-Fodderain). Many tales are told of that time: heroic and tragic, published and unpublished, canon and pure speculation. Of the Fodderain, Benny Clammyhand, and his Elven bride, the exquisitely plain Lucy-Jane Thinguviel, daughter of Thingy, and their haphazard theft of one of the Silmaroils from Môgul’s crown. Of the rather comical, yet ultimately futile, adventures of Tintin Rum-baba, who succumbed to the Doom of the Dread Developer. And of the Vow of the Seven Sons of Feeblenor and the terrible deeds that they committed in the name of the laws of inheritance.

But in the end it was to no avail. For Môgul sat in his fortress at Slangbad and plotted and schemed, while his Korprat-Loyers devised ever more tortuous and complex contractual provisions. And gradually, with each new take-over, merger and public-private partnership, his forces gained ever-increasing title to the freehold of Dairyland. And, as the land slowly came under his dominion, Môgul Bildûr, the Dread Developer, tore down the woods and forests, concreted over the wide plains and low hills and Balrog-dozed the modest (though well-appointed) farmsteads of Elves and Men. In their place, he built apartment block after shopping mall after food hall until no free farmlands remained save for a small poultry-farm at the mouth of the great river, Spurious, wherein gathered all the Elves and Men that had survived the terrible years of negotiation. And there they dwelt under the lordship of Roneld McDoneld, the Half-Elven, known as the Farmer.

Of the War of Mild Irritation and the casting of Môgul into the Void

While all this had been happening, the Velour, having re-pacified the remaining Doolalliquendi, had continued to enjoy their life of irresponsible but peaceful detachment. They cared little for the travails of the Noodlar, who had left Valleyum against their wishes, or the Sindiar, who had never come in the first place. But it came to pass that Manuël Sántana one day said to his breth/sist-ren that he desired reconciliation with his long-lost brother. And so the Velour turned their eyes to Muddled Mirth. But, on seeing the devastation wrought by Môgul on Dairyland, they became furious and immediately called another Counsel. And it happened that at that very moment a traveller arrived from Muddled Mirth: Eärandnau the Marinade, a Half-Elf of mixed Noodlar, Sindiar and Fodderain descent, who had braved the terrors of the Sunderland Sea to plea for aid on behalf of his kindred, the beleaguered free smallholders of Dairyland. And Eärandnau’s arrival was most fortuitous, for the Velour would have returned to their uneventful existence, seeing an expedition to Muddled Mirth as far too much fuss and bother, had it not been for the fact that he bore with him the Silmaroil that had been taken from Môgul’s crown and various other Light-Fittings that had been recovered during the sad years of protracted negotiation. Delighted that their realm was once again enlightened (in the literal if not figurative sense), they chose to reward Eärandnau and his kin by wreaking their terrible vengeance on Môgul and his evil undertaking.

And so, sailing across the Sunderland Sea in the Squid Ships of the Calamari, the host of the Velour marched on Slangbad, routing before them the minions of Môgul and the renegade peoples who had populated his urban iniquity. Even the Vaniti were roused from their self-obsessed reverie for long enough to lend a hand, although they were not in sooth much cop as warriors and so spent most of the time lurking at the back, fixing their hair and make-up and stabbing the odd escaping Orc or Troll with hatpins. And such was the turbulence of the War of Mild Irritation that the lands themselves were rent asunder, having had their rent reviewed one time too many, and Dairyland sunk deep below the Sunderland Sea, never to be seen again by those that breathe the air. Except whales. And dolphins and porpoises, of course. Oh, and perhaps the odd seal too. And its tower blocks, shopping centres and factory complexes no longer served any but the denizens of the deep.

Nevertheless, the victory of the Velour was complete. Môgul was defeated and his forces scattered and he was brought in chains before the Velour, still yet unrepentant. And Mantoes stepped forward and pronounced his doom:

Môgul, our brother, you have acted in folly
And now you won’t even say that you’re sorry.
So, at the risk of making you paranoid
We have no choice but to throw you in the void.

But the Velour Yawanna, who loved all living things with a half-hearted enthusiasm, was grieved at the destruction caused to the trees of Dairyland by the fervour of Môgul’s property development antics. So, implausibly (but necessarily for plot purposes) she urged Mantoes to bind the fate of Môgul to that of the Ents, the shepherds of trees that had been created according to her will. And, against his better judgement, Mantoes proceeded to pronounce further:

And it shall come to pass that an Ent shall be hewn
And its parts still living through Muddled Mirth strewn
But when the Ent once more becomes whole.
You, my dear Môgul, can kiss goodbye to your soul.

And, with that, Môgul Bildûr was cast into the inky blackness of the void, wherein he brooded darkly and malevolently, nurturing and cuddling and pampering his evilness until there was little left of him but pure evil. And then a Dark Lord he truly was. For, being without the Light-Fittings, he was forced to overcome his fear of the dark and, indeed, in time he came to be quite fond of it. And there he remained as long years passed, until news of the Ent that was Broken reached him, even in the darkness of the void ...

Orogarn Two gasped at the text of the crumbling parchment he held in his hands. For weeks he had delved through the ancient stacks of records kept deep beneath the Citibank of Minus Teeth, and he had found many useful documents that would surely aid him in his extradition and prosecution of the Entish thief. But never had he imagined to find an artifact of such historic importance.

For centuries rumor had insisted that such a chronicle lay buried amongst the financial registers of Grundor, but no one living had ever actually laid eyes upon it. Supposedy transcribed by Elros Car-Minicooper himself, the yellowed paper in Orogarn Two’s shaking fingers was none other than the fabled “Doolalliquendian Pie”, originally penned by the bewitched Smartiquendi bard Darren Stevens in the halls of Thingy. It recorded the almost-forgotten return of the Noodlar to Muddled-Mirth.

Orogarn Two read the poem, written in the traditional, flagrantly plageristic Noodelorean style, in awe.

A long, long time ago... few can still remember how
That Muzak used to make them smile.
But Mugglin knew he had a chance,
To make the angry Noodlars dance,
And maybe they would chill out for a while.
But Everlast had made them shiver,
And Feeblenor was now chopped liver,
Greedhog on the doorstep...
Hothead’s fatal misstep.
Doolalliquendi widows cried
And seven brothers’ seven brides,
For something touched them deep inside,
The day the Muzak died.

Soo..Bye, bye all you Valleyum guys
Kept us dreaming with your scheming, now we’ve opened our eyes
Without your bright Lights you’re just a bunch of small fries
Singing ‘love us or you’ll lose a great prize’
That’ll be the day that we die

So Mugglin sang of simple things
Of silver swords and golden Rings
Hoping it would calm his kin
But Noodlar blood runs thick and hot
And Muzak they had not forgot
And their patience began to wear thin
They shouted at him from the camp
’How can we live without the Lamps?’
‘Melvin has taken his spoils
He’s stolen our Silmaroils’
Mugg’ was a lonely Noodlar broncin' buck
Who’s people had just run amok
he knew he was out of luck
The day the Muzak died
They started singin'...

Bye, bye you lousy Valleyum guys
Got us steaming with your scheming, now we’ve opened our eyes
Without your bright Lights you’re just a bunch of small fries
We’ll never love you or your magical, mystical prize
That’ll be the day that we die

Orogarn Two stared in disbelief at the unfinished verse. He shuffled the papers around him in a vain search to find the continuation. It must be here!

“I’ve been down here too long,” he said to himself. “I must show this my father.”

He left the room and began the long climb to the Porcelain Throne far above.

Ward Three of the Houses of Bettifordeth consists of a large room in which are a number of patient beds as well as several private rooms for the more affluent ill. Over its door is a large plaque which reads, "Physical Injuries (minor and noncontagious)". Here, the various and sundry citizens of Minus Teeth who have been injured in minor mishaps recuperate under the learned care of the healers.

In a private room, the Lady Bawdy rested in her bed. Her husband, Vonbulowdil, had died several years before in an unfortunate poisoning accident and the Lady had inherited his lands and estate. An avid equestrian, the Lady had injured herself while attempting a...unique...feat of riding. Now, she was recuperating in the Third Ward whose ministrations were far less luxurious and attentive than her station normally mandated.

On this fine morning, a tall, dark figure was sweeping the ward. Clad all in black save only for his bright red thigh-high boots and a powder blue frilly apron, Grrralph shambled about sweeping the previous evening's detritus into a dust pan. By and large, the patients ignored the now-familiar figure though a few cringed when he stopped by a bed to fluff a pillow or straighten a blanket.

From the back of the ward a bell rang in one of the private rooms. Grrralph paused in his task before answering with a long drawn out wail which rose and fell like the cry of some dark and lonely creature. Then he shambled off towards the rear of the long room, ignoring the many patients who had ducked under their covers and shook in reaction to his polite answer to the summons. Setting down his broom and dustpan, he knocked at the door of Lady Bawdy's room causing its hinges to groan in protest. Then he entered.

Lady Bawdy was propped up in her bed upon a pile of silk pillows. At her bedside was a pile of magazines, mostly relating to interior design. On her lap was a book entitled "The Aristocratic Household; How to Govern Your Servants Without Leaving Marks". "Ah," she said. "Grrralph, dear. Would you rearrange my pillows?" Grrralph helped her sit up while he fluffed and piled her pillows behind her back. As he did so, she grasped his arm and ran a hand over his shoulder. "You are strong, aren't you? And so...large. I do so love a man in armor," she murmured throatily.

Grrralph stood when he was finished. "Anything elssse Misss?" he said in a thin voice. She looked at him appraisingly. "Yes, could you change my bed pan?" He nodded. "Yesss, Madam." She peeled back her blanket to reveal a skimpy silk gown and rolled to the side as he worked. She smiled and allowed her gown to slip from her shoulder. "I could use a man like you at my home," she purred. "You have such exotic eyes. So red and bright. You really should show your face more." She reached up to push back his hood.

The wail which followed shook the windows and stopped the clock in the lobby...

--------------------

"Grrralph," said Doctor Malpracdil. "Your service here has been valuable and appreciated."

Grrralph was sitting in a chair at the doctor's desk. His knees were nearly at his chest and the sheath of his sword stuck out from under his black robes. He shifted uncomfortably causing the chair to creak under his weight. "Thank you Doctor," he replied.

"But you've been here, what, seven years?" continued the Doctor. "You came seeking treatment for your...condition, but chose to stay and help and that's been appreciated. However, recently your behavior has been a bit erratic..."

"I'm sorry about Lady Bawdy," Grrralph interjected. The Doctor chuckled. "Her?" he said. "She gives new meaning to the phrase 'Royal Pain'. I kind of enjoyed finding her hanging by her ankles from the curtainrod. But there was that incident last week where you tied a patient to his bed..."

"He kept trying to walk without crutches," pointed out Grrralph.

"He was here to see a dentist," responded the Doctor. "And before that you stuffed a roll of bandages into a patient's mouth..."

"He was rude. He called me 'Lurch'"

"Uh, yes," continued Malpracdil. "You've never taken a vacation and work seven days a week. Maybe its time for a break. You need to get out more. Maybe that will help your...condition. I'm giving you two months paid leave so that you can get some fresh air and get away from here for a while. Find something to do or someplace to go. I bet that you'll feel better when you come back."

"Yesss Ssssir," answered Grrralph. He stood and headed for the door, ducking carefully as he left.

"And don't forget to take your medicine..." called out the doctor after him.

[ July 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

Along the great path that meandered towards the mighty Citibank of Minus Teeth from the great shopping dens of the Gap there moved a hooded figure. His outer raiment was a robe of many bright colors, apparantly patched together from the fragments of many once-fine garments, giving the effect of a multicolored four-panel flag waving in the wake of his quick-march strides. He paused a moment on the bridge which spanned the banks of the great river Watschaduin to pull back his hood and squint at the sky. The bright sunshine shone down on a faceful of contradictions: the finest-crafted gold-rimmed spectacles that rested just below the cheapest of salad-bowl haircuts...the innocent boyish grin that rode the front of a cruelly brilliant mind. The lone traveller re-hooded himself and continued on his purposeful way.

No one knew his name -- to those who asked, he named himself only as The Gateskeeper. Long ago the inferior maia had been bewitched by the easy-to-use wares of beauty he found in the Parc of the Xer Ox (who later became a stud for the Dairyland farming concerns), and longed to create similarly soft wares to sell to the public at exorbitant profit margins. But he knew not how to begin, until he was drawn to the black tower of Dorktank in the Token-ring of Networkgard. There he was brought into the dark practices of the International Brotherhood of Magicians (IBM). There he was introduced to the great power weilded by his mentor, Sauerkraut, and the Korprat-loyers who he held under his sway, the demon-barristers of the ancient world. There he secretly seduced some them to his purpose, and began to implement his diabolical program.

Seeking his own window to power, and impatient with Sauerkraut's obsession with jewelry (and hot dogs), he and his cadre of Loyers journeyed to the far south of Hardhead, to the warm green lands surrounding the Pea Sea, there to battle the Eunuchs who lived there for control of the vast markets of the Pea Sea, which were growing daily. And though they put forth all their might into creating a great fell contract that would bind the Pea Sea and all its environs unto The Gateskeeper in perpetuity, yet the Eunuchs and their immaculately-dressed Penguin Troops were too strong for them, and the battle ended in a draw -- neither could decisively draw the Net around the other. And yet neither wished to RISC journeying further south.

The greasing of a few travelers' palms with much gold from the sales of his soft wares produced news of a great Bow which had come to Minus Teeth, one which never missed and could, in his hands, turn the tide against the Eunuchs of the Pea Sea. Eru knows, their Korprat-Loyers needed all the help in actually hitting targets. So after a trip to the Gap for more fashionable yet inconspicuous clothing, he journeyed to that city to find out if the rumor was true, and to use his newly-developed Xtreme-Powers (XP) to obtain the Bow by any means necessary.

Far in the distance the Gateskeeper could now espy the great Citibank tower in Minus Teeth. He smiled his winsome smile and quickened his step. They would never discover his true intentions until it was too late...

Deep in a dusty, duskily dark den down below the dank, dreary halls of the Daily Floss (Minus Teeth’s oldest, most widely read—and only—newspaper) a slender, lithesome figure bent over a ream of parchment. In one hand he held a large, ostentatious and gaudy peacock feather pen, which, in theory, he was using to write upon the aforementioned parchment. In actuality, he held the quill immobile over the paper, while staring glassy-eyed at the cinnamon bun scented votive candle to his right upon the desk. While the candle was very fragrant, it did not cast much light, which contributed to the previously detailed darkness of the den. Or—as Vogonwë Brownbark, only son of Geppettuil the Elven Party-king of Workmud, third cousin of Throngduil, thrice removed, thought of it—his “poet’s corner”. It was really more like a “poet’s pantry”, or a “bard’s basement”, or even a “wordweaver’s wicker wastebasket”, but when the Daily Floss went to press, Vogonwë titled his column “The Poet’s Corner”. It could be found on the 19th page, down in the right hand corner next to the ad for Eeyoreth’s Athelas-Mint Gum.

As has been gone over well enough already, it was dark down where Vogonwë nested in his niche. The Daily Floss ran on a tight budget, and so its columnists were granted differing modicums of light, depending on which page their articles appeared on. Those who wrote cover stories were granted great blooming torches for their workspaces, and page by page, the lights decreased to middling torches, small torches, various sizes of unwieldy candlesticks, smoldering oil rags, jars of fireflies, and a glowworm farm. At Vogonwë’s level, one could expect one or two votive candles, but the votive to Vogonwë’s left had gone out about half an hour ago. He wasn’t about to complain, however, since the last time he had complained about his fireflies dying of asphyxiation, he had been demoted two pages. And he knew that on the 20th page (the last), all one received for illumination, was twenty matchboxes. Twenty empty matchboxes. Vogonwë wasn’t crazy (though he was starting to feel a little unwell, and was getting rather tired of staring at the ceiling, making friends with shadows on his wall) so he knew when to keep his mouth shut and switch over to staring at his one remaining candle.

Vogonwë had writer’s block. He couldn’t think of a rhyming sentence to save his half-elven life, though if he had been in a less befuddled state, he could have easily seen that “flickering” rings well with “wickering”, and so a tie-in between “wicker wastebasket” and “flickering candle” was waiting just around the poet’s corner.

His mind turned wistfully to Pimpi. Pretty Pimpi. My flickering mind turned wistfully to pretty Pimpi, purveyor of wicker wastebaskets… Nah, no good. His dear Pimpiowyn was well acquainted with bedpans and broomsticks, but he knew for a fact that the wastebaskets in the Houses of Bettifordeth were made out of metal. Anyway. It was all for his darling Pimpiowyn that he was down there, huddled over a scroll of woefully empty parchment, blinding himself by the sickly flickering glow of a single votive candle. It was her great wish to tag along after Merisuwyniel wherever that blasted…er, blessed… beautiful Elf went. And so she spent her days working in the Healing Houses, where she divided her time between odd menial tasks involving cleaning supplies, and cleaning up her own messes, for poor Pimpi was something of a klutzie cutie. She had spent most of her life as a small, petite little half-halfling, but a run in with magic beans had caused her to grow considerably taller. She made a fair and fetching figure, but she felt rather more like an awkward collection of elbows and knees in all the wrong places. Broken pottery followed in her wake, and she had grown accustomed to tripping over furniture. And bruising.

But she was happy, more or less, with her work, and Vogonwë was happy that she was happy. So he tried to think as little as possible about the great rolling plains and deep woodland forests that beckoned to him out there in the great big grand world of Muddled-Mirth. Ah, when was the last time he had hunted skwerlz in the forest? When was the last time he had skipped along through a sunlit glade, poetry flying from his lips like a fine spray of spittle? When was the last time he had mounted a horse with an inverted pas de chat, and gone galloping across the rolling hills with the wind whipping through his long, silky brown hair and satin hairbow? When was the last time he’d shot down a bevy of Orcs with a handful of well-aimed arrows? But he wasn’t complaining. Pimpi was happy, and when Pimpi was happy, he was happy.

(Review – Vogonwë was not unhappy, dratit!)

The two of them—half-elf and half-halfling—were engaged to be married. Sometime. Sooner or later. Pimpi was planning a non-canonical ceremony. Or something. He wasn’t really paying attention to the wedding plans. Vogonwë was quite content just being trothplighted, for the time being. Plighting their troth had been quite fun. So was subsequently trothing their plight. Trighting their ploth and plothing their tright every now and then wasn’t bad, either. It would be better in a sunlit glade, of course. But life isn’t perfect, even when you’re trothplighting (or a variation thereof).

When he had first arrived in Minus Teeth, Vogonwë had immediately found work as a reporter with the Daily Floss. There was an opening as a recorder of Lord Denimthor’s speeches, and so he had begun to follow the Steward of Grundor around with pen and paper. He quickly learned why there was an opening, as the man was a colossal bore. He yammered and yawed in the most torpid way, about the most insipid things, and Vogonwë had found himself tearing his hairbow out and yearning to write a line of poetry which included the words “yammer” “yaw” and “yearn”. One day, as Denimthor addressed the Wight Society on the subject of gingivitis, Vogonwë had nearly succumbed to a dark urge to affix an Aim-Well spell to his quill pen, and send it flying in the direction of the Steward’s throat. He had suppressed this urge. But that day, instead of publishing the speech on the front page (Denimthor’s speeches always went on the first page, and it is a testament to their dullness that many reporters passed up the blooming torches to avoid having to work that beat) Vogonwë had ditched all his notes on gum disease, in favor of writing a florid poem in honor of Pimpiowyn’s willowy figure. He was fired. But Merisuwyniel, bless her, sort of, had taken it upon her dear heart to talk the editor into letting Vogonwë have his own poetry column.

With a sickly fizzle, the right-hand votive candle finally flickered out. Vogonwë dropped his quill pen and jumped up happily, hitting his head on a low overhanging shelf. He said a few things in Simian which I’d rather not repeat, but it did not dampen his enthusiasm permanently. He made his way more carefully out of his corner, and headed toward the Houses of Bettifordeth. Today’s malady—a headache. Goodie.

[ July 13, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

Vast oaken beams lost in the dim recesses of the moon-lit ceiling cast cage-like shadows across the mighty stone flags; and in the centre of the chamber two figures sat by a table engaged in a silent battle of will and wit. Both were heavily cloaked and hooded, so that only the occasional glint of an eye or snatch of murmured conversation betrayed that they lived at all. Otherwise they communicated solely through the movement of the pieces on the board between them.

There came a hollow rattling from one side of the table. The taller figure, behind whose chair a scythe had been propped nonchalantly against the wall, leaned forward and the noise ceased abruptly, plunging the chamber into complete silence. A dry, hollow voice, ancient and empty as a plundered barrow, scratched out from beneath the frayed hood; and thin fingers pushed at the markers on the table. Then the apparition spoke:

'It's the same bloody snake again! I hate this ruddy game! I told you I wanted to play noughts and crosses!'

'Look,' replied his opponent. 'I sank two of your caravels and your war galley in the last game, and the winner gets to choose what we play next. Anyway, you're only upset because you're losing.'

'I'll have you know that I am as patient as the grave itself,' said the thin man in a voice of parchment and cobwebs. 'I just don't like to play games using something called a die. It seems to mock the gravity of my position.'

'Look, Slim; you're never going to get over the anorexia and the fixation with agricultural implements if you can't get over the delusions of grandeur: a bad pipe-weed habit and a scythe do not an ultimate reality make. Besides, you scare the sword.'

He does not scare me! What scares me is the thought that you wagered me as well as yourself before you knew that he was a patient. Why did you of all people have to find me? I could have belonged to a king.

This third voice went unnoticed by the dubious Death, and would have by you as well had I not so considerately told you about it. Only the man from the folds of whose cloak it came could hear it, and he had tried extremely hard to join the ranks of those who could not. The voice was querulous, demanding, shrill or, as the addressed player put it "bloody annoying." There came a sound as of someone bashing something made of metal against something made of stone.

'Peace, my brand! Unless you want to be called Griper'

You wouldn't dare! No swordsman has given his trusty blade an insulting name in all the history of Muddled Mirth; apart from Eustace the Inept, and even he didn't do it on purpose.

'Watch me. You remember what happened to the last sword that cheeked the lord of Dun Sóbrin.'

It's cheating if your girlfriend helps.

'Cheating or not, I don't see anyone claiming a rematch. Now shut up.'

Here Slim interjected:

'I thought you’d stopped all that. I haven't seen you touch a drop in weeks, and the furniture polish has stopped disappearing.'

'Look, as I’ve told you about a million times, 'tis my noble brand with which I converse. Sadly only I may hear the woven staves of its wisdom.'

'And they think I'm a nutter. Look, I may smoke my own socks and take a scythe to bed with me, but at least I don't go talking to it. I leave that up to real loonies like that fellow who thinks he can see hundreds of miles by looking into his bowling ball.'

'Are you going to move that piece or not?'

The mysterious speakers lapsed once more into brooding silence. Another rattle, and Lord Earnur Etceteron, for the second player was he, spake the following words of triumph:

'Yes! Up to the last row! Prepare to be thrashed!'

*****

The main courtyard of the House of Bettifordeth lay in sullen silence as the evening drew on. The remnants of confiscated alcohol, ranging from watery beer to distilled turnip juice flavoured with ether, had drained away and now only one bedraggled label remained. From it the monocled image of Captain Ishmael Strangereeks regarded the world with bleary benevolence.

The only movement in this renowned place of healing came from a churn in one corner, where a young apprentice apothecary was very enthusiastically failing to make butter. He sang as he worked, an ancient and very moving folk melody, recalled seldom in the legends of the Elder Days:

'I met a maid a-walking,
The two of us got talking
And soon we were a-walking
To a little place I know.

And as her look grew fonder,
A new plan I did ponder
And so my hands will wander
To a little place I know…'

Frustratingly for the casual listener, just as he was about to reach the really good bit the young man fell silent. From outside the gate he had caught the sound of hooves on cobbles and now there came the booming of the great iron knocker on the gate.

'You're not allowed in until morning!' he squeaked heroically.

The knocking came again, this time louder and more determined. A terrible fear sent shivers up and down his spine as an awful possibility dawned on him.

'You can play with our knockers for as long as you like! We don’t accept Jehova's Witnesses here unless they've got very bad laryngitis!'

This time the gate shook on its hinges and dust fell from between the planks.

'That counts for any evangelical group, hawkers, circulars, emissaries of dark powers seeking magical objects and travelling stockbrokers. Wait until morning!'

The gate burst asunder. Splinters of wood and clouds of dust shot out across the entire courtyard, covering the hapless apprentice in debris. When he looked up it was to see a massive jet-black stallion filling most of the yard, and on its back a figure of nightmare. Black-cloaked it was and wearing a vast horned helm, the visor of which completely covered its face. Black boots and leggings clothed the rider’s legs and a huge war axe hung from the saddle behind him. The younger man cowered behind the churn, fear temporarily eclipsing the charms of both suspicious dairy produce and off-colour traditional music. Then, in a thunderous voice (imagine a hung-over Thor receiving a call from a telemarketer), the apparition spoke:

'Where is Lord Earnur Etceteron?'

The young man whimpered a little and ducked further behind his buttery cover and the horseman spoke again.

'He is here. Take me to him now or you will suffer all the torments that Ilvers-in-Slógin can afford!'

Trembling, the apprentice stood up and looked the other man squarely in the knee.

'What is your business with the Lord Etceteron? He is a patient here, and they may not be harmed, save by our own highly trained staff,' he announced in a defiant whisper.

'I've got a horse here for him,' answered the horseman. 'I just need someone to sign the receipt.'

*****

So it was that the mighty Pinkjin, named by the lord of Dun Sóbrin many months before, came to his master, and many are the legends told of their mighty deeds. But greatest of these is the lay that is called Sillibugr or the Lay of Bricabrac. For Lord Etceteron rejoined his companions of old that they might cause the Ent that was Broken to be made whole; and that great tale begins after a word from our sponsors.

[A three-hour documentary about the manufacture of Strangereeks' Horse-Chestnut Brandy has been excised here. Its most notable features were its inaccuracy and failure to provide an adequate warning that the product causes instant blindness and sometimes epilepsy.]

Lord Etceteron puffed thoughtfully on his manly pipe as he cruised around the Motorless City, buying supplies but mainly showing off. He had already plundered the stalls of three herbalists and a blacksmith, and now, having visited his tailor, he was looking to find stabling for his new steed. The House of Bettifordeth had refused to keep any creature within its walls that could kick its way to freedom through their gates.

He arrived after a short time at Sethamir’s Livery Stable and Glue Factory, fabled throughout Grundor for its four-farthing deal (in which one's money was scattered to the four farthings in numbered accounts). Struck by how shabby and run-down the stable appeared, he decided to see whether 'desperate' could be added to the list, so with this aim in mind he dismounted and walked inside, where someone else was already arguing. Someone, he noticed, who looked and sounded rather familiar. She was saying something about a wallet, and he drew the illogical conclusion.

'It is unwise, Sir, to rob maidens in one’s place of business. Defend yourself!'

Wait, can’t we talk about this for a while: I’ve just been polished. No, really I can’t, I can’t stand the sight of blood! Stop!

So sang Earnur’s great blade as he leapt blindly into the conversation brandishing his version of an incisive argument. Only a couple of hours on horseback and already he was on the path of errantry. It did somewhat put him off his stride, however, when from behind him his prospective rescuee greeted him with these great words of greeting:

'Oh, it’s you again! How are you?'

With such mighty words do great workings begin.

The Very Secret Diary of Falafel

Day – oh, who cares?! One is as boring as another, and I’ve lost track. How long has my mistress been living in this city? How long have I been quartered in this stable which does not deserve that name, being so flimsy that I hardly dare breathe for fear of causing its walls to come down?

Oh, I know it’s the best Merisuwyniel can do; I don’t suppose she earns much, and most of it goes for feeding and lodging Tofu and me. Bless her tender heart, she can’t bring herself to sell him, feeling obliged to care for him after the death of his master. He deserves better than to be hitched to some farmer’s cart, she says, and she’s right, of course. Who’d have thought that a steed with so much intelligence would pine so for Halfullion? He was handsome and heroic, to be sure, but rather half-witted, if you ask me, which no one does, since even Merisuwyniel forgets that I can understand and speak her language, to say nothing of being able to write. Oh dear, I’m rambling, but I guess it doesn’t matter, since no one will ever see this. Can you imagine what it would be like if diaries were kept in public places for everyone to read? Unthinkable!

There was a time when I thought that Tofu might hitch up with me, but he has gone through such a depression as a result of being unemployed that he has no energy for more than a lukewarm platonic friendship. Nothing that I can say comforts him. I wish he would find a new hero to give his life purpose, but heroes are hard to come by, even in the capital city of Grundor, with all of its warriors.

I wonder if we will ever leave this city, with its stone houses and unfriendly cobbled streets. It would be nice to travel again, to see new places, gallop down foreign roads, and rest in the shade of unknown forests. Sometimes I get the hopeful feeling that Merisuwyniel is dissatisfied with her life here. I guess healing isn’t as exciting as being a shieldmaiden.

Dear me, I’d better hide this quickly – there she is! And so unexpectedly early in the morning; isn’t she working today? Now she’s stopped to talk to Sethamir; it looks like he’s demanding payment from her. Her wallet must be empty, for she has opened it and showed it to him.

Oh my, what’s happening now? A warrior has come in, brandishing his sword – careful! Someone could get hurt! Oh, it’s Etceteron; I didn’t recognize him without the smell of alcohol two miles upwind. Whoa, what’s that? A very black, very handsome, very large stallion – it looks like he’s gotten a quite adequate replacement for Baklava! Let’s see if he’ll look my way…

[ July 13, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

Meanwhile and Elsewhere…

The wind howled, kicking up immense clouds of dust. This is a bleak and unpleasant land in the southwestern area of the northeastern region of the northernmost parts of this southernmost quadrant of Muddled Mirth. The wind whipped through the canyons of jagged mountains as it sped on toward where ever it was going. These mountains were low and rent with many crags, pits, and caverns.

If some improbable traveler to these inhospitable regions had happened on this particular day to stick his head inside a certain one of the larger caverns, he would have heard a rather unusual noise. It was a strange thumping, a muffled sound but very powerful. An almost ominous crashing, punctuated by occasional bursts of intense flame.

This imaginary wanderer might have thought that this noise was the early rumblings of a great earthquake. Or perhaps a new volcano was about to erupt and it would be advisable to abscond from the area in the most expeditious manner possible.

Possibly, just possibly, in the most fevered and fanciful parts of the imagination, the traveler would have guessed at the truth. Deep under the earth a titanic struggle was taking place between two monstrous creatures from the dawn of time (and one dwarf and chia pet).

In a dark cavern of awesome size and majesty, far below where our mythical traveler is (not) standing, a tremendous roaring abruptly erupted. The cavern shook with the fury of the sound and sudden flashes of red light blazed forth from one of the openings.

Suddenly a small figure sprang forth from that opening. It was a disheveled, soiled, smoky figure of a dwarf. His once fine robes were now covered with dirt and blood and were partially burned. A golden chain and dragon pendent were tarnished to the point of being almost unrecognizable. His singed brown hair and beard were in a wild cloud about his head. He had two large axes thrust into his once splendid belt. Both axes were notched. In his hands he carried a pair of large, fully-loaded, multi-shot crossbows.

As this sorry figure scrambled across the cavern’s rocky bottom there was another tremendous roar and the dwarf was tossed to the floor.

"Horse-Radish!!" cried the dwarf, using one of the ugliest curses in all of Khuzdul. He clawed his way among the rocks, looking for a place that would serve his purpose. Behind him another massive burst of flame erupted from the opening. Finding a spot to his liking the dwarf settled among the rocks and aimed his crossbows at the opening.

There was a momentary pause.

*CRASH-BANG* came another mountain-shuddering jolt.

A shape surged forth out of the opening. It was a large creature, shaped like a huge snake with four strong legs and huge wings. It was, in fact, a dragon. Its sides were scored as if by huge rending claws (which in fact they were). This terrible creature stood glaring down into the opening for a minute. He let loose a burst of flame so intense that it would have burnt the wings off a Balrog (assuming that the Balrog had wings).

*BOOM-THUD* Something huge slammed into the side of the opening and part of the wall broke and fell to the floor with a crash and a thud.

"Get clear!" yelled the dwarf to the dragon. (A circumstance that the fictitious wanderer would have found curious in the extreme.)

The dragon scrambled backwards with surprising agility. It hunkered down behind some boulders near another opening in the cavern.

With a deafening snarl of rage a gigantic shape suddenly burst through the opening and crashed down in the middle of the cavern. It was a monstrous hydra-esque creature with many heads, as many mouths, and many more teeth to go with them. It too bore signs of battle. Two of its heads dragged useless and dead behind it, and one of its long necks terminated in a bloody stump. It was blackened by fire. It was, consequently, not in a very good mood, and it still had plenty more heads with which to vent its frustration.

The dwarf let fly with his crossbows, loosing a volley of bolts that would have mown down a regiment of orcs. The wave of bolts sliced into one of the creature’s necks, causing it to crash to the floor with an impact that caused part of the floor to fall away.

The monster let out a earth-splitting roar of rage, causing more of the floor to give way, and it sprang at the dwarf.

"Liver-n-Onions!!!" screeched the dwarf, as he scampered off through the rocks. (His mother would have been appalled to hear him use such language!) However, no dwarf is going to outrun a hydra-thingamajig. The beast sprang forward and landed in front of the fleeing dwarf. One of the dead heads smacked the dwarf on the creature’s way over and the dwarf went flying off to the side, over a ledge, and thumped down to the floor below.

The monster pounced down upon the dwarf.

Suddenly, the dragon went flying right over the heads of the hydra. The hydra snapped many rows of razor-sharp teeth at the dragon, but narrowly missed. All of the hydra’s heads went flying up at the spot where the dragon was flapping. This was what the dragon had been counting on, he suddenly dodged and dropped to the cavern floor. All the hydra’s heads went crashing together with a sickening, yet very satisfying, thud. The appalling creature teetered, and then crashed to the ground.

"Good work Chrysophylax!" yelped the dwarf. "Now get it off me!!"

"Owwwwwww…." moaned Chrysophylax Dives. He just stood there a little limply, trying to remember when he had ever been in this much pain. "My wing…my side…my back…my head…my pinkie claw…" he groaned, enumerating some of the many places where he felt discomfort. "Why, oh why did I come along on this trip?"

"If you hadn’t knocked over the stalagmite and woke that thing up this might not have happened! Now get it off me!" bawled the dwarf.

"If you are going to be like that, I think I may just not!" snapped Chrysophylax.

"*Groan!* What is it you want?" moaned the dwarf.

"I think that with this specimen you will have collected more than enough snake-oil, don’t you agree?"

The dwarf did not particularly, but felt it best to go along with the dragon’s wishes.

The dragon then obligingly pulled the hydra off the dwarf.

Kuruharan emerged from the wreckage very much worse for wear. Looking at the remains of his clothing he sighed, "Oh well, if we bring along that thing’s treasure I’ll be able to buy myself a new outfit."

Then, instead of rejoicing at the triumph over the great beast, Kuruharan ran over to the opening, picked up a few shattered shards of pottery, and burst into tears.

"Alas and Alack!!!" wailed the dwarf. "I’ve lost my chia pet!! Boo-Hoo!!! Oh! Woe is Ralph!"

"Whatever," said the dragon apathetically.

*GASP!* exclaimed a scandalized Kuruharan. "Have you no respect for the dead?!!!"

Kuruharan suddenly remembered the fate of the unfortunate (and post-orcusly devoured) Gravlox.

"Oh, wait, no I suppose you don’t! But Ralph always liked you. He helped you swindle those migrating Pot-n-Tots out of their yak-hair shirts a few weeks back…"

"And boy, were those things itchy!" returned Chrysophylax. "By the way, when is dinner? Titanic battling is an excellent way to build an appetite!"

"As soon as I finish the obsequies for our dearly departed Ralph," replied Kuruharan. "Then it will be time for us to head back to what is laughingly referred to as civilization so that we can sell off all this snake-oil we have accumulated."

Back on the surface…

If our non-existent traveler had perchance strained his ear it would have been possible over the next few moments to discern a strange new sound emerging from the caverns below.

After a few moments of bewildered speculation, the conclusion might have been reached that the strange sounds were actually the mournful strains of Taps being slowly played in what was surely the most dreary and heart-rending dirge ever performed on a kazoo.

[ July 12, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

The great iron-and-plastic gates that opened upon the first level of the great Citibank of Minus Teeth rose some 30 feet into the air, made in the giant likeness of the cavity-ridden incisors of the founder, Ibesore the Gap-Toothed, turning upon two great pillars fashioned in the form of great stone toothbrushes. Upon the gates was emblazoned in gold-tone silk-screening the city motto, "Solum potestis prohibere decada dentum." ("Only you can prevent tooth decay.") First time visitors were usually in awe of the sight -- and the Gateskeeper skillfully pretended to gawk at the gates like a newcomer, though he had oft been there in times past.

Having arrived in the city, his artful facade he now began to weave amongst the crowds of people in the streets. A generous and kind-hearted soul he appeared to be, applauding and dropping coins into the hands or hats of talentless street bards and storytellers, giving alms to the poor and needy, and admonishing young children to brush and floss. Occasionally he would ask a discreet question in search of information about the Unerring Bow, but he was patient. For the moment he was content to create a good reputation, so that when the time came he would the more readily be accepted by...whoever posessed the Bow.

As the day wore on towards evening (as days are wont to do) the Gateskeeper began to seek out a place to stay for the night. This was much tougher a decision than one might suppose. He did not want a holiday inn, as he expected he might spend days inn that place, and did not want a motel 6 leagues away from the city. But he was accustomed to only the best western lodgings. One promising looking place was covered with pine straw thatch, giving it a homely-looking red roof...he just might ram-a da money into that inkeeper's hand and stay there inn Comfort.

Across the street, he espied Sethamir's Livery Stable And Wedding Chapel. A horse! A horse would enable him to cover more ground in his search. He made a mental note to purchase a steed worthy of his cunning genius, not to mention his full moneybags, in the morning.

[ July 14, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

It was late morning when Grrralph emerged from Bettyfordeth. As he trudged down the steps, his tall figure cast a long shadow that reached out into the street. Several passerby came across that dark silhouette and halted, first looking up at its source, then turning around and hastening off in the other direction having abruptly recalled some important errand which had been forgotten.

A small child was playing on the sidewalk, a few paces in front of her parents. She hopped along as she went, chanting the time-honored rhyme, "Step on a crack, break your mother's back." On her last hop, she landed square upon Grrralph's shadow. Grrralph did not turn as the child's mother screamed in pain. He had more important matters to consider.

A vacation. Perhaps a short journey. And why not? Certainly he deserved it. He worked as hard as anyone. Why not take a vacation? Of course, he had never taken one before and had little idea where to start. His former 'occupation' had not been conducive to taking personal time off. So when he began working at the Houses of Bettyfordeth it had never occurred to him to ask for a vacation. And the hospital administration, being well used to treading upon the masses (read: patients), never thought to remind him...until now.

Yes, a vacation was an excellent idea. Perhaps he would seek a second opinion concerning his...afflictions. At that moment, the sun retreated behind a cloud. Cheered, Grrralph began to whistle. A few minutes later, when a light rain began to fall, he turned his whistle into a hum. And moments later, when lightning slashed across the sky, Grrralph began to sing one of favorite songs from many years ago, before he had come to Minus Teeth. As he began his tune, he had reached a broad marketplace and many people were seeking refuge from the rain in its doorways and under its awnings. They looked on as he swept past singing:

Daggers and maces,
and bows at ten paces.
Longswords and spears,
that lay foes on biers.
Arrows on strings,
and cold golden rings,
these are a few of my
favorite things!

By this time, he was singing at the top of his lungs. Suddenly, caught up in the moment, he drew his pale blade and began spinning around with his arms outstretched. His thigh high red boots struck sparks from the pavement as he shifted into a dance.

Liver and spleen,
and kidneys between.
Muscle and tendon,
and blades with to rend them.
Lungs, hearts and hamstrings,
and eyeballs a-bouncing,
these are a few of my
favorite things!

The shoppers in the marketplace gazed in awe at the 2.4 meter tall, black-cloaked and hooded creature as he skipped and spun about the square, gleefully singing...and dancing...in the rain. His routine continued until, in the midst of a particularly expressive whirl, the tip of his blade nicked the supporting pole of a stand.

Being a particularly enchanted blade (in contrast to his morningstar which was only moderately enchanted) the pole was cut asunder and the stand tilted precariously. "Whoops!" cried Grrralph as he grabbed the stand, lifting and holding it up so that it did not topple.

Its proprietor (after taking a completely understandable moment to recover) pulled forth a magical item. Dull grey or maybe silver it was, and it was rolled about a short tube. "Look!" someone cried. "It comes in rolls!" The shopkeeper pulled a generous strip of the magical substance from the roll and wrapped it about the severed pieces of the pole, repairing it with ease. Unfortunately, this consumed the last of the magical strip. "Damn!" muttered the proprietor. "Now I gotta kill another duck."

"Sssorry!" cried Grrralph. "But you know how it isss! Gotta Dance! Hey, does anyone know where Sethamir's Livery Stable is?"

The entire assembled crowd turned as one and pointed away from the market...

“Where oh where is Merisuwyniel today?”

Pimpiowyn Took stood by the bedside of a sleeping patient in the House of Bettifordeth, and gazed out a window at the patter of rain pattering against said window. “Oh where oh where could she be?” she mused. It was not like Merisu to be late for work, even if it had started to rain. Despite the fact that she was young, single, ridiculously attractive, and had bad taste in men (or technically, half-elves and orcs) Merisuwyniel had no social life, so Pimpi was certain that she was not nursing a hangover or entertaining a guest. There was always the chance that she had remained abed to weep and pine over the shadows of the past, as people with lost loves are wont to do, by Merisu wasn’t given to depression, so Pimpi doubted that as well. No, Merisu had gone somewhere. Pimpi was as sure of this notion, as she was sure that Vogonwë could mangle even the most promising rhyme in ten seconds flat.

“Why would she go somewhere without me?” she wondered, feeling hurt. “I came here to help her, I wouldn’t be emptying bedpans and cooking bread pans and sewing bedspreads and nursing dead heads if it wasn’t for Merisu, so how could she take off a day of work without telling me???”

“Good gutting glory!” the erstwhile sleeping patient sat up in bed and glowered at her. “Are you going to stand there chattering to yourself and overusing punctuation or are you going to scrub my dentures?”

“I’m sorry,” Pimpi apologized. Then she smiled prettily and said with practiced politeness, “You speak very clearly for not having your dentures in.”

“I do have my dentures in,” he spat. The faux teeth flew from his mouth and landed on the bedspread. “Swubum!” he ordered, wiping a long trail of spittle from his chin.

Pimpi looked down at the not-so-pearly-whites. They were actually a bit yellow. Except for a few places where they were positively black. A dark stain of saliva slowly spread out across the comforter around it, and a foul odor rose up to assault Pimpi’s nose.

“I hear one of the doctors calling me,” Pimpi said, and spun around on her heel, knocking a glass of water from the bedside table as she did so.

“Hey!” the patient complained, but Pimpi ignored him. She took off her nurse’s cap and apron and made a dash for the door, donning an umbrella to shield from the rain. If she knew Merisu (and she did, read the first part of story if you doubt me) then there was only one place the lovely Elf could be, if she was not out of the city already—the stables.

As Pimpi was leaving Bettifordeth, she spied Vogonwë darting across the street, dashing in between raindrops. Being an Elf, even a half one, has it’s merits. Unfortunately, defying raindrops takes a lot of energy, and even the most vital Elf will want to just stand still for a moment or two. So yes, Virginia, Elves do get wet. And yes, this is non-canonical information you are being fed. But I digress.

“Vogonwë!” Pimpi called out, “would you like to come under my umbrella?”

“Gladly!” Vogonwë replied without hesitation.

(What? If he had hesitated, he would have gotten rained on. Haven’t you been paying attention?)

Pimpi skipped down the steps, tripped up on her skirts, and began to fall, nearly poking Vogonwë’s eye out with the tip of the umbrella. But he dodged out of the way and caught her in a chivalrous fashion, getting wet in the process, but who cares. They began to walk down the street, arm in arm under the umbrella in a cheesily romantic manner.

“Where are you off to, Pimpi sweetie pie?” he asked, “was it time to get off work already? Wow, those votive candles lasted long today…”

[Editor’s note: the rest of this document has been gone through carefully, and such phrases as “sweetie pie”, “cuddly muffin”, “velvet teddy”, “sugar lips” and “bunny bunbuns” etc. etc. etc. have been removed, so that you will not become ill. So let it be unwritten, so let it be undone.]

“No, I’m taking a break to go look for Merisu,” Pimpi replied. “She didn’t come into work today, and I think she’s going off riding without me!”

Vogonwë rolled his eyes. “I see. But, Pimpi, darling, maybe Merisu wants to go riding alone today…”

“Whatever do you mean?” she turned to look at him sharply (banging him on the head with the underside of the umbrella in the process).

“I mean, maybe she wants some time to herself…”

Pimpi blinked.

“What I mean to say, is… um… how shall I put this…” Vogonwë mused. “Well…”

“Oh, look! A rainbow!” Pimpi exclaimed as the rain abated. She lowered the umbrella (Vogonwë dodged to the side to avoid getting his head closed up inside it) and breathed in the clean, rainwashed air. She swung the umbrella back and forth and smiled around at the shopkeeper’s stalls. “I do so love the smell of the city after it’s rained,” she said happily. “The damp hay from the stables, the moist refuse in the gutters, the moldy canvas of the awnings in the marketplace…”

“Yes, as I was saying—” Vogonwë paused, momentarily distracted by putting his arm out between the umbrella and a passerby. “I was saying, that ever since the ‘Incident’ you’ve been quite attentive to Merisu, which is nice, and all, but I was thinking… watch out for the pottery, dear.”

“Oops,” Pimpi said, as she knocked a row of ceramic pots off a shelf with one ill-timed swing of the umbrella.

“Hey! Watch it!” shrieked the potter. “What is this??? Storm the marketplace day???”

“Terribly sorry!” Vogonwë called over his shoulder as they hastened away. “You can, uh, send a bill to the Daily Floss!” They left the shopkeeper muttering invectives under her breath, and Vogonwë continued, “As I was saying, I’m sure Merisu appreciates the company, most of the time, but I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she wanted a bit of ‘Merisu time’ once in a… a very great while, so maybe today it would be best to—”

“Oh, Voggy, don’t worry about that,” Pimpi said breezily, brushing him off with a sweep of her hand (he leaned out of the way in time to avoid injury). “Poor Merisuwyniel doesn’t have a sweetheart to spend time with, and she hasn’t really ‘fit in’ with the other nurses at the H of B, so whenever I’m with you she’s all by her lonesome self. She has plenty of alone time!”

“Yes, well… the fact remains that she skipped work today and didn’t tell you…”

“Oh, Voggy, you’re just being jealous,” Pimpi tossed her damp golden curls saucily (he didn’t mind those whacking him in the face). “Merisu is my friend, and I want to know where she went. So there.”

“Jealous? Who says I’m jealous? My point was simply that you don’t have to follow her wherever she goes, and so—”

“Oh, go write a poem about it,” Pimpi said snippily. “You’re just such a grump from working in that awful little spider’s den at the newspaper office.”

“You’re right—my creativity is stifled here,” Vogonwë replied. “I haven’t been able to write a single line of new poetry in weeks, I’ve just been recycling old ones… If I spend much more time working in Minus Teeth like this, I may forget how to rhyme entirely.”

“That would be a tragedy.”

“Indeed.”

Vogonwë fell into a contemplative silence, calculating how easily he could arrange a vacation in the next twenty minutes. He didn’t even notice Pimpi rolling her dewy blue eyes and mouthing “Indeed” with an impertinent toss of her head.

“Oh look!” Pimpi exclaimed as they neared Sethamir’s Stable, “there she is, I knew it! And is that Lord Etceteron she is speaking to? Whatever could this be all about?”

Orogarn Two closed the satin covered lid of the Porcelain Throne and followed his noble father, the Proctor of Grundor, down the shadow filled Hall of Astronauts. Dark granite statues of ancient spaced-out kings looked out from between high pillars as Denimthor angrily led his son toward the open doors at the end of the gallery. The two walked in silence, but the animosity between them filled the great space of the Hall like a raging thunderstorm.
“You must not leave the city again,” shouted the older man, turning back. “Minus Moreghoul threatens the Wight City with another case of Bad Breath, and all you can think about is that blasted wallet! It can be replaced!”

“No, it cannot!” screamed Orogarn Two, rushing up to his father. “For it is not the wallet that I seek but what is, or was, in it. Do you think I would possibly leave the Citibank in this time of need for something as trivial as a leather money pouch? ”

Denimthor looked at his son searchingly and asked, “Then what is it that you speak of? What were you carrying through the Entwood that was of such importance? And if it was so valuable to Grundor, why was it taken from the city”

“I cannot say at this time,” answered Orogarn Two, “for I am off to the stables to choose a horse. I shall need a beast for my journey.”

“A what?” gasped Denimthor incredulously. “No cousin of Isildur, however many times removed, has ever required a steed for transportation. You know our motto, ‘A Steeded Steward Shall Soon Succumb to Shadow.’”

“I am not yet Steward, but you do not understand, father. I do not mean to ride the horse I choose. I simply require an animal that can carry the equipment I will need for my trip. I refuse to be stuck in a snowstorm again with only a small towel for protection from the cold.”

Denimthor stood looking, but did not reply.

“I am off to the stable,” said Orogarn Two, “Goodbye.”

The Tale of Môgul Bildûr (Part II)

There has been much speculation on the means by which Môgul came to escape from the Void. Some say that the Velour, wishing the freeholders of Muddled-Mirth to defeat him through their own endeavours and thus determine their own fate, left the Door of Doom, the only egress from the Void, ajar one night. Many reject this hypothesis out of hand, however, pointing out that the Velour were far too enwrapped within their vacuous Valleyum vicissitudes to be bothered with the affairs of Muddled-Mirth at that time. Others rather unkindly point accusing fingers at the Doorman of Doom, suggesting that he took a back-hander to leave the Doom-laden door unlocked and look the other way while Môgul slipped out. But this theory is poo-pooed by those who hold that a servant of the Velour would surely have been nothing short of incorruptible. However detached they may have been, the Velour were certainly no slouches when it came to taking the moral high ground.

No, the reality is unfortunately rather more disappointing. Having been so preoccupied with brooding darkly, Môgul, falling prey to the single-mindedness that has marred the career of many a promising Dark Lord, had neglected to keep in mind the fearsome array of powers at his disposal. But news of the fragmented Ent had stirred him from his dark and obsessive thoughts and prompted him to check through his formidable inventory of talents item by item.

“Laying vast armies low with one blow of my mighty mace?” he had pondered. “Humbling great nations with my commanding voice? Erm, forging Rings of Power? Infusing lifeless bodies with disembodied evil spirits? Um …”

But none of the regular Dark and Lord-ish crafts had seemed to fit the occasion. Frantically, he had plumbed the depths of his infernal abilities until at last he had hit upon the solution.

“Doh! Metamorphosis! Of course!” he had cried, slapping his dark forehead in mock self-admonishment. Then, cackling insanely, as was expected of him in the circumstances, he had uttered the dread words of power:

“Kafka Esque!”

And with those words, he had assumed the form of a lowly, although still suitably malevolent, cockroach. His ad hoc antennae quivering, he had surveyed for one last time the dismal features of his hated prison. Then, turning his thorax on it with immense satisfaction, he had crawled through the Crack of Doom (under the Door), narrowly avoiding the inadvertent footfall of the Doorman of Doom which, had it found its mark, might have spared much of the suffering which came thereafter.

******

And so it was accomplished. Only a few short years after the eponymous Ent was shattered and scattered, Môgul Bildûr, Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealings, once more roamed Muddled-Mirth unfettered. And he was greatly pleased by what he found. For, while he had whiled away years unnumbered in the Void (brooding darkly, as has been said), evil had not slept. It had not even taken advantage of his incarceration for a quick time out. Rather, like some remorseless and insomniac serpent, it had slithered and wound its way inexorably throughout the realms of Muddled-Mirth. And there it had found succour in the hearts and minds of those willing to accept it (or simply too naïve to recognise it when they saw it). And so it had poisoned the broken heart of Vinaigrette, twin sister of the Elven non-Queen, Saladriel. It had infected the substandard mind of the unimpressive Lord Sourone. And it had found acceptance among the Dorks and Geeklings of the International Brotherhood of Magicians (IBM).

And eager to waste no further time in putting into effect his pernicious (if predictable) plan for world domination, Môgul had immediately set about gathering to him his many minions and agents. Orcs and Trolls there were, of course. And those Korprat-Loyers that had remained faithful to him (although Loyers being what they are, many had switched allegiance to whoever had swung the bigger purse in their direction). And he found willing servants too among many of the races of Man: the wild Beasterlings of Near Hardup, the penniless Poltroons of Far Hardup and the ferocious Scallywags of Khant.

The first phase in Môgul’s plan had been simple yet effective. Much though it had pained him to do it, he had assumed fair and pleasant form to mask the dreadful nature of his true identity and taken to himself the name of Avatar, the Lord of the .Gifs. And appearing to the Elven Party-King Geppetuil in this form, he had beguiled him with wondrous images and styles fit for an inveterate partygoer such as he. But in return for this wickedly with-it wardrobe, Môgul had inveigled from Geppetuil the freehold to a sizeable tract of Southern Workmud, being part of the land that had been ceded to the Party-King by Throngduil, King of the Workmud Elves. There Môgul had built Gol Dulldor, a vast fortress-cum-logging mill and installed as its master the inept Dark Lord wannabe Lord Sourone, with orders to clear the forest for redevelopment. And, ever mindful of the Doom pronounced upon him by Mantoes, Môgul had bid Lord Sourone report to him any suspiciously vocal wooden artefacts that might be discovered in the process.

But Môgul’s establishment of Gol Dulldor, in a location of no discernible strategic value whatsoever, was simply a diversionary tactic on his part. For, having made a thorough reconnaissance of Muddled-Mirth, Môgul had espied a far more suitable location for his power base. To the East of Grundor, the convergence of the Ered Lethargi and the Ephel Dûwot rather conveniently formed a realm wholly enclosed by impassable mountains. This was Moredough, which later became known as the Land of Shadowy Deals. Here Môgul raised a deeply unattractive high rise office block on an outcrop of the Ered Lethargi: the dark and forbidding Tower Block of Barát-Höm. And in yet another convenient topographical arrangement, it happened that a handy Ent-part disposal unit lay close by in the form of the volcanic Mount Moody, which was also known as Odouruin, for the repugnant reek of its sulphurous gasses was enough to fell any Man, Elf, Hobbit or Dwarf (or any combination thereof).

So, sitting in his luxury apartment and office suite in the Tower Block of Barát-Höm, Môgul once again turned to plotting and scheming (which was of course his particular forte). Having been released from his bonds, he set about acquiring bonds, speculating in the Bear Markets of the Watschaduin Valley and in the Citibank Exchange in Minus Teeth. But most of all, he worked towards the recovery of the pieces of the Ent that was Broken. For he knew that if he could destroy just one such piece he would escape the Doom that had been pronounced upon him and be free to initiate a full-blown hostile take-over of Muddled-Mirth. The fall of Gol Dulldor was a setback, but one that Môgul took in his stride as he still owned the title deeds to the land.

And so, even as the Fellow/Gal-ship haphazardly reconvened for its second Quest, Môgul, having reacquired his former strength, was set upon the verge of overwhelming victory.

[ July 20, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

Tears ran down Merisuwyniel’s lovely cheeks, making her violet eyes appear even more luminous. She looked so beautiful in her distress that a male of any species would have been filled with the desire to comfort her. However, the only human male observing her was Lord Etceteron, who, though the epitome of manliness, was something akin to a stepfather to her, having been the last love of her recently deceased mother. In other words, their relationship was purely platonic and platonically pure.

Tofu, being a male of the equine species, could not help but be touched by her grief. He nuzzled her cheek, causing her to cry even more copiously. “Weep not, fair Merisuwyniel,” he said. (Well, he actually pronounced it more like “Merry-suh-whinny-el”, but who’s going to niggle about details? I mean, this is a horse that can talk, for crying out loud!)

“But I cannot take you with us,” she sobbed. “Sethamir will not let me leave with both of you at the same time until I have paid the rent. He says one of you stays here as a security.”

“I would not go from this city in any case,” Tofu replied. “I feel that my fate lies here, and I shall find my destiny if I stay.

”Still round the corner there may wait
A hero at a corral gate;
And though I oft have galloped by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall carry down the road the one
Who reaches out for Moon and Sun.”

“But this is the cheapest and worst stable in the whole Wight City,” Merisuwyniel objected. “How can you hope to find a hero here?”

“Heroes can be found in the most unlikely places,” Tofu stated simply. “It may even be that someday the human race will find hope in a lowly stable.”

The Elven maiden stroked his mane, then untied his tethers on an impulse. “Should anything happen,” she murmured, “it will not be difficult for you to free yourself and find your way to your destiny. May the Velour ever guide your steps to green pastures.”

She gave him one last embrace, then turned to lead Falafel to the (instable) stable door. Earnur was waiting for her with his steed Pinkjin, still puzzled over the reason why they should leave the city immediately. However, since he was equipped with an appropriate mount and it had stopped raining, he was quite willing to accompany her on an adventure.

Into this purposeful activity there suddenly burst a flurry of hectic impetuosity. The door barely missed Etceteron’s manly nose and his “I say!” was drowned by a very flood of questions.

“Merisuwyniel, why are you here and not at work? Are you riding away without telling me? And why are you carrying the Bow with you? I haven’t seen it in weeks! I looked everywhere to find you, even in the House of Peeling, but you weren’t there!” Pimpiowyn stopped for breath, something even she had to do once in awhile.

“Cosmetic surgery?” Merisuwyniel asked, puzzled. “Why should I be there? Elven features are inevitably perfect, and I already have pointed ears.”

She had just begun with explanations concerning the continued Quest when a tall, striking figure entered the stable. “Orogarn Two!” four mouths exclaimed simultaneously.

“Son of…” Vogonwë began, stopping abruptly as his beloved’s no longer dainty foot stepped energetically on his, hardly unintentionally.

“Oh, this is wonderful – almost like old times!” beamed Merisuwyniel. “The whole Fellow/Galship, at least what’s left of us, with Kuruharan and Chrysophylax off to strange countries, Pettygast gone who knows where, and dear Halfullion deceased. You know what we should do to celebrate?”

Eight eyes turned expectantly to her.

“Group hug!” she exclaimed.

“You have obviously spent too much time in the House of Feeling,” Orogarn Two said sternly.

“And too little in the House of Dealing,” Etceteron mumbled under his breath.

Vogonwë said nothing, for he was lost in contemplation of the various names of the Houses of Bettifordeth. I knew my inspiration would come back if I just got out of that dingy office! he thought.

Suddenly a black shadow fell across the patch of sunlight that entered through the open door. The temperature seemed to chill several degrees, though a torrid breeze accompanied the black-cloaked apparition that entered the stable. A voice, ghastly in its cheerfulness, spoke, “I’ve come to pick up my horse.”

Pimpiowyn’s big blue eyes widened even more, Sethamir shuddered and pointed to the very last box on the left side of the room, and even Lord Etceteron was cowed into immovability while Orogarn Two stared open-mouthed at the strange sight. Only Merisuwyniel smiled and said, “Why, it’s Grrralph! How are you? I didn’t know you kept a horse here.”

Meanwhile, In Places Far Off and Distant and Just as Dreary as They Are Distant...

If anyone happened upon the distant nook of Marrow-Bones Studios at the late hour during which our little diversion begins, they would have most likely decided that they were experiencing a hallucination, and ran as fast to the Houses of Bettifordeth as their designer running shoes could take them.

Unless, of course, a talking piece of wood was nothing out of the ordinary to their jaded eyes.

The piece of wood in question, a rather badly shopped up thing that looked like a giant pear with a handle and with seven strings running across it, was eliciting whining noises:

"Mother, O Mother," the large wooden pear moaned. "Please don’t make me play MmmDope one more time, or I might choose death just like your last husband did."

The small figure addressed as "Mother" hissed most terribly over her most tiny shoulder:

"Silence! I have had enough of your insolence! I shall throw you into the bonfire at the next Puke basketball game, if you don’t let me finish setting up the new Cell- antír."

"Very well," the piece of wood sighed (the reader might imagine that if the piece of wood had eyes, it would have rolled them). "You are not my real Mother anyway. I would have expected this sooner or later."

"How dare you!" The figure snapped most awfully, and turned around, revealing a very small, neat, angry face. "It was I that rescued you from the mud where you were lying like a common log. You could have been picked up by someone else much less powerful than I! Turned into a chair! Your only acquaintances would have been Orc-bottoms! I made you into a Musical Instrument of Doom! A..."

Here she continued for a few more pages of angry statements followed by gratuitous exclamation marks, until a new picture on the screen of her brand-spanking-new Series 2003 Sarumsung Cell-antír distracted her from continuing her tirade about gratefulness and good pop music.

The Entish Guitar, for that was it, and no other, if you haven’t guessed yet (in which case you probably should quit reading and go watch MTV), let out another long sigh.

"What are you looking at, Mother?" It asked, resigned to its fate.

"My latest batch of victims," she said and yawned, and even her yawn was ferocious. “Nothing exciting. Some racy Elvish maiden thinks she can save the world from injustice without paying off the right officials first. Some half-Elven character in puppy love. Some…”

Here she paused for a second, raising one exquisite dark eyebrow.

"Some...Some rather inebriated gentleman that appears to appear to be quite tasty in appearance," she spoke in a slightly different tone. "Could serve me well during the Fangsgiving Feast."

"I am rather confused, Mother," the Entish Guitar replied after a moment of silence, during which the figure continued to study Earnur. "What, pray you tell me, do those weirdos have to do with us?"

The figure was silent. Leninia the Deceivingly-Little, despite her outward casual charm and her hippy-ish hairdo, knew when to keep her mouth shut. What’s the point in rattling the Guitar’s nerves with silly tales of silly heroes with silly dreams of rescuing the parts of the Ent that was Broken, if nobody in all of Muddled Mirth has ever yet escaped from Leninia’s claws...er, well-manicured nails, should they have accidentally wandered into them?

Such was the logic of Leninia, daughter of _____ and _____, as it mysteriously said on her birth certificate, and author of such alarmingly powerful dark hymns as "My Appendix Will Go On."

As if being broken physically wasn’t enough for our Ent in question, its will was now also broken by the charms of Leninia, that had carved the hapless log into a guitar and used seven hairs off her pretty-yet-full-of-deceit head for strings, all the while feeding it syrupy stories of future success.

Leninia’s agenda was a mysterious one, so mysterious, in fact, that Leninia herself was sometimes not entirely sure of what it was she wanted to do with her life. Childhood was a series of fads that came and went with her ever-changing fancies. She settled on music when, having run away from home, she accidentally arrived at the Marrow-Bones Studios, having taken the wrong turn on her way to get a job as a sales clerk at the Gap of Rohan.

The Marrow-Bones Studios, at the time of Leninia’s arrival was a rather run-down dreary vastness whose employees lived in such a drug-induced stupor that you could hardly tell the living from the dead ("Or maybe they’re all dead," Leninia thought for one uncomfortable moment, before deciding it really didn’t matter either way).

Marrow-Bones Studios stood no chance against the hostile take-over she planned and quickly executed. Leninia was a totalitarian diva at heart, despite her free-wheelin’ youthful façade, and she didn’t leave her father’s very own Black Tower Records empty-handed. She had her voice, charming, hypnotizing, and capable of hitting such high notes that it could crack doors to nuclear bomb shelters, least of all heads. She also had in her possession her umbrella: a peculiar thing with the head of a black poodle for a handle: a present from a gentleman who had wondered in from another storyline for tea with her father long ago. What was that gentleman’s name? Gerber? Goiter? Goether? Whatever. Leninia couldn’t be bothered to recall it now. Regardless, it was useful for flying when the wind was good, and helped her turn certain individuals she had met on her way into toads, goats, and Korporat Pigs. A weapon much more exciting than daddy’s staff.

"Mother," the Entish Guitar interrupted her thoughts yet again with a characteristic whine. "I think one of my strings is on too tight."

"Mother will fix it," Leninia purred, and pushed the off-button. The screen of the Cell-antír went blank. Fate would lead the rag-tag group of individuals she had spied upon to the Marrow-Bones, sooner or later, and she would be ready. By becoming so thoughtlessly involved with the Ent that was Broken each one of them had cancelled their subscription to the resurrection. All Leninia had to do was wait, filing her nails and trashing hotel rooms in the meantime.

[ July 20, 2003: Message edited by: Lush ]

[ July 20, 2003: Message edited by: Lush ]

Meanwhile, back in the barn, I mean stable…

Before the fearsome specter had a chance to respond the Gallowship noticed a growing commotion coming from somewhere nearby. "I say," said Earnur, "what’s that sound?"

"Uh-oh," said Orogarn Two. "It sounds like it is coming from the Great Shopping Mall of Missing Dentures. The plebeians are probably staging another riot to protest against the rampant price gouging! We’ll have to put a stop to this!"

With Orogarn Two in the lead, the Gallowship quickly made their way toward the Mall, ready to quell any form of civil disobedience should it rear its ugly head. However, when they rounded the last bend they saw that things were not quite as they had imagined them.

The source of the disturbance was a large dragon who had landed in the middle of the parking lot, which naturally aroused some degree of consternation in the crowd of onlookers.

"Forsooth!" cried Orogarn Two, "yon vile worm will burn down the Great Mall of Missing Dentures and ruin the economy of Grundor if somebody does not stop him!" So saying he took a firm grip on his sword and prepared to spring forward to do battle.

"Wait," said Merisuwyniel, "there is something familiar about that dragon."

Now that she mentioned it, there was something odd about the scene unfolding before their gaze. Instead of spreading forth fire and random destruction the dragon was unpacking several large bundles. The behavior of the crowd was also unusual. They actually had the air of people waiting for the opening of a particularly cheap and disreputable flea market. When all the bundles had been unpacked a well-dressed dwarf climbed on the dragon and he started to make a speech.

"Greetings Grundorians!"

[applause from the crowd]

"Noble and honorable descendants of the Dumb-admen* of old!"

[more enthusiastic applause from crowd]

"I have arrived," continued the dwarf, "through fire and brimstone to bring you the best deals of the ages as befit you, the most noble and antiquated inhabitants of Muddled-Mirth!"

[wild applause and cheering from the crowd]

"Today is your lucky day!" The dwarf held up a bottle. "Within this reasonably priced little bottle you will find a cure for all your most dreaded ailments. This stuff is guaranteed to remove warts, cleanse acne, lower your cholesterol, unstop clogged drains, repair leaky faucets, and cure baldness!!! And if that does not suit you, I’m sure I have something you’ll like!"

"HUZZAH!!!" cheered the crowd as they surged forward toward the merchandise.

"Kuruharan has returned," said Merisuwyniel. "This must be a sign that we are to continue with the Quest!!"

"What?" said Vogonwë.

"But…" said Pimpi.

"Doesn’t he know that it’s illegal to sell in this city without a license?!" snapped Orogarn Two. "Especially in the hallowed parking lot of the Great Shopping Mall of Missing Dentures!!"

"I’m sure that if you point this out to him he will halt the sale until he has filed the proper papers," replied Merisuwyniel. "Knowing the glacially slow speed of Grundorian bureaucracy it should give us plenty of time to finish the Quest before he is eligible to hawk his wares in this city! Let’s go talk to him!"

With that the Gallowship started weaving their way through the large crowd of prospective buyers. It took them some time to make any progress toward where the dwarf stood in the middle of the confusion.

Kuruharan was trying to talk a reluctant shopper into buying a bottle of his Miracle Cure.

"What’s in it?" asked the man.

Chrysophylax stooped over and took the bottle. He removed the cork and took a sniff.

"Filbert!" he announced. "He was my second cousin on my father’s side. He was scrumptious!! This stuff is bound to cure your baldness!!"

"But I’m not bald," said the man, running a hand through his thick head of hair.

"You see how well it works!" said Kuruharan. "Now drink!"

"Umm…" said the man as he handed over some money. He sniffed the contents and then took a swallow.

His eyes suddenly bulged out of his head.

"How is it?" asked Chrysophylax.

"HOT!!!" screamed the poor man. "OOOHHHH, PAAAIIINNN!!! MY INSIDES ARE ON FIRE!!!!!" he choked as he fell to the ground and started panting for air. Wisps of smoke started floating out of his ears.

Grrrralph was very impressed with the amount of pain this stuff inflicted.

"Hullo Kuruharan," said Earnur Etceteron, "It is most fortuitous that you arrived today. Merisuwyniel is reassembling the Gallowship to finish the Quest to Unite the Ent that was Broken!"

"Is she?!" said Kuruharan, glancing nervously about him.

"Yes," announced Merisuwyniel, striding up to the booth. "But beside that, you are going to have to stop this sale! Orogarn Two is off to fetch the Police and have you arrested if this ruckus is still going on when he gets back."

"Eh-?" said Kuruharan.

Chrysophylax sprang forward to change the subject. "Here’s some of that Snake-Oil that we promised to bring back," he said handing a bottle to Earnur. "This is a particularly fine specimen, my Great Aunt Edina. If ever there was any dragon that would ferment she was the one!"

"Ah, alas," Earnur replied, "I’ve given up drinking. Bettyfordeth hath changed my ways!"

"She’s been investing heavily in some Valleyum narcotics, I shouldn’t wonder!" ventured Kuruharan darkly.

"How dare you speak of Bettyfordeth in such a way!" said Pimpi, as she ran up with her hands full of useless trinkets. "How much is Vogonwë going to have to pay for these things."

Meanwhile as this sale was going on, Earnur was inspecting the bottle Chrysophylax had handed him. It was true that he had given up drinking, but this bottle looked so interesting. Of course it was all rubbish about there being powerful brain-addling drugs in the supplements that the doctors at Bettyfordeth insisted on him taking. He of all people ought to know. But…on the other hand, he had skipped his dosage this morning, and he had to admit that thoughts of double rum grew most strangely in his mind. "It can’t hurt to take a little sniff," he thought to himself. "Mmmm…," thought Earnur, "that’s not half bad!! One little swig for luck won’t do any harm."

{gulp}

"*AACCKK!!!*" choked Earnur.

"WOWEEE!!!" he yelped. "I haven’t had anything that good since that last time I was marooned off Dumbar!!"

Fortunately, everybody was too busy snatching up the "bargains" to pay much attention to Etceteron’s boozy transports.

"Hmm…," thought Earnur. "I’d better have one more little swig, just to make sure that the quality is up to par."

Well, one swig turned into two. Two swigs turned into twelve. Twelve swigs turned into the whole bottle. One bottle turned into seven, and by that time Earnur Etceteron was as drunk as a lord. He wobbled and staggered over to where Merisuwyniel was standing.

"Marshuwynl," stammered Earnur. "Yous gotta try shome o’ thish shtuff." He offered her one of the bottles that he held in his hand.

A moment of bewildered blinking and lurching followed. "Well, ifsh you don’t likes ‘at ‘ottle, I’ll give ya some o’ this othern." So saying he held out the same bottle again. There followed the same lack of response.

Alas, there were plenty of people paying attention to him now. And, as any one of the delighted spectators to this rather pathetic scene could have told him (if they had not been so busy laughing), "Merisuwyniel" was actually a rather homely hitching post. As for the real Merisuwyniel, the phrase "drowning in mortification" did not begin to describe the social disgrace that she was experiencing. The voice of one little girl in particular seemed to speak with prophetic overtones for the likely sequence of events that would unfold during the remainder of their Quest.

"Look Mommy, the clowns are here!" cackled the delighted little girl.

"Don’t look child," chided the mother. "Whatever he has might be catching!"

This was definitely not the preferred way of beginning a Quest that had the fate of the world bound up in it.

"Wot’s tha noise?!" demanded Earnur. He spun around to try and determine the source of this raucous guffawing. Unfortunately, that did in his rather rickety balance and he fell sprawling, occasioning a renewed outburst of derisive laughter.

It was at that moment, just when Kuruharan was considering charging everyone an entertainment fee, that disaster struck.

In the midst of the laughing crowd of onlookers was one Chrysophylax Dives. He was rolling on the ground in the throes of his mirth. In a desperate attempt to regain some air flow he inhaled deeply and exhaled sharply. Alas! Whatever it is in dragons that causes them to breathe fire kicked in at that moment and Chrysophylax spouted terrific flames right on Kuruharan’s stockpile of snake-oil.

*FOOOOOUUUUUUUUSSSSSSHHHHH* *KA-BOOOOM!!!!!!*

"Ooopsie!" said a suddenly sheepish Chrysophylax.

Ooopsie was right! The explosion sent flaming debris flying in every direction and one particularly large flaming object crashed down on the roof of the Great Mall of Missing Dentures, causing it to combust.

The crowd, terrified out of its momentary jollification, started running around in circles, flailing their arms like a horde of deranged orangutans, screaming, "The Mall’s burning!!! The Mall’s burning!!!"

Right at that moment Orogarn Two and the Police arrived. "What in the name of Kitzledoor’s hemorrhoids is going on here?!!!" he shouted.

"The Mall’s burning!!! The Mall’s burning!!!"

"Goodness Gracious, Great Balls of Fire!!!" bawled Orogarn Two. He quickly resolved to make hasty contact with the Minus Teeth Fire Department. It was fortuitous that, in the Government’s determination to run the city on the cheap, the Police were the Fire Department. All Orogarn Two had to do to make contact with the Fire Department was turn to the men following him and shout, "Put out that blaze!!!"

It was infortuitous that the Police were really rather better at being police than they were at fire fighting. About all they knew was that water did something to fire, they were not quite sure what. The fire continued to burn higher.

Vogonwë, meanwhile, did not give two straws about the blaze. The obscene cost of buying Pimpi all those trinkets was causing him, for the first time in his life, to seriously reconsider the usefulness of females. Maybe it was better to just write lovelorn poetry from a distance and not have anything to do with the real thing. This line of thought was something quite new and unsettling in his brain and he had no time to bother with the affairs of business conglomerates and firefighters.

Pimpi was munching on some delightful truffles that Kuruharan had sold her and, well, you can figure out the rest.

Orogarn Two was standing there fuming over the incompetence of his underlings. His station in society was far to high for him to actually lend a hand himself, so he was forced to content himself with shouting profanity at his struggling minions.

Merisuwyniel was doing her level best to aid the firefighters. However, being a battle-tested and deadly shield-maiden of the kindred of the Noodlar, she was rather better at burning down buildings than she was at saving them.

Grrralph was trying out a brilliant idea. He was setting alight great heaps of wood in unaffected parts of the Mall in hopes of staging a controlled burn to limit the spread of the inferno. Thanks to his unrelenting efforts, in half an hour the Great Shopping Mall of Missing Dentures was totally destroyed and the fire had spread to that entire section of the city.

Earnur was stumbling and bumbling his way about the streets singing…

"And I fell into a burnin' ring of fire,
I went down, down, down,
And the flames went higher,"

To demonstrate he poured on the current bottle of Snake-Oil, which had an effect similar to tossing a lighted match into an arsenal. Three more city blocks were flattened.

"And it burns, burns, burns,
The ring of fire, the ring of fire…"

Desperate to find a way to put out the blaze, the firefighters decided to try Grrralph’s trick of burning things down in order to save them from the flames. Thanks to the unstinting efforts of the Minus Teeth Fire Department, within another hour the entire city was ablaze. And through it all flitted the mysterious figure of the Gateskeeper enjoying many moments of pointing and laughing.

Thankfully, for the good of all concerned, Kuruharan and Chrysophylax had not been idle. As soon as the fire broke out they moved quickly to deal with the horrific problem confronting them. They were, at that very moment, heroically sneaking out the back gate of the city. For you see, the problem confronting them was the appalling prospect of prison time (or worse) for holding a public sale without the proper registration and for committing the worst act of arson in the history of Muddled Mirth. They acted with admirable speed and decision to deal with this problem in the most expeditious and efficacious manner possible.

-Note-

* Dumb-admen - Name used for the escapees from the downfall of Noodleor, or as it is now named in the Quixotic "At-th’-bottom." The Dumb-admen themselves believe that the name means "Noble Survivors and Descendants of the Heroic and Underappreciated Canon-Fodderians" but most everybody else thinks that the name means "Stupid Losers." This disagreement has led to several wars and many unpleasant acts of extreme violence.

Vogonwë’s speculations on the worth of Pimpi versus his pocketbook, were interrupted as he caught sight of a visually stunning, not to mention serendipitous, event. He watched with rapt attention as the rapidly spreading flames rapaciously wrapped their flickering fingers around the location of his employment, the Daily Floss headquarters. “Ai!” he cried, but it was not a cry of dismay, as the term is usually is used to convey. The vocal inflection had a subtly higher arc, you see, and even though the spelling and punctuation was the same, it carried a distinctly different meaning. Translated from the archaic Quixotic into simpler Simian and then into Westosterone which is represented by English, it means, roughly, “Alright, DUDE!”

The roof of the Daily Floss collapsed with a magnificent snap, crackle and pop. This was followed by a whooshing roar as the flames bellowed and billowed and roiled and rocked and rolled throughout the entire edifice, disintegrating it nicely. He even thought he was able to detect the frantic screams of the custodian in charge of lighting. After a few moments of gloating at the ghastly yet glorious demise of the Daily Floss, Vogonwë turned to Pimpi (who was roasting marshmallows over a mellon stand) and said, “We gotta get out of this place.”

“Why?” she asked stickily.

“Cuz, girl, there’s a better life for you and me,” Vogonwë informed her melodiously. “Also, the flames are nearing us, and I don’t want to turn into a Vogonwë/Pimpi/mellon stand smore.”

“So where are we going?” Pimpi wondered, tossing her skewer aside and skewering an ill-fated Grundorian who chose that rather inopportune moment to run by in a panic.

“First, we’ll get some horses from Sethamir, and then… who knows! To infinity and beyond!” Vogonwë said, feeling giddy and adventurous after watching his workplace roast into oblivion.

“Oh, then we’d better pack,” Pimpi said practically. And so they did—pilfering packs, and pelf to put in them, from the smoldering ruins of the marketplace. Fortuitously, if not plausibly, they already had their weapons with them (Pimpi’s dagger Hush, and Vogonwë’s quiver of infamous yet unnamed hand-thrown arrows) and so after stealing some supplies, they went to the stable to hijack some horses.

Vogonwë had had his eye on a pair of fine looking geldings for a while (they were guaranteed not to run away with a lover while you’re in the middle of an important Quest) and so they quickly saddled up the identical twin roans: the legendarily lethargic, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Vogonwë thought that any two horses who could chew hay placidly whilst their stable burned down around them, would be ideal mounts.

Pimpi’s cascade of curls was starting to singe, so she didn’t care what they rode as long as they rode.

As they galloped out of the doomed city, Vogonwë lifted his voice in spontaneous song:

C’mon Flossy light on fire!
Time to set the Floss on fire!

Torches couldn’t get much brighter,
Even if you’re a front page writer.
This is sure a level higher!

C’mon Flossy light on fire!
Time to set the Floss on fire!

I hope I don’t inspire ire,
When the flames I do admire.
But you know that I would be a liar,
If I tried to fake a crier.

So c’mon Flossy light on FIRE!!!

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

White teeth flashed in the sun, cracking bones like twigs and ripping the meat from them. The slavering and chomping noises could be heard several rooms away as the Gateskeeper, his manners not exactly Emily Post, enjoyed his midday meal on the porch at the inn with the red roof. The chicken was excellent, and even though he was by nature a miser Gateskeeper made sure to leave the cook and kitchen crew a nominal tip.

From his vantage point he could see quite a bit, especially the commotion going on at Sethamir's Livery Stable and Ice Cream Shoppe. From what he could see, that fetching blonde elven-lass was parting with what appeared to be a fine horse. Perhaps he was now available for sale. The sudden landing of the dragon in front of the nearby Great Mall of Missing Dentures piqued his interest, causing him to set aside his repast that he might pay closer attention. However, once the fire began to spread, he packed up, invoked the Grundorian law absolving him of paying the inn bill when the inn catches fire, and worked his way into the crowd. "I'm glad I found that dragon," he thought to himself as Chrysophylax sneezed again setting an entire side of a building ablaze, "before the Geeks at the Token-Ring of Networkgard did -- that serpent could make a great fire-wall!"

He was just about to follow the dragon away from the flaming carnage and out the city's back gate, in an attempt to win him over to his cause when the same fetching elven-lass went tearing by him, screaming something about having to "save the beau!" Now as beautiful as she was, thought the Gateskeeper, she probably had many a beau following her about trying awkwardly and in vain to start a conversation with her, and 'twould probably be natural for her to be concerned about one in particular. He would have taken no further notice of her if it were not for the fact that the beautifully crafted wooden bow slung at her back was also screaming "Hel-LO!! I'm made of WOOD! Wood BURNS!! Get me OUT OF HERE!"

Snapping back to attentiveness, the Gateskeeper realized that the curiosity of a talking bow and the news of the bow he sought could hardly be conincidence. Now he needed only a way to work his way into the affections and confidence of this lass and her companions. Then the idea struck him like a miffed union boss: her horse! Madly dashing through the burning city, occasionally taking time to point and laugh at the rapidly-blackening fortunes of some plebian, he raced back to Sethamir's Livery Stable and Internet Cafe. Sethamir, being a very practical (not to mention cowardly) man, had fled when the building next door burst into flames, leaving the horses behind.

Seeing that the building next door was three blocks down, the Gateskeeper calmly walked down the lines of flimsy stalls until he found Tofu and Falafel standing in adjacent boxes. He started to untie Falafel when the already-untied Tofu stuck his head over the wooden divider, "Would you mind untying the rest of us? we'd all like to avoid becoming well-done, if you know what I mean." The Gateskeeper was more than happy to help out, after getting over the initial novelty of a talking horse, especially since that enabled him to choose for himself the third-finest beast in the stables. Tofu, being the first, galloped off in search of a new hero with whom he could again find purpose in life. "Farewell, Falafel!" He called back over his shoulder.

"It's about time," Falafel, the second finest, half-whinnied as the Gatekeeper led her over to the saddle-gear. "Thanks for springing me from that death trap. Sethamir is a great guy and all, but he would have let me burn with the stable if he hadn't gotten paid. But who in the name of Fad-o-slacks, Lord of Horses and Fashion Pantaloons, are you?"

"Call me Ishmael," the Gateskeeper whaled, "and I'm taking you to your mistress. She ran out the back gate of Minus Teeth trying to save a wooden bow from the fire."

"Oh, that bow of hers," Falafel snorted, not bothering to hide her disdain as he allowed the Gateskeeper to quickly saddle her for riding. "She thinks more of that stupid talking bow than of her sweet Falafel, roasting alive back in the cheap stalls."

"Well, my good equine friend..." the Gateskeeper started as he saddled the roan steed he'd chosen for himself.

"You can call me Falafel."

"Well, Falafel, you are certainly a singular beast. Unless there happens to be more than one of you." He looked in the face of his own newly-acquired horse and said, "And unless you can talk, sweetie, I'll have to get Falafel to tell me your name."

Falafel acomplished the horsey equivalent of a giggle. "I don't think he'd appreciate being called sweetie, but his name in your tongue is Kebab."

"Thanks, Falafel. I think I might have something for you." He produced a couple of sugar lumps (pilfered from the former kitchens of the now-gutted inn of the red roof) and offered them to the horse who thoroughly relished the treat. The Gateskeeper smiled -- relish on sugar lumps was an odd combination, but in spite of that he knew he already had one of them on his side. The two horses and the evil magician rode away to join Falafel's mistress and her companions at the back-gate of Minus Teeth...

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

Earnur Etceteron, Lord of Dun Sóbrin, Warden of the Sank Ports and Keeper of the Demented Stoat, awoke and greeted the beauteous roseate dawn.

'Uuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrgggghhh,' he croaked manfully. 'For Velour's sake turn off that ruddy light! Some of us are trying to die!'

Steeling himself against the pain, he opened one eye a fraction of an inch and winced. Before his mind's eye there were images of fire and brimstone, a huge dragon and a doomed city, which are all standard fare for a manly hero. What was not normal, however was the feeling of what could only be embarrassment that these visions aroused. Something very bad had happened, and his heroic senses told him that it might have had something to do with the empty bottle on which he had slept. He sat up, hoping in defiance of his senses that the top of his head was still attached, and his back cracked noisily, sending white-hot needles of pain up and down every nerve. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d been hit over the head with a quarterstaff in a border skirmish near Rudehour and his body was covered in inexplicable burns and abrasions. What horrors had been perpetrated on him while he slept?

As his fogged vision cleared, he became aware of various members of the Gallowship engaged in sharpening weapons, brushing horses and forging holy relics, a scene so redolent of the Quest of the Bow that for a moment he dared to hope that the apocalyptic images in his head were an undigested piece of cheese or some horrible narcotic fantasy; but his humble aspirations were dashed by the fragments of conversation that came to his ears.

'He’s still alive. You owe me a silver piece.'

'Has anyone else noticed? There’s probably enough in his system for a couple of bottles.'

'O Pimpi, my love: what rhymes with "booze" apart from "shoes"?'

'"Bruise", dear?'

'When the flames hit your eye that reach up to the sky, that’s a bonfire'

'Four thousand years of work gone up in smoke! I’ll kill them!'

Perhaps it had just been a nasty battle. Perhaps he couldn’t remember burning down a national capital. No, even in this company that would be accounted a disaster: they must have run into some orcs, or meddled in the affairs of wizards or something. Then a shadow fell across him and a clear, musical voice drew fingernails across the blackboard of his soul.

'I thought you were giving up,' said Merisuwyniel disapprovingly, her nose wrinkling with sickening elegance.

'As of today I have,' he mumbled valiantly. 'What happened? Did you see the troll that sat on me?'

'You drank enough snake oil to drown a continent and then set fire to the city,' she snapped. 'We are in hiding from the people of Grundor, who do not know of our fellowship and therefore do not believe that it could have been an accident. We break camp in an hour, so I suggest that you pack.'

'Without delay,' promised Earnur, and went back to sleep.

******

Some hours later he was still trying to piece together the shards of his mind. For some reason he had abandoned his intention to stop drinking, and he suspected that some unscrupulous cad had pressed him to drink wood alcohol. He felt that he would not have to look very far to find the culprit, and indeed Chrysophylax was flying low above the company with the Khazad con-man perched on his back. Shaking his head carefully, Earnur vowed once again to remain sober, and decided that nothing could be better for that intention than to hear the delicate phrasings of Elven verse. He wheeled Pinkjin about and sought out Vogonwë, who was composing an ode to the carbonised ruin of Minus Teeth.

'O Minus Teeth, that once was pretty,
Now you are a less pretty city.
By accident we burned you down,
And now you are shorter, blacker town.

What type of booze did Earnur drink
That made your white towers sink?
Was it even drink at all? I think
Not, because he fell beneath your walls.

Now far we go from our mistakes
That demand of us something, maybe rakes
Or other garden implement. Perhaps bent
Perhaps not. Woe is me for Minus Teeth'

For some reason the woven staves had not worth in them to cheer him today. In fact for the first time he was noticing a new element in the poetry of his Workmudian companion, or rather the absence of something. It took him a few seconds to find the word, but it came to him with the last line of the lay: 'talent'.

'Hail Etceteron, lord of Stoats Deranged!'

Earnur grimaced in pain as the cheery greeting reverberated around his tormented cerebrum.

'Well met again, Sir Elf,' he forced himself to reply. 'What grave matters lead you to compose these weighty lines this day?' As he recovered he was remembering to put on his forgotten archaisms. "Don’t leave home without them," his father had always said.

'It is a lament for the great Wight hope of Grundor,' replied the bootless bard. 'I translated it from the Quixotic while you were asleep.'

'It sounds better when I can’t understand it,' muttered Pimpiowyn through a mouthful of oatcake. She spurred her mount ahead and left them to what passed for their conversation.

And so it was that the mighty Etceteron, prince of bunglers and Vogonwë, pauper of bards conversed as they rode; and so Earnur learned of all that had befallen before Sethamir’s Livery Stable and Travelling Barrel-Organ Repair Shoppe; and he wept bitterly, for Vogonwë had yet more lays to sing him.

The Seven Staggered Stairs and the Wonderful Wandering Woven Warrens of Minus Teeth, which had been so effective a defense during The War for That Thing, did little to aid in the swift evacuation of the city. Soon scores of citizens were trapped in a great bottleneck at the O.K. Gate. The good people of the Wight City seemed to be doomed, until it was discovered that a good shove from the panicky crowd caused the great walls of the city to bow and collapse as if they were carved from talc.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, the crowd gave a great cheer and proceeded to knock down as many walls as they could. It soon became a merry game, with some rushing a particularly solid looking section to see how far the faux bricks would fly down the mountain. Others were dancing along the parapets, kicking loose great chunks of poorly mortared basalt. One adorable little lass was being held up by her grandfather as she walloped the base of the O.K. Gate with a little stick, leaving gaping holes behind her. Nobody had ever really cared much for the all those walls, anyway.

But all good riots must come to an end, and when the crowd backing up behind the impromptu demolition pointed out that the fire was gaining on them, the populace returned to their panicking and continued their flight down the Hill of Cards. Once they all reached the bottom, they promptly ran up the other side of Mount Middlin’ in order to get the best view of the burning.

It was a mixed bag that stared down the mountain in slack-jawed wonder as the mighty Minus Teeth burned down to the gumline. Men, Elves, Dwarves, Beorning, even a few uppity Halflings - who stood in the back rows - had all been drawn to the city during the post war boom. These were not great lords or warriors, but only the good, solid, honest yeomanry who had lived and worked all their small lives for the greater glory of Grundor. They didn‘t have a clue what to do, now.

“Well, it was a good run while it lasted,” muttered Imbored the blacksmith, as he picked ashes off of his tongue.

“True, true”, sighed Morwhine the barmaid, sitting down on a rock and pulling a bottle of “the good stuff” from her apron.

“Never cared much for those Seven Staggered Stairs and the Wonderful Wandering Woven Warrens, truth be told,” declared Massingil the Butcher. “Tourists liked them well enough, but I always put it down to bad planning, myself. Still, she did have her dirty ol’ charms, Minus Teeth.”

“But what shall we do now? We‘ve lost everything!“ sobbed Ashol, the Captain of the Guard.

“Get ahold of yourself, Ashol!” cried Angelina, the swimsuit model. “We rebuild, that’s what we do. We’ve gone through hard times before, but we just pulled up our underwires, and we went back to work!“

“Angelina’s right!“ cheered Christy, the game show hostess. “Who’s with us?“

“Not us,” a crowd of sooty, drunken Elves called out as they staggered past. “It’s your Age now. You fix it!“

But what about Denimthor?“ Morwhine wondered “Shouldn’t we wait here until he come by and tells us what to do next?”

“Ay! Where is our Lord Denimthor? Did he even make it out of the fire?“

“He best have. Otherwise you know who’s in charge, don’t ye? Orogarn, that’s who.“

Angelina sprang down from her rock, slung her make-up bag over her shoulder, and set off down the mountain. “I’m outa here.“

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

Still wallet-less, still horseless, and now city-less, Orogarn Two looked back in utter disbelief at the wreckage of the once beautiful Minus Teeth. Where recently row upon row of tall, beautifully straight enamel towers had stood, now only great gaping holes appeared, cavities more numerous than even the most experienced troop of Orthodontic Engineers could ever hope to bridge in a lifetime. The Wight City had withstood countless assaults from many enemies over its long history, but it had at last fallen to an unexpected combination of foes - a de-sobered Dun Sóbrin and a combustible Chrysophylax Dives.

“I should never have allowed them both into the city,” muttered Orogarn Two, shaking his head at the carnage that had been his home.

“You!” he shouted to a smoldering Police Chief who stood nearby leaning against the remains of a smoking lamppost and sobbing loudly. “Stop your blubbering and send someone to the Citibank to discover if my father yet lives.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the started city official, rubbing soot from his eyes. He attempted to brush away the dirt and blood that covered his uniform, but he only managed to smear it deeper into the material. Finally, he shrugged and ran quickly up the road that had once led upward to the Porcelain Throne.

Orogarn Two looked down at his own splendid wardrobe, which was as spotless as the moment he had put it on that morning. I shall have to write that man up for sloppiness when he returns. He turned to his companions.

“My father warned me that my decision to rejoin you would lead to my downfall, and already it has caused the destruction of Minus Teeth. With the city now in ruins and the fate of Denimthor unknown, I do not see how I can leave.”

“Awww,” cried Pimiowyn as she and Vogonwë rode up.

“Whaaa,” mumbled Earnur before dozing off again.

“Sorry to see you go,” coughed the dragon insincerely from somewhere nearby.

“On the other hand,” answered Orogarn Two as he approached Dives shoving a four-inch thick copy of the Minus Teeth Fire Ordinance into his monstrous snout, “I do not see how I can allow you to wander freely through Grundor. So, either I have to throw you all in chains, or I have to go with you to ensure you don’t burn down the rest of my country. Which would you prefer.”

“Lock us up?” asked Merisuwyniel in feigned shock, raising her hands to her lovely face. “Where in Muddled-Mirth would you put us? Your city is in shambles.”

Orogarn Two grimaced as if punched in the stomach, and it became immediately apparent that the beautiful Elf-maiden was embarrassed by her hasty remark.

“Please, Orogarn, I’m sorry for that,” she said. “It is a terrible thing that has happened, but you know that our mission is also important, more important than one city or even one country. We need you on this journey.”

“Two,” answered the Grundorian, regaining his composure, “it’s Orogarn Two, and you are correct. I have neither the facilities to detain you or a true reason for staying, unless my father truly is dead. But I shall discover his fate shortly.”

Orogarn Two turned sharply on his blue suede shoes and strode quickly to where he had addressed the singed fireman. He sat himself down upon the head of a toppled statue and pulled out his citation booklet, writing out the reprimand for the grungy Police Chief. He did not have to wait long. Soon the harried official appeared with a note from the Citibank bearing the seal of Denimthor himself. Orogarn Two tore it open eagerly.

Dear Orie,

I have survived the crash of the Citibank and secured our personal holdings in the you-know-what in the you-know-where. As you surely know, Minus Teeth now looks like a hockey veteran with a discount dental plan, so I have, for the moment, officially renamed the city Minus Toothless. Do not fear! We have already summoned a team of Denturians who should have our fair city rebuilt before the third molars come in. In the meantime, with the majority of our citizens demanding your head (and those of you your companions), I now think it best that you leave Grundor for an extended vacation.

Sincerely, your father who told you so,
Orogarn One, Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor

P.S. I have changed our motto: “Stewards of Grundor do it on the Porcelain Throne”. So, the whole horse thing is null and void. Look for a steed to follow shortly behind this message.

“Cool!” shouted Pimpi, who was reading over his shoulder. “Orie is getting a horsie!”

[ July 23, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

One lone tower stood high above the ruins of Grundor’s capital city. Built of stone in ancient times, it had not been destroyed by the fire. Had anyone looked hither, they could have seen a pale light that gleamed and flickered from the narrow windows near the summit. An eerie sound, akin to music and yet unpleasant to the ears, wafted down over the charred remains of the once proud metropolis.

The Steward Denimthor (widowed since his Stewardess had died some years ago) sat alone in his high chamber in the tower and bent his bow this way and that, attempting to play a violin. Maniacal laughing accompanied the strains (more of a strain to hear than to produce) whenever a burst of flames caught his eye. Finally he could build a city according to his wishes – none of these historic narrow streets with too little parking space and old-fashioned buildings; he would cause a new city to be erected, with a magnificent capitol and a Wight House for his own residence! With his son safely out of the way, who could defy him?!

Grrralph had watched in stunned amazement as Minus Teeth burned. His attempt to limit the fire through a controlled burn had merely served to cap Minus Teeth's destruction. And as the flames rose, they drilled a cavity into his heart that he felt could never be filled. For here he had toiled for years to create a new home for himself after he left his...former employer. He sighed, remembering the many bedpans and soiled linens he had changed, the patients suffering from contagious diseases that he had comforted, the intestinal flu that had struck the city a few months ago... On the other hand, he had been advanced his vacation pay and his purse was full. He shrugged and turned away, whistling happily as he led his horse towards the back gate.

On a whim, and for no reason other than that he had no place better to go, he followed the Gallowship as it beat a hasty retreat from the city. He caught up to them as they made camp a few miles from the ex-Minus Teeth and dismounted. Ignoring the suspicious looks he received from Orogarn Two and Vogonwe, he approached Merisu with a nod.

She looked up at him in surprise, but smiled. "Why, Grrralph," she said. "Are you coming with us?" Behind Grrralph, several members of the Gallowship began attempting to catch Merisu's attention, waving their arms and shaking their heads wildly.

"Well, I wouldn't want to impose," he began. At that, Vogonwe began nodding his head so vigorously that his bow fell out of his hair. "But in truth, I have nowhere to go. What is your destination?"

Merisu stood proudly, her luxurious hair waving in the wind. "We are on a quest," she proclaimed. "We have gathered the pieces of the Ent that was Broken and now we go to reunify it!"

Grrralph's burning red eyes focused upon her for several long minutes as he digested this information. "Uh, yeah," he responded. "Well that soundsss very nice..."

At that moment Pimpi interrupted. "Yes," she interjected. "We have travelled far and wide across Muddled Mirth seeking these pieces of wood that can talk and have brought them together and must now get them rejoined!"

At times like these, Grrralph was painfully aware of his inability to blink, scowl or otherwise exhibit any facial expression of incredulity. Typically, such a reminder annoyed him, sometimes resulting in his taking swift action upon the source of his annoyance. But Merisu and Pimpi had been his co-workers, and, unlike others who had upon occasion made light of his physical appearance or mental agility (may they rest in peace), had always treated him with respect. So he restrained his natural impulses, suspended his disbelief and instead requested clarification.

"Uh, what?" he replied eloquently.

"We are taking the pieces of the Ent to a great healer, if we can find one," clarified Merisu.

A long and mournful wail was Grralph's response. When he was through (and the members of the Fellow/Gal-ship uncovered their ears) he cried out, "A healer? Yes! I will join you if you will have me! My sword is your!" He swept out his pale blade and waved it in the air, neatly slicing seven horseflies in half with one blow.

"Of course you may join us!" answered Merisu. The wind rushing over the plain sounded suspiciously like a groan at her words. Behind the tall figure, Earnur slapped his forehead and issued an ancient blessing, "Doh!"

Birdland's Post:

“Dohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh“
The timeless cry echoed across the length of Grundor, causing all who heard it to dig at their ears with a fingernail, or suck their teeth. It rolled down the slopes of Mount Middlin’, ricocheted off the flame-licked but inviolate stucco of the Citibank, turned left at Ozfestiath, missed the exit ramp at Nindolt, and scattered willy-nilly-hey-dol-derry-O across Muddled Mirth.

‘Til at last it reach a small, dark, mysterious backwater of a forest, (I’m not sure where, but you can bet the Gallowship will pass through there sometime in the near future.)

“Dohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

Dozens upon dozens of shadowy forms immediately lifted sharp, pointed ears to the sky. (Yeah, kinda like an elf ear, but more curved towards the tip, and they don’t have that fleshy part at the bottom. Yeah, like that.) Wide luminous eyes (No, bigger…like a Keane painting. Think of an angst-ridden hobbit.) batted impossibly long eyelashes in alarm. And the answering cries (Higher. No, higher…that’s it.) went up.

“Prrrrrrrttttttt?”

“Aaaawwwwwppppp?”

“Nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu?”

And of course “Meep?”

Then, light-footed as thistledown, one shadowy form climbed to the tippy-top branch in the forest, sniffed the air and called in a high, clear voice (No, higher than that!) “He lives!”

And its fellows below responded: “And we hatesssss it foreverrrrrrr!”

[ July 29, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

There was a long moment of awkward silence. This was followed by a longer moment of awkward silence.

"Well, on with the Quest!!" announced Merisuwyniel, trying to redeem the situation.

Seeing little else to do the Gallowship started moving northwards(ish).

As they passed into a forest the Gallowship began to notice a strange noise.

Rrralph!!!

"What’s that?" asked Pimpi nervously.

Rrralph!!!

"It sounds like somebody calling for Grralph!" cried Earnur. "I knew no good would come of accepting him into our company!"

"Buh…Buh…Buh…" stammered Grralph. "I’ve never been here as far as I can remember. I have no idea what this could possibly be."

"Oh, I think that it must just be the Puking-Men," said Kuruharan cheerfully.

"Oh them," said Orogarn Two. "I’ve heard of them in the dark tales of my people, but we refer to them as the Woozies."

"Hmm, the wind’s changing," said Chrysophylax.

Rrralph!!!

*sniff* *sniff* went Vogonwë.

"PEEEEUUUUUWWWW!!!!" he screeched. "What is that dreadful stench?!"

Orogarn Two and Kuruharan kept their mouths closed and their noses firmly pinched shut.

"Who are these Puking-Men, who are also known as Woozies?" asked Merisuwyniel.

"They were Dumb-admen once," replied Kuruharan, in a voice that sounded like a duck with a bad head cold. "However, they rejected the ways of glitzy and squalid commercialism because it made them sick to their stomachs. Since Minus Teeth was the center of the great media frenzy of Muddled Mirth (or at least it was before an unfortunate accident befell all their marketing firms, shopping malls and advertising agencies) they fled the city to Pukestain Forest. Here they contemplate the evils of rampaging commercialism and their meditations make them even sicker. They would be absolutely delighted to learn of the fate of that city. It might cure them of their stomach ailment."

"Then wouldn’t it be a deed worthy of our great Gallowship to perform this service for the Puking-Men?" asked Merisuwyniel.

Rrralph!!!

"Let’s not," said Pimpi, starting off in another direction.

"They’ll hear about it eventually," said Vogonwë, following Pimpi’s lead.

The rest of the Gallowship changed course to follow Pimpi without even a pretense of offering an excuse.

"I know what we could do," cried Kuruharan, after a quarter of an hour of aimless wandering.

"What’s that?" asked Merisuwyniel nervously.

"We need to go to the Hidden Hideaway," said Kuruharan.

"Why?" asked a dubious Merisuwyniel.

"How do you know about that?!" demanded Orogarn Two.

"Uhh, just because," answered Kuruharan, hoping that this response would cover both questions.

"Why?" asked Merisuwyniel.

"Because," replied Kuruharan.

So saying he and Chrysophylax stared herding (some might say pushing and shoving) the Gallowship off in an easterly(ish) direction.

"But…" said Earnur.

"No time for that or we’ll be late," said Kuruharan cheerfully.

"Ooof…Late for what?…ouch…" said Pimpi as she was herded along.

"For whatever," said Chrysophylax.

===Three and a half days (and one botched crossing of the Great River) later====

The Gallowship stood on a ridge over a waterfall of the Hidden Hideaway admiring the view.

"I’d still like to know how you found out about this place," said Orogarn Two.

"Guuuhhhh…" said Kuruharan.

Suddenly, a heart-stopping screech rent the air above them. Grralph looked up to see if it was one of his former business associates. All he saw was a dark mass that smacked into him and knocked him off the cliff and into the pool below.

"It’s a Nazgul, a Nazgul," howled Kuruharan.

Indeed it seemed to be, and some could not help noticing that it bore a certain likeness to a certain new recruit to the Gallowship. It was mounted on a smallish dragon-like creature.

"Run Away!! Run Away!!" yelped Kuruharan and Chrysophylax together, as Kuruharan hopped on the dragon and Chrysophylax took off and started flapping about in a distraught fashion. Bother with the fact that Chrysophylax was much larger and could have burnt the other creature to a crisp.

"Wait a minute," shouted Pimpi.

Everyone else stood there rooted to the ground.

The Nazgul swooped down and hovered over Merisuwyniel. All the pieces of the Ent that was Broken mysteriously jumped up toward the specter. Merisuwyniel frantically grabbed them to withhold them from the grasp of the enemy.

At that moment Grralph dragged himself out of the pool and looked up.

"Brrrobert!" he wailed. "How have you been?"

The Nazgul suddenly checked and looked down at Grrralph.

"Grrralph, old buddy!" it screamed. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"What have you been up to lately?" moaned Grrralph as he climbed the slope.

Brrrobert climbed off his dragon and went to meet Grrralph. "I’ve taken a new job with this odd cockroach character. He’s a bit of a weirdo; constantly raving about some lava lamps that were stolen from him. He also likes to giggle about how he escaped from the ‘Big Void!’ I think that means that he is a fugitive from a failed television career. Anyway, he told me to be on the lookout for some missing blocks of wood, and these are the first that I have seen."

"Interesting," said Grrralph. "Well, I just lost my own job, I’m having to do some freelance work right now."

"That’s too bad," said Brrrrobert.

"I’d better let you get back to work," said Grrralph. "I would not want you to get fired from another job. Tell Geeeeeorge and Ssssam that I said ‘hello.’"

"Will do," said Brrrrobert, as he climbed back onto his dragon. With that Brrrrobert flew off to the east toward the mountains.

Everyone, except for Merisuwyniel, glared at Grrralph with new suspicion.

"What?" said Grrralph.

"That’s settled then," said Kuruharan. "Time for us to be getting on our way."

"Now wait just a minute!!!" screeched Merisuwyniel.

"Later," interrupted Kuruharan.

"But…," began Earnur.

"No time for that," said Kuruharan. "Off we go!"

=====Three and a half days (and a more botched crossing of the Great River) later=====

"Here we are," announced Kuruharan.

Rrralph!!! came the familiar cry of a few days ago.

"This is right where we started from!" shouted Orogarn Two.

"Yes," said Kuruharan.

"Whighif…*cough*…*sputter*…You mean to say that there was no point to all of this and that we are right back where we began with absolutely nothing to show for this cross-country trek?!!!!" Merisuwyniel screamed.

Kuruharan just blinked at her.

"I don’t believe this!!!" Merisuwyniel bawled to the heavens. "Only the Crown Prince of Idiots would write into a story a stupid plot twist that dragged us fifty miles out of our way, put us into extreme danger, and then pooped us out again exactly where we started from without advancing the story one little bit!!!!!!"

"Indeed," said Kuruharan darkly.

[ July 30, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

After circling the rapidly-decaying city, well out of reach of the citizenry pushing over the basalt-cum-flour-paste walls, Gateskeeper, his newly "acquired" steed Kebab, and Mersuwyniel's horse Falafel, finally arrived at what was left of the back gate, conveniently ignored by the Citi-zens of the Minus-Now-Toothless. Gateskeeper surveyed the ground from his mount, wondering aloud, "I wonder which way they wandered? "There seems to be a trail of crumbs, apple cores, and food wrappers leading off in that direction."

Falafel looked around, then spoke up. "That would be Pimpi, the former half-halfling, ridding the Gallowship of any unwanted (or unwatched) comestibles. And where Pimpi is, Merisu can't be far away."

"Well, then, my good Falafel, let us follow!" cried Gateskeeper with a sly smirk half-hidden behind the cloak. They were indeed some miles down the rather-unmistakeable trail when Gateskeeper's Cell-antir suddenly started trembling in his robe's hip-pocket (the one usually reserved for his flask of "Windex"). "Mother-boards!" he muttered using a gutter-slang of the Geeks. "Who in the name of Peter Norton's Spectacles knows I'm here?" He sureptitiously reached for the Cell-antir, hoping Falafel, a bit ahead, would not notice, and spoke furtively to the glowing orb. "Yes, who is it?" he said, not hiding his nervousness or his annoyance.

A singular evil hiss whistled back to him over the device, one that sent a chill down the yellow stripe on his back. "Gatesssssey," the voice of Mogul Bildur oozed like a fetid steaming toxic-waste accident, "long time no ssssee."

"Umm, ah, oh! Your Towering Evil Malevolenceship! How...how...nice of you to call! I, err, thought you were still in the slammer!"

"No," Mogul replied in a slimy croon, "I managed to crawl away from my prissson and I'm back in my old digsss in Moredough. How are you doing? I thought you were

Away, away, away down South in Pea Sea!

Oh You wish you'd won down in the land of Eunuchssss
You just need a couple o'new tricksss
Look thisss way! Look thisss way! Look thisss way, Pea Sssea Man.

That Pea Sssea land, it's a land of money
But the O/S there is not your sssonny
Look thisss way! Look thisss way! Look thisss way, Pea Sssea Man.

You want to win the Pea Sssea,
Away, Away
The Pea Sssea trassssh I'll let you hasssh
If you will just help ME, ssssee?

Away, away, away down Sssouth in Pea Sssea!

Gateskeeper listened to his old mentor sing, mostly becuase he had no choice, though Mogul couldn't carry a tune in a cauldron. Quickly he interrupted at an opportune pause to relate the story of the strange speaking Bow he had seen.

"Hmmm," smoked the voice on the other end of the connection. "This is an unexssspected but mossst welcome revelation. It seems that you are already doing my work for me...again." Gateskeeper bristled. He knew all too well the prophecy about the ent that was broken, and would almost be willing to help the Gallowship out just to be rid of his stiff and strong competition. But his eyes perked up at his offer to let him have the Pea Sea in exchange for his help.

"Gatesy" pondered awhile. "If I help you, will you allow me to keep that unerring bow to conquer the Pea Sea? And loan me a few more of those Korprat-Loyers?"

"Done," the black voice said with a cold finality. The orb went black as the final words were spoken, "Instructions to follow." Gatekeeper nearly dropped the Cell-antir, for as the dark words were pronounced Mogul had caused the device to tattoo a fell black trademark into the palm of his hand...the mark of the Cloz'd-Dheal. Now Gateskeeper must not fail, or he himself would be turned over to the Korprat Loyers to be tortured in the pitiless Dungeons of Default.

He had little time to ponder this, as Falfel emitted a joyful whinny, for the gallowship had come into sight, still a bit miffed for the useless detour. Gateskeeper quickly put away the cell-antir and rode up in time to see the joyful reunion of Merisu and Falafel.

"I thought you'd been burnt in the fire," Merisu gushed as tears wet her magnificently porcelained cheeks. "There was no way I could come back for you. How did you manage to escape?"

Falafel pointed her ample nose at Gateskeeper. "If it had not been for this simple...err, I never found out what it is you do for a living, Gateskeeper."

"Allow me to answer for myself," Gateskeeper said to the assembled quest-ians. "I am called Andotiruves in the Quixotic, or Gateskeeper in the common tongue. You all look as if you are about to embark on a quest, and yet have come away ill-prepared due to the ruination of the Wight city. I have many trades and excel at many things. For instance, I am a passable cobbler, and I see by the worn condition of your footwear that many of you need to re-boot. I am also quite learned in modes of travel and lodging, posessing much Expediant information. I have been an Explorer on some occasions, and I fish well with my inter-net. I keep my outlook expressly positive. I see sharp, and I run well without crashing. Perhaps I can be of assistance on your journey...?"

Thus Gateskeeper joined the Gallowship and comes into the story of their comings and goings. But he ever wore a black glove, to hide the Cloz'd-Dheal upon his right hand.

[ July 30, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

[ July 30, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

As the sun hesitantly peeped out from behind a cloud, bathing the crumbling cavities of Minus Teeth in a reddish-orange glow redolent of its erstwhile combustion, the ambience of the Land of Shadowy Deals changed not one jot. For it was a land of perpetual twilight. Remorselessly, a thick black and stomach-churningly noxious cloud of smoke poured out from Odouruin spreading across the dread realm and creating a gloomy pall that choked out all but the faintest of light. It was, in short, a typical day in Mordough.

A cruel wind howled down from the remote, disinterested peaks of the Ephel Dûwot, plummeting down the mountainous crags like some suicidal Warg gratuitously dragging a hapless would-be King over a precipitous chasm. Finding itself at the foot of the mountain range and pausing momentarily to recover its composure, it proceeded to sweep across the poisoned wasteland of the Plateau of Gorgonbreath before reaching the eyesore that was the Tower Block of Barát-Höm. Then, whistling gleefully as it went, it spiralled haphazardously up the frightful citadel, past the forbidding towers and minarets populated by countless accursed executive assistants, administrators and middle-managers, until finally it petered out from sheer exhaustion atop the shuddersome skyscraper. There, suspended between two baleful towers, a single nostril hung ominously below the gloomy mantle of smog, red and enflamed, flaring and sniffling and smelling the foetid air, ceaselessly searching for the scent of rent Ent.

And there too a small, hunched figure struggled in the merciless gale frantically trying to bring under control an arrangement of metal rods attached to the top of the Dark Tower Block. The figure was swathed from head to foot in a large and ill-fitting black cloak, hooded to conceal its head, and its feet were clad with two misshapen and equally ill-fitting boots. As the figure toiled to manoeuvre the infernal device, a frightful disembodied voice, reminiscent of a thousand well-manicured fingernails scraping down a hundred blackboards, could be heard above the howling wind.

“Left a bit … no, too much … right … right a tad more … no, too far again … down a bit. That’s it! Right there!”

The pitiful figure carefully removed his gnarled, stumpy hands from the contraption and turned towards the steps leading down into the dark interior of his Master’s fearful residence. The ghastly voice rang out once more.

“Now, Soregum, return to my office. For there is work to be done.”

Soregum, for that was the unfortunate fellow’s name, groaned inwardly. Having spent the last hour struggling to fix the reception on his Master’s Satel-antir, he had hoped for a quiet moment to himself. He had been looking forward to charging his pipe with some Old Toothrot, smuggled in only yesterday from the Mire, and to feasting on the insanely sugary sweetmeats that he had picked up on his last errand to Minus Teeth. He paused and allowed himself a moment’s pleasure at the misfortune that had so recently befallen that city and its accursed dentists, before the misery of his current predicament once more intruded rudely upon his thoughts. And not for the first time, he found himself wishing that he was once again back in his ...

“Soregum! Where are you, you lazy, good-for-nothing toerag?”

The ghastly voice shattered his reverie and, carefully piecing it back together again for future reference, and hitching up his cloak so as to avoid any unwanted mishaps, he headed down the steps.

*********************************

As Soregum approached his Master’s Chamber, the ludicrous sound of singing and whistling reached his ears.

Some things in death are bad,
They can really make you sad,
Other things just make you maim and kill.
When your body turns to gristle
Don’t grumble, give a whistle,
And this’ll give your dead heart quite a thrill.

And …

Always look on the bright side of death.
Always look on the light side of death.

Rounding the corner, Soregum almost bumped into the three Nazgûl who were the source of the incongruous melody. Waving cheerfully at him as he passed, Brrrobert, Geeeeeorge and Ssssam continued with their song, swaying in unison as they draped their ghostly arms over one another’s shoulders.

If you’re sad your flesh is rotten,
Then there’s something you’ve forgotten,
And that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing.
Although you are decayed,
Don’t be bitter wraiths.
Lifeless lips can whistle. That’s the thing.

And …

Always look on the bright side of death.
Always look on the right side of death.

For when you are deceased
Mounted on a fell beast,
You must always face the wraith world with a smile.
Forget about your Ring,
Just flash a deathly grin.
Enjoy your lifeless life in proper style.

And …

Always look on the bright side of death.
As you knock them out with your Black Breath.

Shaking his head sadly at the state of modern minions, Soregum entered his Master’s Office, the last strains of the Nazgûl’s dire ditty fading into the gloom as he shut the door behind him.

Always look on the bright side of death.
Always look on the bright side of death ...

Surveying the dismal chamber, Soregum spotted the familiar shape of his Master sitting, as always, with his back to the door in his plush, black leather, executive armchair. Môgul was facing the great glowing orb of his Satel-antir and gently stroking a small, white, furry creature which combined the least attractive features of a lemming and a hyena and which perched poisonously on his lap, or whatever it was that was serving him as a lap at that moment. Môgul was habitually swathed in a dark mist and so it was as ever difficult to discern his features with any precision, a matter of some relief to Soregum since Môgul had embraced his re-discovered metamorphic potential with zeal and was not averse to assuming some quite grotesque and alarming guises.

“Ah, Soregum. At last. You know Greedhog.” His Master’s Voice rasped within his head in a fashion that would have been comparable to a needle scratching across the face of a gramophone record, had such things existed.

A shadowy arm (or was it a tentacle) gestured in the general direction of the sallow-faced Korprat-Loyer with whom Môgul was currently in conference. Soregum shuddered. He didn’t care much for Loyers.

“We are almost done.” Then, addressing the servile legal adviser, Môgul continued, “So it is accomplished.”

“Yesss Master,” Greedhog hissed obsequiously. “Our agentsss in what is left of the Cssitibank have finalised the loan proposal.”

“And the old fool fell for our little ploy?”

“Oh yesss. Naming our Denturian construction company AAA Aaardvark & Sons worked a treat. As anticipated, the witless Proctor picked out the first name that he came across in the Cel-antir Directory. They are on their way as we ssspeak. Their appointment with the Proctor is at two-thirty. And when the bridgework is done and their outrageously over-sized invoice comes in, he will have no option but to accept the loan that our agentsss have offered him. With Grundor’s finances the way they are, it will only be a matter of time before he defaultsss.”

“Enabling us to call in our fixed charge over the city. Excellent. Minus Teeth will soon be ours.” And with this, Môgul let out his trademark villainous laugh, although its effect was somewhat spoilt by the apparent absence of anything resembling a mouth within his latest incarnation. “You have done well, Greedhog. But leave us now.”

As Greedhog withdrew smugly into the shadows, Môgul waved another indeterminate appendage over the Satel-antir and images immediately appeared within it. Soregum could make out the fair figure of a golden haired Elf shieldmaiden carrying with seemingly inordinate care a simple wooden bow. And there were others too. A warrior with a noble, albeit it somewhat bleary-eyed, countenance, who appeared to be glaring in exasperation at his sword. Another man, with unfeasibly luxuriant flowing hair, who Soregum recognised as the son of the aforementioned witless Proctor. A mysterious figure clad in black-hooded robes with burning red eyes who appeared vaguely familiar to Soregum, although he could not quite place him. A bespectacled fellow with a bad haircut and an outfit to match. A crafty-looking Dwarf sat atop a Dragon who was quite clearly of ancient and imperial lineage. An Elf, or was he a Half-Elf, sporting a silvery-brown hairbow, whose words were apparently causing the company some discomfort. But it was the young maid who particularly piqued Soregum’s interest. Although her lineage was unclear, he nevertheless found her to be to be astonishingly cute and pretty. As he gawped in wonder at her large round blue eyes and long reddish-golden curls, the abyssmally abrasive voice once again shook him from his reverie

“Behold the Gorilla-ship!”

“Er, Gallow-ship, sire,” he ventured.

“Silence!” screeched the toe-curling voice. “They carry fragments of the Ent that was Broken, Soregum. And they will lead us to that which remains.”

“Um. Indeed they will, Oh Mightiest of the Mighty Ones.” Soregum calculated (correctly) that flattery would mask his complete ignorance of whatever it was that his Master was getting at.

“Find the best Goblin Trackers in Mordough and summon them here. I want them on the tail of the Gorilla-ship by this time tomorrow.”

“Gallow-ship, sire.”

“What?”

“Er, yes. Immediately, my Magnificently Malevolent Master. I’m right on it.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Soregum turned to leave.

“One more thing, Soregum. You will accompany them.”

His heart sank.

Orie, oh!

Your departure from the Citibank has grieved me sorely, so much that I have summoned the famous pain reliever Anbesol, yet I remain steadfast in my conviction that it was the right thing to do to send you away from Minus Toothless. Our Proctorly bark has become much stronger than our bite, and there was no way I could guarantee your safety or that of your uncouth companions. With you gone, I can confidently rebuild the city, with the help of Aardvark & Sons, and soon we will have a city to smile about.

I’m sure you will recognize and greatly appreciate the gift I have sent to you. Singéd is a direct descendent from the Morose of Noodledor, a direct descendent of Fellofftheroof, and he shall serve you well. Treat him with respect and he will prove the most useful of companions.

From the Porcelain Throne,
Orogarn Won, Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor

P.S. I’ve changed our motto again. The ‘do it on the throne’ was widely misinterpreted by the Falwellians. It is now “Join the Proctor and gamble for free !” It’s promoting the new Corsair Casino we’re opening next month in Harlond, thanks to Aardvark ™.


Orogarn Two neatly folded the still-smoking letter from his father and slid it gingerly into his back pocket. It was hard for him to believe that he had actually left the city after such a calamity, and the gift ‘horse’ he walked beside only helped to reinforce the idea that he should not have departed Minus Teeth. Minus Toothless, now, he thought.

The smouldering stallion barely resembled any mount he had ever seen, and by its size it was obviously the smallest Morosa ever to stumble out of a Grundorian stable. There were bigger dogs in the Wight City! Still, the slightly crisped creature would certainly prove useful over the many leagues the Itship would soon travel, and Orogarn Two intended to take advantage of the many interesting items Denimthor had thoughtfully filled the beast’s saddlebags with.


He looked over the too-low back of Singéd to stare at the newcomer. He called himself the Gateskeeper, but he dressed more like the crypt keeper, and that creepy glove reminded Orogarn Two of an oddball character who had often performed at the Old Guesthouse with a troop of young boys. The hissing lisp did not improve his impression of the man, if indeed he was one.

Note to self: Buy a trash bag for Pimpi. That girl is messy!

Merisuwyniel and Pimpiowyn were riding at the head of the Non-Gender-Specific-Ship, two different shades of golden hair flowing in the wind. Their horses cantered in companionable silence, since Falafel was too relieved to be rejoined with her mistress to wish for conversation, and Tweedledee couldn’t speak anyway. Their riders made up for it by talking animatedly.

Pimpi was enjoying the freedom that having her own horse gave her; her appreciation of Vogonwë’s poetry was greater when she didn’t have to listen to it all day. Now she plied her Elven companion with questions about questing.

“You too can be a shieldmaiden!” Merisuwyniel exclaimed. “I will be happy to teach you what I have learned in the course of my past adventures.

“First there is the matter of appearance; this is of essential importance, since it can impress both friend and foe. After that growth spurt you had, you are tall, slender, willowy, reed-like, with legs as long as any maiden could wish. (Tactfully, she did not mention that said legs lacked the gracefulness which was the mark of a true heroine.) Your red-golden hair is beautiful; not quite as exotic as flaming red, perhaps, but that does not matter. The curls are more bouncy than rippling; that too is of no import. Your eyes are impressively large and of such a lovely blue that one forgets how normal and widespread that colour is.

“Next we must consider your heritage. It is very convenient that you are already orphaned, since shieldmaidens should not have to concern themselves with someone at home who worries about them, sends them care packages, needs reassurance about their welfare and expects them to send postcards when they travel. I don’t suppose either of your parents came from a royal family?” she queried.

The Half-Halfling shook her head regretfully.

“Well, never mind; it’s too late to change that,” the Elf replied. “Perhaps we can find some ancestor who won a local Miss contest or appeared on the Jêrri-Spríngion show in your family tree somewhere. At least your name is long enough to sound exotic.

“Now for the items you have with you: have you any magical jewelry?”

“You know that my horsehead exploded when we fought at Minus Moreghoul,” Pimpi shrugged. “The only other jewelry I have is my engagement ring.”

They gazed at the ring which Vogonwë had chosen and presented to her. It was well-made, of good Elven quality, and Merisu’s sharp eyes saw that the stone was clear and pure. However, since Pimpi’s fiancé had a rather drab taste in matters of clothing, the ring was particularly unspectacular. Without speaking, both agreed that it was highly unlikely to have any magical properties.

“How about the necklace Celery gave me in Topfloorien?” the Quarterling asked hopefully.

“Sometimes jewelry is just jewelry,” Merisu mused, “although you never know about something that comes from the Magic Kingdom. I think, though, that he would have told us if it had special qualities, or at least have given us a cryptic clue.

“At any rate, you do have a weapon – that is the most important thing for a shieldmaiden, besides her looks, of course. Do you know anything about the history of your dagger? Does it have a noble and ancient lineage?” enquired the Elven maiden.

“Well, I bought it from Kuruharan – maybe he knows more about it,” Pimpi wondered.

“You could ask him, but I’m not perfectly certain that any story he tells about his merchandise is absolutely trustworthy.” (That was, of course, Merisu’s gentle way of saying, “The guy would lie to you about anything if he sees a chance to make a profit.” )

“I killed an Orc with it and named it afterwards – does it count when I start its history myself?” asked the Half-Halfling anxiously.

“I think that will be just fine,” her companion reassured her. “Besides, it is beautiful with its jewel-encrusted hilt and certainly worth more than a shieldmaiden could normally afford. However, you will need additional training with other weapons. Even though the Entish Bow is all I need, I have learned to handle a sword quite well. The more, the merrier, is the shieldmaiden’s motto. You can practice with the various members of the Itship.

“Let’s see, what else do we need to consider? You now have a horse of your own and no longer have to share a mount with Vogonwë; that’s good.”

Pimpi pouted adorably. “Yes, but isn’t it just like Vogy to choose horses that are so…placid, boring, slow, dull, tedious, hum-drum, dismal… I wish I had a steed that was more lively, fiery, daring, furious…”

“For now, Tweedledee will have to tweedledo,” Merisu interrupted. “We must think about one more important part of your baggage – clothing. Most Elven heroines wear gowns, beautifully made and described in loving detail, for every activity. Those never seem to become soiled or need repairs, though they are often made of the flimsiest fabrics. The maidens apparently even ride in them, though one never hears that they use side-saddles. I find that unrealistic and impractical.

“For this reason, I have chosen to wear divided skirts – they are both feminine and practical, suitable for almost every occasion, so that I can travel with a minimum of baggage. I do have that dreamy dress that I found at Mallorn Mall with me, just in case an opportunity arises to wear it again. Where is yours?” she asked in a whisper. “Do you have it here? I should very much like just to peep at it again.”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” answered Pimpi, feeling a strange reluctance. “It looks just the same as ever it did. I’m afraid it won’t fit me now that I’ve grown, but I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”

“Well, I should just like to see it for a moment,” said Meri.

Slowly Pimpi drew it out of her saddlebag. Its velvety folds shimmered enticingly and the diaphanous red sleeves fell with nary a crinkle. Merisu put out her hand to touch it.

But Pimpi quickly withdrew the dress from her reach. To her distress and amazement she found that she was no longer looking at Merisuwyniel; a shadow seemed to have fallen between them, and through it she found herself eyeing an emaciated fashion model with a hungry face and bony groping hands. She felt repulsion and a desire to feed her a high-carb, rich dessert.

The beat of the horses’ hooves and the conversation of the riders around them seemed to falter and a silence fell. Merisu looked quickly at Pimpi’s face and passed her hand across her eyes. “I understand now,” she said. “Put it away! I am sorry, but it was meant for you and none other. I’m sure, coming from the Enchanted Woods, it will adjust to fit you perfectly. – Do you have any men’s clothing with you?”

“Of course not,” Pimpi retorted. “Why should I? I’m emancipated, and Vogonwë packs his own baggage.”

“Ah, but there may be need of it for you at some time; every shieldmaiden must be prepared to disguise herself as a male warrior in situations where the men would not allow them to come along. I suppose you can take something from him if it’s necessary. His clothes are rather drab, but for disguises, that is actually desirable.

“Now, last but not least, we must consider your personal abilities. Can you charm all creatures who hear you with your music?”

“I don’t know – Vogy admires my singing…” Pimpiowyn’s voice trailed off.

Merisuwyniel said nothing, but she secretly thought that a poet like the Half-Elf might not necessarily be the best judge of musicality. “How about healing?” she continued, changing the subject diplomatically.

“I tried to learn what I could in the Houses of Bettifordeth,” the Quarterling replied. “Will that be enough?”

“Forget it!” said the Elf with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Any Elven child knows more about healing than those bumbling human medics do. Even without training, my superior instincts will lead me to the right herbs just in the nick of time, and I can inevitably apply them correctly. I will show and tell you all I know about healing.

“One last question: Do you have any supernatural abilities?”

“I don’t think so,” Pimpi answered regretfully. “Unless being able to eat constantly without ever gaining weight would be considered magical?”

[ August 01, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

The Gallowship made camp downwind of the forest of the Woozies sufficiently far away so that they could not hear the Puking-Men's...activities. While the group built a fire (carefully) and scrounged up a meal, Grrralph wandered off in the direction of Chrysophylax, who was casually shaking a tree in search of a Skwerl appetizer.

The dark figure watched the dragon curiously for a moment, then spoke. "So, what's your story?" he asked. The wyrm paused and looked down at Grralph. "What do you mean?" responded Chrysophylax.

Grrralph pointed at Kuruharan, who was rummaging through one of his bags nearby. "You and the Dwarf," he clarified. "What's the story? Dwarves and dragons don't usually...get along very well."

The dragon stepped away from the tree and stretched his wings, before answering. "We have a mutually beneficial relationship," he answered. Grrralph pondered this for a moment before continuing. "What?" he asked cogently.

The dragon issued a puff of smoke impatiently. "I help him out and he helps me out," responded Chrysophylax as he wondered about the rock that their new companion must have lived under before emerging to plague the Gallowship.

If possible, Grralph seemed to brighten. "Ah! I get it. You're his pet!" he exclaimed.

Chrysophylax bristled noticably at Grralph's words, attracting the attention of Kuruharan who headed over with some concern. "I am not a pet!" growled the dragon. "I'm more like his partner."

Grrralph laughed, an odd wheezy sound which had been known to cause goosebumps and psoriasis. "Please," he responded. "I may seem a bit muddled but my lights aren't out entirely. You're an animal, enchanted as you may be, and he's your master. You're a pet!" Kuruharan broke into a waddling run as Chrysophylax reared up and took a swipe at Grrralph with his claws. Grrralph leaped gracefully over the dragon's outstretched foreleg and drew out his morningstar as he landed. Swinging it delicately over his head, he skipped off and broke into song.

"Once you're a pet,
you're a pet
from your first flaming jet
to your last ring of smoke."

The dragon swung around and pursued the cloaked figure, snapping at him with his mighty jaws. Grrralph merely put a hand atop the serpent's snout and flipped over its head as it went past. Kuruharan came up, puffing heavily and tried to grab the wyrm's tail. "Uh, guys..."

Grrralph twirled away and danced off with Chrysophlax following close behind. He leapt into the air as the dragon lunged for him again and tapped the huge head lightly with the morningstar before continuing.

"Once you're a pet,
you're a pet
and you'll never forget
your masters commands."

Chrysophylax let loose a gout of fire which caught the hem of Grrralph's cloak appearing to incinerate it. The cloth hissed, smoked, then went out and its fabric began magically reweaving itself. Kuruharan, who had been chasing the dragon now turned to follow its prey. That fabric's worth a fortune! I've gotta get its secret!

Grrralph waltzed away moving left to right, then reversed course as the wyrm lunged again. After an elegant pirouette, he came to a halt beside the beast, who nearly tied himself in a knot trying to spin and turn at the same time.

You're never alone,
you're a faithful companion.
The furniture's unsafe,
and when company's expected,
you're always petted!

When you're a pet,
you're a pet,
you beg and you get,
a bone for a treat.

When you're a pet, you are a pet!

Grrralph ducked under Chrysophylax's next lunge, slipped between his forelegs and under his belly. The dragon's head attempted to follow which only caused its body to curl upward and flip over onto its back with a crash. Kuruharan narrowly escaped the wipeout by dropping to the ground as an array of dragon body parts swung by over his head.

Merisu looked over from where she sat beside the campfire with a smile. "Look!" she cried. "They're playing! Isn't that cute?"

[ July 31, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

The mighty, sulfurous belch of a Wyvern in a snit echoed throughout the glade - where it reached the ears of a small, middle class suburban gecko wearing too much eye make-up and a cut-off Fubu hoodie.

The gecko started, licked her eyeballs in astonishment, dropped her jaw and squealed “OH…MY…EMUUUU!!”

She immediately tore down from the front rock, scrambling frantically through the cracks and fissures until she arrived at the certain untidy lair, completely lined with posters of various dragons, who were pouting into the camera and standing in slightly suggestive poses. There she threw herself upon a sullen young salamander and began to pummel her on the shoulder.

“Amber! You, like, have to come upstairs to the clearing RIGHT NOW! You are just not going to believe who is up there. OhmyEmuOhmyEmuOhmyEmu!!!!!!”

“Quit, Heather. I’m not going anywhere. I didn‘t eat my shed skin last night, and Mom is like totally freakin‘. She said if I didn‘t eat this mess by the time she got home I’m like, under a rock for a month!”

“AM-BER! Forget about your mom. Do you know who is here? Right now? In our clearing? CHRYSOPHYLAX!!!!!”

“You are such a liar!“

“I AM NOT! HE’S KILLING SOMEONE RIGHT NOW!!!! COME ON!!!!“

“Chrysi? Here? OH-MY-EMUUUUUUUU!”

The adolescent fauna flew to the surface, just in time to catch Chrysophylax do a particularly spectacular back flip and slide across the glen, flames wafting over his amphibious audience. Amber and Heather screamed and jumped, pummeling each other even harder.

“HE FLAMED US! HE FLAMED US! OHHHHHHH CHRYSIIIIIIII!!!!!!!“

“I’m gonna break off my tail and give it to him!”

“No way! Your mom will like kill you!”

“I don’t care! I‘m doing it!”

“I am too!”

And with that the little leaping lizards both broke off their tails and hurled them onto the battleground. At which point they began to cry in a complete ecstasy of Wyrm Worship.

“OHHHHHHHHH, CHRYSIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!”

Never in his long life had Chrysophylax been so humiliated. Here he was, a dragon of ancient and imperial lineage, tied up in a knot rolling around on the ground.

"Oooff…oi…" he panted as he struggled to untie himself.

"Wheeeezzeee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hisss, ha, ha," laughed Grrralph. He hadn’t had this much fun since he’d stuffed a Oliphaunt’s trunk into a waffle iron.

Suddenly, there came a noise that froze everyone’s hearts.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

Grrralph turned around, expecting to see another one of his former business associates. However, there was nobody to be seen. What was there to be seen were two odd looking things, kind of like broken off tails.

"EEEEEeeeeeewwww!!!" went Pimpi.

Chrysophylax continued his struggles on the ground. However, it is not easy for a dragon, even one of ancient and imperial lineage, to untie itself. His struggles caused him to lose his balance and start rolling down the side of the hill. He started flapping desperately to try to arrest his progress. This worked, he was now rolled up on his back with his wings thumping against the ground. The half-suppressed snickering of the Gallowship did nothing to reassemble the paltry remains of his shattered dignity. Suddenly the air was rent by a hideous cry.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!"

Kuruharan and Vogonwë cowered down and covered their ears.

"That sound is worse than a Nazgul," remarked Vogonwë.

"It’s about as bad as somebody dragging their fingernails across a blackboard," agreed Kuruharan.

*THUMP* *THUMP* THUMP* went Chrysophylax’s wings against the ground.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" came the cry again.

Merisuwyniel just looked up at the sky and wondered why she couldn’t have a normal Quest like everybody else.

It was about that moment that Chrysophylax decided to succumb to the inevitable and roll down the hill. At least he would be out of sight of the rest of the Gallowship while he untangled himself.

He stopped flapping, teetered precariously for an agonizing moment, and then went rumbling into the bushes with a mighty *CRASH* *THUD!*

Instantly the air was filled with the terrible screams, except this time there were two of them at once, and there was a certain added feverish excitement to them this time.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

This time all the males in the Gallowship winced and covered their ears.

"What is that horrible noise?!!" demanded Earnur.

Suddenly Chrysophylax came surging out of the bracken and sped toward the Gallowship.

"Help, help!" he cried. "They’re after me!! They’re after me!!!"

One quick glance showed the Gallowship that somebody was indeed after Chrysophylax.

Two pubescent amphibians were charging pell-mell at Chrysophylax. "CHRYSIII!!! COME BACK!!!" they shrilled. They ran up to Chrysophylax and started bouncing up and down at his feet.

Kuruharan suddenly ran up to Chrysophylax and started whispering something to the dragon. Chrysophylax eyed the dwarf uneasily. "Go on, say it," said Kuruharan.

Chrysophylax nervously turned to the shrieking teenagers and said, "I am always glad to meet my fans!!! Autographed pictures will be only $15!"

"And that’s not all," interrupted Kuruharan, "we have all sorts of limited edition Chrysophylax memorabilia like mugs, sweatshirts, and key chains."

The fan-creatures were beside themselves with delight. They screamed something about being back in a minute and they both raced off, shrieking at the top of their voices.

"Thank goodness they’re gone," sighed Vogonwë, taking his fingers out of his ears. "Many more of those high-pitched screeches would have shattered my spine!"

"I agree," said Orogarn Two, "let’s get out of here."

"Not so fast," said Chrysophylax, who had suddenly started preening himself. "I have to keep up with my public. The fans have to be satisfied!!"

"Public?!" said Earnur. "Five seconds ago you did not even know that you had a public!"

"*Cough*…sputter…wheeze…," stammered Chrysophylax. "That is entirely beside the point. And as a matter of fact, it puts me in mind of a story about a…"

While Chrysophylax embarked on a longwinded defense of his new celebrity Kuruharan was busily manufacturing souvenirs for the fan-creatures when they returned.

"CHRYSIII!!!" came the warning peel of their arrival, with gobs of money (lifted from their parents.)

In ten minutes Amber and Heather practically beggared their families on hats, mugs, T-shirts, etc. When Chrysophylax reached down and patted them on their heads they both fainted from the excitement (although Earnur and Orogarn Two believed that they fainted from lack of oxygen due to all the screaming.)

With those matters successfully concluded the Gallowship continued on their way.

Chrysophylax was basking in the glow of his sudden fame, forgetful of his recent humiliation at the gauntlets of Grrralph. (Kuruharan was basking in the glow of his new gold pieces.)

Suddenly, a mysterious noise reached the ears of the Gallowship.

*sizzle* *sizzle* *fry* *fry*

"Oh-no, not another mysterious noise," groaned Merisuwyniel. "That plot-device is getting quite repetitive!"

*Sniff* *sniff* went Pimpi. "Mmmmm," she said. "That smells gooooood!!!"

"Indeed it does," said Earnur. "It is nice to be assailed by a pleasant aroma for a change."

"It smells…almost like…bacon…" said Kuruharan.

"That is probably because it is," said Orogarn Two. "We have entered the Bacon Hills. Here the people of Grundor hold great Bacon-Binges in times of distress and calamity. Thanks to the rampage that you people have been on this is probably one of the largest in the history of Grundor!"

"It sounds delightful," said Pimpi. "I…I…I’ll be back in a minute." With that she vanished in the trees.

"Hmm," said Chrysophylax. "Newly minted celebrity does build an appetite." He went off after Pimpi.

"I must attend to make sure that everyone recognizes my status as Hair, I mean Heir, of Grundor, and provide the people with the comfort of my presence," announced Orogarn Two before he dashed off into the woods.

"HELLO?!!" shouted Merisuwyniel. "We are supposed to be on a Quest with the fate of the world bound up in it, yet somehow we keep on getting dragged off into strange sub-plots!!!"

"Hard luck," said Kuruharan as he strolled off in the general direction of the frying.

"Well," said Earnur, "we have to eat sometime. Might as well do it now!"

"WHY CAN"T I HAVE A NORMAL QUEST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE!!!" screamed Merisuwyniel.

[ August 05, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

Grrralph, however, walked over and sat on a log at the edge of the camp. He fiddled with his morningstar for a moment, trying to pry a dragon scale from one of its points. When it finally came loose, he tossed the scale over to the two geckos who immediately began fighting over it. Then he stowed his weapon under his cloak.

Merisu glared at him with annoyance. "Well?" she demanded. "Aren't you going too?"

Grrralph looked up at her. If his face was visible, it would have evidenced confusion, assuming that he actually had a face. "Where?" he asked. These one word questions are going to get old very quickly, thought the Elf.

"To the Bacon-Binge, like everyone else," she answered with exasperation. "Aren't you hungry too?"

Grrralph shook his cowl. "Uh, no," he answered. "Not hungry."

Merisu allowed her annoyance at the other members of the Gallowship to seep through a bit. "Fine!" she snapped. "Just sit there!" He nodded his cowl in answer. "Thanks. I will."

The heat of the day, as well as her aggravation had caused her face to turn red. She fanned herself in a vain attempt to abate the heat. Then she looked over to Grrralph and her curiosity overwhelmed her annoyance. "Aren't you hot?" she asked. His burning red eyes did not waver. "I suppose it's rather warm," he responded.

She shook her head at what she viewed as another demonstration of Grrralph's rapidly-becoming-legendary stupidity. "Then why don't you take your cloak off?" she suggested.

His response was unexpected. He tilted his cowl back and emitted one of his rapidly-becoming-legendary (and truly annoying) wails. Then he brought his cowl back down and, to her surprise, steam and a hissing noise came from his burning eyes as they were apparently met by a hidden stream of tears. He wiped at the nothingness that was his face with a sleeve, before speaking.

"I can't!" he cried both figuratively and literally. "My cloak and armor were bound upon me by the spells of my former...employer. I cannot remove them! I wish I could. While they provide me with great physical prowess on the battlefield, they also weigh upon me, numbing my mind. I cannot really recall but before I wore this stuff, I wasn't so..." He paused, searching for the right word.

"Dumb?" suggested Merisu helpfully. "Yes!" he responded as steam again rose from beneath his hood.

"That's rough," observed Merisu. Then they sat together in silence for a moment. The Elf scowled as an obvious question entered her mind. However, her sense of politeness strove with her curiosity for a moment, causing her frown to deepen. Her curiosity won. "Uh, Grrralph," she asked quietly. "If you can't remove your cloak and your armor, then how do you...uh...you know?"

Grrralph shuffled his feet in embarrasment before answering and sighed. "Have you ever seen me eat or drink?" he answered.

Vogonwë set off through the woods, following close on Pimpi’s heels. She swung her arms energetically as she walked, and after she socked him in the gut once, he fell back (some would say down) and then resumed following at a safer distance. Soon, the members of the Itship who had chosen to take a detour (that would be, everyone besides Merisu and Grrralph, who had chosen to sulk) emerged from the trees to find a picturesque glade dotted with colorful tents and awnings. The smell of frying bacon lay thick upon the air, and Pimpi nearly fainted from a sudden surge of ecstasy. But she kept her wits about her, and ran to a nearby stand.

“Bacon!!! Baconbaconbacon!!!” she cried.

“No,” replied the cook doggedly, “it’s Beggin’ Strips. Dogs don’t know it’s not bacon!”

“Are you calling the love of my life a dog?” Vogonwë leapt to her defense with a snarl.

The cook shook his head, “No indeed!” he said, and then grinned at the lithe half-halfing with a wolfish gleam in his eyes. “Rrrow!”

“Hey! Keep your eyeballs to yourself!” Vogonwë put an arm around Pimpi’s shoulders and glowered at the cook, his hackles raised.

“Oh, Voggy, don’t fight,” Pimpi said with astounding insincerity, exacerbating the situation by surreptitiously batting her eyelashes at the cook. “Could I try a Beggin’ Strip?” she inquired.

“Oh… well, it’s really more of a dog treat… but you can strip my beggin’ any time,” the cook replied.

“You mangy mutt!” Vogonwë screamed. “How dare you—”

“Who is this nutcase?” the cook asked Pimpi. “And what’s a girl like you doing with a flake like him?”

“I am not a flake! I’m half-elven!” Vogonwë snapped.

“Ah… I see.” The cook turned back to Pimpi and leered suggestively, “Hey, cutie, how would you like to cook something up with a real man for a change?”

Vogonwë barred his teeth, and began to growl in a low and menacing tone (which is basically what a growl would sound like, wouldn’t it?)

For a fleeting moment, the cook wondered if Vogonwë had had his shots, but in the next instant his attention was diverted by a splatter of hot bacon grease being flung in his face. Vogonwë had seized a frying pan and emptied its contents upon the mug of the cook. Sizzling Beggin’ Strips clung to his face, in a fashion rather reminiscent of burning leeches.

“AAAAAAHHHHHH!” he screamed, clawing at his eyes in agony.

“VOGGY!” cried Pimpi in rebuke, though her big blue eyes shone with thinly veiled delight.

The cook’s skin bubbled and peeled apart in a grotesque fashion as the grease soaked into his pores, and he continued to scream melodramatically, until Vogonwë put him out of his misery by conking him over the noggin with the underside of the frying pan. He fell to the floor kind of like a tree in a forest, the main difference being that there were a lot of people around to hear him.

“Bloody ‘ell!” a bystander exclaimed, “just wot d’you think yer doin’, mate?”

“Huh? What kind of accent is that?” Pimpi wondered.

“Indefinite. And I think we should move on,” Vogonwë said, noticing the rabid looks they were getting from the friends of the inert cook.

“Wait just a minute, there, buddy,” a man said threateningly, seizing Vogonwë’s shoulder. “You’re a stranger in these here parts, and we don’t take kindly to strangers waltzing in and bopping our field mice, I mean, fry cooks, on the head!”

“Don’t touch me, I’m an Elf!” Vogonwë said, jerking away and whipping an arrow from his quiver.

“Half,” Pimpi added helpfully.

“If you’re looking for a fight, you’ve come to the right stand!” said a burly looking specimen of hurly manliness. He cracked his knuckles and took a step forward.

Other similar specimens began to close in, slowly but surely, glowering in a most unsettling fashion. Vogonwë was aware that, encircled at such a close range, his arrows would not do much good, so he tried a different approach. “Have any of you heard the Lay of Bakh-tôn-Gréasé? And, if not, would you like to?”

“First things first,” a man with beady, close-set eyes sneered, slapping his right fist against his left palm. “In a moment you’ll be reciting out your—”

“As soon as you’re finished, can we get something eat?” Pimpi interrupted, from where she stood outside the ring of threatening thugs. “The smell of bacon is driving me crazy.”

“No, darling—I think it would be better to get help at this moment!” Vogonwë replied, assuming a defensive stance (slouching sulkily with his hands in his pockets—you know, you’ve seen teenagers).

“Oh, okay,” Pimpi said. “Be right back.”

She turned and ran off to find their comrades in Shipping, which was not hard, since Chrysophylax stood out from the crowd rather nicely over by the stand where he stood. “Guys! Come quick! Vogonwë’s in trouble!” Pimpi cried when she reached her destination.

“Did he fall down a well?” Earnur inquired around a mouthful of Beer Battered Bacon.

“No! He started a fight with a bunch of disgruntled Grundorians, and I fear they will beat him into a bloody pulp and then mince him into bacon and eat him!” Pimpi replied fretfully.

“Why, that’s ridiculous,” Orogarn Two scoffed, “Grundorians are civilized people: we do not mince bacon, we slice it!”

“He’s vastly outnumbered,” Pimpi whimpered. “And it’s all my fault! He was fighting to protect my honor, so if he gets hurt I’ll never forgive myself! Oh, it’s just so hard to be pretty!”

“Oh, I know what you mean!” Kuruharan sympathized. “Once, back home, a dozen Dwarf-women got into a brawl over who got to comb my beard! It was a whale of a fight, but after a while all those breaking bones and cleaving heads for my sake got to be embarrassing to watch, and in the end I just snuck away and combed my own beard!”

Chrysophylax snorted derisively.

“Won’t you come help?” Pimpi asked impatiently.

Earnur swallowed his food down manfully, and grasped the hilt of his noble sword. “Lead on to the fray!” he declared, “Let it not be said that Master Brownbark fought alone whilst the only living admirer of his poetry was in the vicinity!”

“I’m bored,” Chrysophylax burped, “so why not?”

“If anyone dies, I can pick their pockets…” Kuruharan mused. “Okay!”

“I’m not in the habit of fighting my own people, it’s unseemly!” Orogarn Two protested. “But I will see if I can mediate a cessation of hostilities—after all, I am the son of Orogarn One, son of—”

“Has it occurred to any of you, that in the time it has taken to have this conversation, the little maid’s young man could be getting beaten up quite badly?” the Gateskeeper spoke up.

“Right!” Pimpi said, “let’s go! Only, he’s a Half-Elf, not a young man!”

They got their act together and hastened (or something like it) over to where Vogonwë was staving off his attackers with a heretofore unknown (and non-canonical) talent for the martial arts. The Grundorians came at him in waves, but he met each one with karate kicks, jujitsu blows, and judo throws. Still, they came, one after the other, like ants to poison, and still, he battled them tirelessly. Okay, he was getting tired, but there wasn’t much else to do while waiting for Pimpi to arrive with backup. His limbs moved in a flurry of frenzied maneuvers, but the Grundorians came at him with cold, impassioned determination, like killing machines (only they weren’t doing any killing, oddly enough).

“By the Pants of Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor, I order you to cease this disturbance!” Orogarn Two ordered.

He was ignored.

He tried again: “By the power invested in my by my father, I now pronounce you in violation of Statute #8,313: staging a brawl without a license! Cease and desist or I will fine your pants off!”

“It’s not working!” Pimpi whined. “Let’s just attack them. I have a dagger and I know how to use it! …Sort of.”

“Right-ho,” Earnur agreed, brandishing his sword manfully. “Griper will have them groping for their severed limbs in no time!”

Oh, I will, will I? I object to being associated with this ridiculous contest of stupidity in any way, shape, or form!

Meanwhile, Kuruharan had already set to work hewing down a few of the feckless foes. “Two gold pieces, Master Elf!” he cried to Vogonwë as he emptied the pockets of a now headless horseman (his horse wasn’t with him, but there was one somewhere, I’m sure).

Eventually, the fight was joined by all, even Orogarn Two, who wielded his sword in one hand while writing out citations with the other. Earnur sliced and diced and parried very manfully (of course), all the while ignoring the gripes of his sword as best he could, though as he fought his mind did ring annoyingly with complaints:

Oh, this is so degrading! Ack, I’m all covered in blood! Oh, Emu, I’ll bet that guy never bathed in his life! You stab like a girl! I don’t even care about the ‘honor’ of that silly chit of a half-hobbit! I want to go back in my sheath!

Pimpi darted in and out of the fray, squeezing her eyes shut and jabbing her dagger out in front of her, in hopes of stabbing someone. She nicked Kuruharan a couple times, but otherwise luckily limited all fatal plunges to the faceless, nameless, mass of inexplicably hostile Grundorians. Chrysophylax trotted around the perimeter of the fight, whacking people with his tail, and every now and then pausing to seize people with his jaws and snap them in two (then tossing them over his shoulder, for he wasn’t really into eating people).

The Gateskeeper stood a little ways off and pointed at them, laughing. He did not join in on the killing spree, and indeed had no plans to involve himself in the general fracashness at all, but the mood was so infectious that he did take a moment to pilfer a pecan pie and plunge it in the face of a passerby. His victim fought back with a lemon meringue, he parried with a pumpkin, was met with a key lime, and then triumphed with the dread coconut cream. Chrysophylax noticed the comestible contest, and bellowed gleefully:

“FOOD FIGHT!!!”

And lo! the tide of the battle turned. Gradually, people lowered their fists and weapons in favor of seizing whatever edible items were near, and flung them into the faces of their adversaries. Bacon bits, pie crusts, tomatoes, cheesë-whíz, fish sticks, tartar sauce, bran flakes, spaghetti, meatballs, Jell-ô-Squares, rice pudding, cream of wheat, Caesar salad, hamburger casserole, ice cream, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, onion soup, barbecued ribs, and chocolate fondue were just a few of the foods flying through the air. Pretty soon, everyone in the glade was fighting with everyone else, regardless of friend or foe. Basically, the idea was that if it moved, you hit it with food, which explains why Vogonwë smeared a glop of asparagus purée in Pimpi’s face, Earnur slung a scoop of hot fudge into Orogarn Two’s hair, and Kuruharan hit Chrysophylax between the eyes with a yam.

This was how Merisu found them when she entered the clearing.

To say that Merisuwyniel "found" them is a bit deceiving perhaps and calls for some explanation. After waiting for the others to come back for such a long time that even her angelic Elven patience was exhausted, she decided to go look for them. Having reassured herself that Grrralph appeared to have composed himself (there were no longer any traces of steam emitting from under his hood), she followed the direction that the other members of the group had taken.

Though her Elven perception would have sufficed to make her an outstanding tracker, she needed none of her skills to find their trail. Pimpiowyn always followed the example of faerie tale children, making sure that crumbs marked her path. Yet even those were not necessary; the Elven maiden needed only to pursue the swathe of destruction caused by Chrysophylax’ passage to reach the clearing.

Unfortunately for her always impeccable appearance, reaching the clearing was only possible by moving. And what moved, was hit by…

“Ouch!” cried Merisuwyniel as a Rice Krispie bar hit her noble forehead. She reached a slender yet strong hand up to remove it, as it had remained there due to the rather gooey state of its consistency. This resulted in sticky fingers; since she had left her saddle-bags with the pocket handkerchiefs behind, she attempted to lick her fingertips clean.

This tastes delicious! she thought, and somehow familiar. A mental image of the dark tower of Minus Moreghoul arose unbidden, though she knew not why at the moment. Her eyes clouded with tears as she recalled her deceased love Gravlox – or rather, they would have clouded with tears if they hadn’t already been clouded with a generous helping of mousse au chocolat.

This was fortuitous, because it prevented the shock of seeing what was happening to her usually immaculate clothing. The wine red divided skirt (feminine yet practical) was dotted with applesauce, bacon grease, croutons and fried potatoes, whilst a pattern of creamed corn, salad greens and mushroom sauce adorned the matching blouse with its ruffles (feminine, yet quite impractical!).

And her hair – alas for the long golden locks of Merisuwyniel! Pink chewing gum was vying with peanut butter for the complete supremacy over them. Would this be the end of the most beauteous heroine of this tale? Would she have to cut off her hair, put on dark robes and spend the rest of her days in a nunnery? Would she eat all of the food clinging to her person and then have to walk to Rivendell to work it off again?

Fear not, o gentle reader, for this is a tale such as those told in the land of Fannë-Fíktiûnne. There, good must triumph, beauty must rule, and all ends must be happy. So it came about that when she withdrew from the fracas of the fray, her hand reached by chance into her pocket, there finding a phial of a miraculous cleansing substance that, applied to her hair, caused her to breathe so ecstatically and shout out in such triumphant ecstasy that all who heard stood still and indeed, wished to have a part in such an exciting ritual. She applied the elixir to her clothing, face and hands as well, and before long she was ready to face the devastating scene of the most unusual battle she had ever witnessed – well, not actually witnessed, but you know what I mean…

[ August 08, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

As was so often the case during Lord Etceteron’s wanderings, the horse was bored. So far the journey had been a typical heroic outing: fraught with gratuitous danger, and as always failing to take account of the sumptuous green buffet past which they fared hourly. There were, however, certain compensations; entertaining and potentially lethal cabaret being one of them, and the last couple of days had seen enough of that to last most ordinary steeds for a lifetime. This was, however, no ordinary steed but Pinkjin of the Morose, whose capacity for facetiousness and sarcasm was legend in the stables of Dun Sóbrin.

Thinking of his misguided master drew Pinkjin’s eyes towards the source of his intoxicating sobriquet and current galloping boredom. He was sitting on a rather unconvincing hummock, picking pieces of confectionary shrapnel from his jacket and puffing on a long-stemmed ebony pipe, from which came the pungent aroma of exotic herbs. He was also talking, apparently to thin air.

‘Well, that was a jolly old set-to, what?’ He announced jovially.

‘It was the most pointless conflict since the War of Tomkins’ False Teeth! Has anyone stopped to work out how it got started?’ This voice was querulous and seemed formed with complaint as its one purpose. Mercifully only the Lord Etceteron could hear it, and his answer was short and to the point.

‘Where on my outfit does it say “Politician”? Such knowledge is not for I and my heroic ilk, who merely perform deeds of daring. Go and ask a cabinet minister.’

‘Perhaps beneath one of those dried apricots there’s a badge that says “idiot”,’ murmured the other voice, before lapsing into yet more complete silence as Earnur thrust his sword into the ground through a congealed mass of bacon rinds. He made his way over to a pile of the wealthier casualties, whom the remainder of the Ow-ship were looting in a conciliatory fashion. Their resident Poet Laureate, swelled with testosterone and despite all attempts to stop him, was telling a suitably martial story, although being a poet he had chosen the most singularly inappropriate piece of Elven history from which to recount his tale.

‘Ah, pitiful are the tales of that great battle for the Looms of the West, but we do not speak of them, save in the telling of tales of the Canon-Fodderain, which are the less grievous because they didn’t happen to us.’

‘Who does not know of the Last great battle of Dairyland?’ Earnur interjected with oddly detached manliness. His eyes were focused on a point somewhere between infinity and the tip of his nose, and he spoke in a strange, nasal monotone. ‘For it is said that when Môgul Bildûr was yet not come to a controlling interest in the Mutuals of the Noodlar, when the promise of dividends could not yet sway the minds of Men, there stood in the Wide Lands the glittering emporia of the Vaniti, bright with the garish fashions of a more innocent age. Yet Môgûl was ever cunning, and he gathered about him a great force of Korprat and other lesser Loyers, and he wrested from them their tartan troos and their fair white platforms with massive layoffs and cutbacks most grim. And so they placed one last picket, and they dressed in the best of their finery, and their medallions glittered in the sun. Where now are the hosts of Turgid? Where the legions of Pinrod? All gone down into the dust…’ He blew a large and pungent smoke ring, ‘…Man.’.

‘That is indeed how the people of Workmud tell it.’ Vogonwë replied. How we regret the loss of the sweeping collars and bright ties of Kip’r. How is it that you know so much of our great sorrow?’

‘You forget that I too come into this tale, although late in the telling.’ Earnur pulled a transparent bag from a pocket and refilled the bowl of his pipe. ‘For they also tell of Avmë Lastrolo of Dorian,who is called also Ereyu Thingy. And his daughter was Vinaigrettiel the Fair, but she’s back story, so I shan’t talk about that any more. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes: The Battle of Unmitigated Plaid. It is said that Avmë’s heart misgave him, and for love of taste he and his folk fared not forth to the battle, but remained in their boutiques, contriving designer label knock-offs in despite of the Korprat Loyers of Môgûl. And so it was that there the ragged survivors of the Unmitigated Plaid came to find fresh and more tasteful raiment. And so was the Doom of the Noodlar stayed for many years.’

‘Indeed so we sing in Workmud,’ Vogonwë replied. By now the rest of the Gallowship were busily gathering firewood, hunting, fleecing their erstwhile enemies in crooked poker games and, in short, doing absolutely anything to avoid listening. He continued to his oddly receptive audience of one (two if we count the equine eavesdropper).

‘When call of battle sounded, and the flares were in the West
The folk of Dairyland marched forth, all glitt'ring in their best
And Turgid, clothed in tartan bright, nine-iron in his hand
Went treading with his golfing shoes across the troubled land.

Yet sleek-groomed Avmë sat in state, and never forth came he
For Turgid’s handicap was great, his own was only three.
And all his folk yet laboured long upon their clatt’ring looms.
They never came to Hole Eighteen, or to the Bar of Doom.’

‘Beauteous words indeed, yet I hath an idea not thy own,’ observed Earnur, his archaisms slightly askew despite the weather.

‘Indeed not. It is an ancient lay of my people, and my own version is yet far from completion. It begins:
‘Turgid had a great big army.
Some say it was pretty balmy
To fight the Dark Lord Bildûr with a golf-club
But it was heroic, so I sing of it, that’s the nub...’

Earnur inhaled a little more deeply than he had intended in sheer shock at such incompetent versification. He coughed violently and bright lights flashed before his eyes. He staggered weakly to his horse and retrieved his canteen, which he was just in the act of draining completely when a heavy object struck the bottle, sweeping it from his hand.

‘It’s only water…’ he began to complain to no-one in particular, but soon realised that his companions were staring past him at something that lay on the ground near his ruined receptacle. It was a rectangular red stone, and wrapped around it was a piece of parchment that bore a message that was terrible in more ways than one:

“U is al lamerz. No1 cares bout lame elvs y dont u get a life lol?”

Wordlessly he strode to Merisuwyniel and handed her the parchment, which was passed to each of the company in turn. Such a message could mean only one thing, and the company voiced the dreadful truth as one: ‘Trolls!’

The ensuing silence was broken only by a muted belch as a side of bacon made itself more comfortable in an unnamed heroic stomach.

“Food fighhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttttttttttt….”

The ancient war cry echoed from the Bacon Hills, rolled uphill along the Ecru Mountains, faded out when it entered a tunnel around the East Emmet Parkway, but was picked up again on the other side, and eventually made its way to the incredibly huge, messy, overgrown, bug-infested, termite-riddled, weed-choked, pockmarked, blighted, seen-better-days Forest of Canned Corn. All-in-all Canned Corn was as good an argument for clear cutting as most folks had ever seen, but all the creatures, great and small, that dwelt there liked its low-maintenance charms and were proud to call it home.

The cry eventually wafted into the one garden spot in all of Canned Corn, the Niblet Grove. And once again shadowy forms dancing through the trees of the Niblet lifted their heads in alarm and anticipation:

“That nasty man is fighting again, Preciousssss,“

“That bad, bad man, Snookums!”

“He hurts all those poor, poor fried food vendors, Sweetums!.”

“And he eats bacon with his fingers, Puff!”

“C’mon, let’s go tell the Old, Wise One that he’s coming!”

And with that the entire band of ghostly forms leapt and pranced through the treetops until they came to the very center of the Niblet. There they stood at the top of a high hill, where one ancient, twisted, gnarly punky, mold-covered, infested tree lifted whatever limbs it had left to the sky.

Dancing in a circle and lifting their own pudgy, yet graceful limbs in supplication, the mysterious creatures intoned their age-old Awakening Call:

Hi there, Mr. Tree.
We’re very glad to see you.
Wake up Mr. Tree!
It’s daytime can’t you seeeeeee

(Author’s note - To any of our fellow Downers reading this who also grew up in 1960’s Columbus, Ohio: I have just given you a major blast from the past. Enjoy!)

The paper came last to the hand of Gateskeeper, who though he could speak fluent troll yet trembled with fear as the others -- they feared the unknown, but Gateskeeper knew trolls all too well. Slow, stupid creatures, actively avoiding education of any kind. Their language was harsh and wild, gutteral in sound and uncouth both in grammar and manners. What they detested more than anything was seeing people enjoying themselves. Their greatest weapon, apart from the sheer insult of their language itself, was involving people in pointless arguments -- arguments which could prove fatal by the sheer frustration of trying to reason with ultimately unreasoning creatures.

He quickly translated the paper for the It-ship, who responded with yet more silence. All except Merisuwyniel. "I care about lame elves!! I treated lots of them back in Minus Teeth!!" she cried, spitting fragments of bacon and other foodstuffs in a manner worthy of Pimpiowyn.

There was only one way to render trolls powerless, and Gateskeeper knew it. (Well, there are two ways, but no one in the It-ship had the uber-magical symbol of '@' prefixing their names, so the other way was a non-starter.) No more grievous wound can be dealt to a troll than to continue having a good time in spite of their ridiculous assertions, specious arguments, and insinuations about your intelligence and ancestry.

Gateskeeper had his doubts that he could keep the various members of the It-ship from trying to engage the nefarious beast, or whether he should even try. After all, he thought to himself, if the trolls defeated the rest of the It-ship, the bow would be his for the taking, and he could circuit back to the Pea Sea and chip away at the Eunuchs until they were disconnected. Even as the thought crossed his mind, though, the burn mark of the Cloz'd-Dheal seared his hand anew, reminding him of his commitment to Mogul. He had to at least try.

No sooner had Gateskeeper come to this conclusion than the troll broke thru the trees partway down the Bacon Hill upon which they were standing. He was unnaturally tall and gaunt, wearing glasses with thick black rims and even thicker lenses. With a pasty white face of stony leather pockmarked with what appeared to be small volcanos, he strode up the hill bellowing his challenge, "I kn take U al, U elf luvn lamerz, I ROOL!"

At once Earnur and Orogarn had their swords out and began to advance (Earnur's sword complaining at levels that were nearly audible to the rest of the group). Gateskeeper leapt in front of them screaming, "You don't understand! Swords are no use here!" Earnur and Orogarn, responding in true hero fashion completely ignored Gateskeeper and ran around him to confront the beast. Vogonwe prepared to write down his versical impressions of the conflict from a safe distance, just in case the situation required a contest in poetry of power. Even Merisu nocked an arrow to the bowstring of the Entish Bow and advanced warily.

The fell troll wasted no time beginning to work the Gal-N-Fellowship. No weapon did he need, save the evil workings of his words. "Y dont U giv it up, U dum dwarfs. U kan't touch my 1337 5|<i11s! Go bak hom cryin 2 yer momz, lol! Ur mothr wuz a hamstr, nd ur fathr smelt of eldrberryz!" All the members of the It-ship stopped. No one had dared insult them in this fashion before.

[ August 17, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

“Ai!” Vogonwë exclaimed, his voice squeaking in an almost adolescent fashion as he beheld the bespectacled spectacle before them. Squeaking pipes at any age is embarrassing in an Elf, and mortifying if one is 300, and so Vogonwë suffered a moment of deeply debilitating personal shame.

Pimpi stopped dead in her tracks, and the hand which clutched Hush wavered. Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed, and her knuckles whitened around the handle of the dagger. “How dare you insult my dearly departed parents thus," she retorted. "My mother was not a hamster, she was a Hobbit. And my father was a Valiant Man of the Mike, he smelt like the flanks of his horse.”

“Yeah!” Vogonwë recovered. “How dare you insult my darling’s dead dad? Also, my own father doesn’t smell like elderberries, either, he smells like alcohol and ripe cheese. And my mother was a Chip—”

The Troll interrupted him with a vile spew of speech, which involved asterisks, and must be delicately translated due to the PG-13 nature of these documents. Since asterisks are annoying, the anonymous scribe who is painstakingly recording these events onto parchment with a quill pen and the finest India Ink, has opted to simply delete every other word. “Off!!!!! ur all psers nd u shud b violently beatn 2 deth!!!!111!”

“As opposed to gently beaten to death?” Merisu queried, knitting her alabaster brow in puzzlement.

The Troll made a reply, and the scribe, following the aforementioned translation strategy, has left us with ”.”

Earnur and Orogarn Two faltered in the face of such terrible language, and Earnur’s sword told him, calmly, I hate you, you know. For mysterious reasons, they were not able to move their limbs any further, and stood rooted to their spots, swords down, feeling the uncontrollable urge to argue against the Troll’s point, if only they could figure out what his point was. Grralph began to silently weep from under his hood, and if he had any magical @biliities with which to battle the Troll, he was too distraught by the presence of the food clinging to the people around him to remember them.

Kuruharan chewed on his beard and tried, desperately, to think of something this ogre would be interested in buying. But he could think of nothing that brought Trolls joy, besides perhaps a small plastic imitation anatomical part that belched and swore when you walked past it, but he had sold that to a drunken Uruk last month.

”U r lame nd i rawk bcuz im coolr thn u///” the Troll insisted insipidly.

“This is ridiculous,” Pimpi snapped. “Vogonwë, do something.”

“Ah! You just made me forget the word I was going to use… was it putrid or confuséd? Or—”

“Can none of us rise to meet this challenge?” Merisuwyniel asked helplessly, and the Bow vibrated ominously.

“There is only one among us whose words can match the devastating effect of Troll language,” Earnur proclaimed sagely. “Vogonwë, you must recite a poem.”

“But why—”

“Yours is not to question why, only to do or die,” Orogarn Two spoke an erstwhile motto of the Grundorians.

“Well, all right then, since you wish it of me,” it did not take much prodding to convince Vogonwë to versify for them.

“Not to us, to the Troll,” Merisu pointed.

“Oh. Quite:

It is my delight to recite, this night,
The Tale of the Finite Sprite Fight,
Wherein Dwight the Mite, a Parasite,
Snow White the Slight, did bite.

Earnur felt dizzy, and suddenly very thirsty, Orogarn Two’s hair curled, and Merisu’s brow knit and pearled. But the Troll stood fast. Does the scribe have to laboriously scratch out the worthless stuff, or can you just imagine?

The blackbird was assured that the password
Would save him from being massacred,
But it went unheard,
Which was absurd,
So that is what occurred.
WORD!

“Uuuuh…” Kuruharan fell to the ground with a thud.

The Troll sneered, and said, “Iz tht al u got?”

Vogonwë dug in and proclaimed majestically:

To be sleepy
In a teepee,
Is creepy,
And can make you feel weepy!

Merisu retreated to a Happy Place, and Pimpi longed for the days before Lopitoff had exploded, when she had found slight respite from the kind of esoteric magical vibes that one can only get from dead, gold-encrusted horseflesh. The Troll laughed long and raucously, and the sound was like unto that of an epileptic pterodactyl.

Vogonwë’s expression turned fey, and he bellowed as much as one with Elven blood can bellow:

I know some butterflies with pretty eyes,
Which hypnotize and paralyze lots of guys,
Who are spies and wear a guise of being wise,
And like to sing lullabies to fireflies,
And chastise those who have large thighs,
But wear tight Levi’s;
Who in turn do them despise and ostracize,
And finally,
Victimize!

And lo! the Troll began to weep.

“No…” The Gateskeeper moaned, unplugging his ears. “Don’t make it mad…”

But Vogonwë was well warmed up by now, and he paid the gloved man no heed:

It is a crime not to rhyme,
If you’ve got the time to mountain climb,
And if you want to pantomime
While eating lime in grime and slime,
And I know these poems of mine
Aren’t worth a dime,
But writing them was sublime,
And she’s in love with me and I feel fiiiiiine!

“U make me soooooooo mad!!!!!” the Troll bawled.

“By the Loyers, this is the end,” the Gateskeeper swore deeply. “He’s going to start a—”

“FLAME WAR!!!!!!” the Troll screamed.

“Uh-oh,” Vogonwë stated eloquently.

Then, something unexpected happened. Chrysophylax came waddling back from a foraging foray, observed the gangly Troll and harkened unto his proclamation, then shrugged and belched out a great ball of fire in the general direction of the nuisance. The Troll’s greasy hair lit up like a firecracker, his glasses melted onto his face, his volcanoes erupted, and he screamed in one last dying spasm of bad taste, “Fry mah hide!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“So, he was a Redneck Troll,” Kuruharan remarked darkly from his spot on the ground, for among the Ugly Peoples of Muddled Mirth, Redneck Trolls are the most feared, especially the ones who play banjoes.

Chrysophylax ambled up to his victim and digested him in a cacophony of crunching, regretted it, and then promptly darted off to the bushes to retch violently.

Earnur’s sword could be heard muttering something about the whole episode exhibiting a deplorable lack of class.

[ August 17, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

The Redneck Troll having been duly dispatched, the Gallowship, being exhausted by the soon-to-be legendary Battle of Bacon-Binge (and the subsequent orgiastic eating-binge), returned to its camp. Another day had passed, bringing the total time that the dedicated group had been wandering aimlessly to eight days. Perhaps the dawn would bring with it purpose and a worthy destination. Or perhaps dawn would only bring sun in the morning, with clouds and a 30% chance of rain during the afternoon (winds north, northwest at 10 knots)*.

Stars shone on this moonless evening as the members of the Gallowship snored, whistled, wheezed and muttered their way through a night's sleep. But something else shone as well. Two red lights, close together as if they were beady little eyes of...red light, shone at the edge of the campsite. Grrralph sat on a log unnoticed, while the others lay slumbering.

His eyes (burning red) swept the countryside as he pretended to keep watch. No one had asked him to do so and there seemed no need for such caution, so he pretended in an effort to amuse himself. Boredom soon set in, and he drew a pale dagger and began drawing designs in the dirt. However, he soon discovered that it was too dark for him to see what he was doing so he put the knife away with a sigh. He rose and tiptoed away from the camp as quietly as he could out of consideration for his companions.

Looking up at the stars, he began swaying from side to side, as if he were striving against some force within him that was urging him to act. The urge grew stronger and stronger. He raised his hands in an attempt to cover his mouth, but failed because he, as usual, could not find his lips. Bowing his head in defeat, he began to sing.

Midnight,
and the Gallowship's sleeping,
and Grrralph is creeping,
because Thingwraiths don't sleep.
There's no moon,
but there's stars up above him,
from the birds there's not even a peep.

A worn boot flew through the air, striking Grrralph in the back. "Shaddup, whazamattawityouyaidjit" hissed a voice from the campsite. Must be that Gatekeeper character, thought Grrralph, admiring the skillful use of Troll-speak.

So, with another sigh, he wandered away from the camp until he reached a small hill. He climbed the slope and found a burned out hut at the top. Peeking inside, he found that the hut had been tastefully decorated with a skeleton and a variety of bones. Then, harkening to some keen inner sense, or perhaps it was the rushing of wings and the cry of a leathery prehistoric beast that attracted his attention, he backed out from the hut and looked up as a Nazcool dropped from the sky.

"Geeeeeorge!" cried Grrralph. "How've you been?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," answered Geeeeeorge. "I heard that you ran into Brrrobert so I thought I'd look you up. How you fixed for work Grrralph?"

"I've got an informal gig, right now," he answered. "Doesn't pay much, but the people are alright. You?"

"I'm working with Brrrobert and Ssssam," answered Geeeeeorge. "Doing some general mayhem and search and destroy for a real up and comer over Mordough way. You should join us! The pay's alright."

Grrralph hesitated before responding reluctantly. "I'm kind of committed right now. I might finally get those medical benefits I've been looking for."

"Your call," answered Geeeeeorge. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me. You were really coming along when everything fell apart last time. Imagine! Getting you in exchange for three Elves and a minor leaguer to be named later! You made us into a contender! Too bad it didn't work out."

Grrralph nodded as Geeeeeorge mounted his Nazcool steed. "You working with those Trolls down there?" Geeeeeorge asked. "They're sure going somewhere in a hurry! CYA as they say."

Grrralph looked down the hill at the horde of Trolls as the Nazcool took off. He ran back toward the camp as fast as his long legs would carry him. Oh man! There go my benefits! he thought as he went to the rescue of the Gallowship...

*This Muddled-Mirth weather forecast brought to you by your friends at Weathertop.com, where we're partly right some of the time.

[ August 18, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

A piercing shriek, mournful and forlorn, echoed about the camp. Various gals and fellows awoke with the icy chill of fear in their veins as the same voice then launched into a jaunty ragtime piece about fear, fire and foes, which tripped along with the ghastly cheeriness of a clown pretending not to have a coronary. Grrralph had alerted his companions.

Leaping from his blankets, and conveniently fully dressed, the Lord of Dun Sóbrin whipped out his mighty weapon and prepared to do battle. All around him were the sounds of hurried movement as his companions grabbed their arms and their price lists, and made ready for the coming fray. Already they could hear the reedy cries of the trolls as they advanced: 'Wot u flame Kewld00d 4??!!1 u is al facists!' they whined in their uncouth tongue, their voices cracking into squeaks of indignation. 'U r so gonna dye!!!111'

Etceteron's manly respect for intelligibility could withstand no further battering. He leaped forward, sword scything at a pallid neck, even as it vainly protested his unceasing combat. Its voice echoed about his heroically empty cranium, which paid it the attention it deserved.
Wait a minute! No, wait, wait: can't we talk about this a bit first? Perhaps we can negotiate. Here, you haven't even cleaned me since the last time yet!.

Reluctant or no, the blade was of Noodlarian make, and its edge was keen. It sliced through boil-studded flesh and all but severed a stick-like arm as Lord Etceteron berated the degraded creatures in strident tones. 'Thy uncouth speech displeaseth mine ears, foul spawn of the unfortunate!' he cried. 'Be silent, for thy words are unworthy of utterance!'

But some dark magic was woven about their unwashed foe. Even as axes and swords bit the undead flesh it healed again, strings of matter binding and re-attaching limbs and heads; and all the while from foetid mouths poured a torrent of empty words, their sound and fury signifying nothing: 'lol!111! I Rulz! u is lame!1!. u b tost tonite!' cried one.
'**** u u ******* ******* ******* ******** and ******** until u skweel!' screamed another, in a voice that would not be heard again in Muddled Mirth until the advent of the cult television convention. The Politically-Semi-Correct-ship fell back before the fury of this assault, muttering to one another about the cosmic folly that had given voices to these foolish creatures.

'Can you buy me some time?' muttered Kuruharan.

'Do you have a plan?' asked Merisuwyniel in breathless hope.

'No,' replied the Dwarven lord. 'But I do have six gallons of Nurse McCready's Extra-Strong Boil and Wart Ointment that I've been trying to unload. I...er...we could still come out of this ahead.'

'How I hate to hear language tortured so! It brings tears to my eyes!' This from Vogonwë, with whom nobody had the heart to debate the issue under these circumstances.

'I think I smell anchovies' announced Pimpiowyn, stabbing with a short-sword at a red-faced troll. Further along the line, Grrralph wailed ghoulishly as his blade sliced effortlessly through clammy torsos (apparently cutting before it touched them) only for the accursed flesh to heal without a mark as his steel passed through.

Only the Gateskeeper had been silent, stroking his chin as he pondered the situation. In one hand he held the message they had received, and at his feet was the stone around which it had been wrapped. He knew full well how to achieve their victory, but could not decide which suited his purpose the better: to gain the confidence, or better yet utter dependence, of his companions with an effortless rescue, or to watch them die horribly then finish off the victorious trolls. Complete user dependency on the one hand; the theft of vital magical items on the other: the ultimate win-win situation. He was inclined towards spectating until a high-pitched voice broke through his Macchiavellian reverie.

'Oi 4 eyez! U is so a geek! lol!1! thoze glases r so rubish! Wots a litl ******** like you doin on the supa hiwae?' Again a line of asterisks was pronounced with an ease that only a troll long steeped in low-grade evil can achieve. A small stone accompanied this verbal missile, and it struck him on the head, knocking his glasses from his face. At that moment the Gallowship pressed between the two adversaries, and as he scrabbled for his spectacles the Gateskeeper's decision was made. Having found his eyeglasses, he took up the stone and began to work his way around the knot of fighters.

SupaKool, alias Walter, was a troll of great might. Many were the kicks he had received that his bone-hard flesh had scarcely felt, and many was the fellowship that he had disrupted and scattered during his long and pointless career. Even now he looked forward to squashing this collection of obvious literati once he had amused himself with the inefficacy of their weapons. Of course, those are my words, not his: all that SupaKool was thinking at this moment was 'They is so gonna dy (sp?)! I rool!1! lol!!1' and much mirth did this somewhat unoriginal thought afford him.

Suddenly a large rectangular red stone flew out of nowhere to strike SupaKool in the centre of his broad back. Turning in rage he took up the parchment in which it had been swathed, and his brows knit in concentration as he read the original message received by the Gallowship.

'Oo frew vis?!' he wailed, almost apoplectic with rage. 'I iz not lame! I iz kewl!1!1'

Picking on the first fellow troll he saw (for who else would carry the secret rocks of br'ik that they use for communication, and who else would speak their secret tongue?) he began to slap it in a pathetic parody of violent rage. Soon all of the trolls had become involved in the argument, and our heroic whatever-ship were being treated to a free demonstration of a true Trollish flame-war. No words were uttered now, only gutteral grunts and amorphous howls of rage that could only be translated as strings of exotic punctuation marks. Merisuwyniel put away her nocked arrow with an air of relief; The Gateskeeper polished his glasses; Etceteron finally cleaned his sword, glad of the opportunity to shut it up; Pimpiowyn munched idly on an undisclosed snack item and Vogonwë tried to find a rhyme for 'unbelievably stupid'. Grralph's wail was definitely on the cheery side of blood-curdling misery and Orogarn sheathed his oddly greasy sword. Even the horses were looking on in bored curiosity.

The fighting went on for some hours. Lord Etceteron found some herbal tea in one of his saddlebags, and they sat around sipping the fragrant liquid as their enemies battered each other and vomited floods of unformed syllables for several hours. Eventually, though, the sun clomb above the horizon, and all was silence once more. Where the Trolls had stood there was only a stack of crumpled flat cardboard boxes filled with discs of what looked like bread covered in congealed cheese.

'So it is as the bards of Grundor tell it!' Cried Orogarn. 'Even as the sunlight touched them they have returned to the stuff of which they were made!'

'Good.' grunted Chrysophylax, finally emerging from slumber. 'I'm quite partial to pîtsar'

'That is the fabled laze-bread, on which one may sit completely still for two days and more?' asked the Elven bard unbelievingly. 'Much have I heard of it, but never have I tasted its like.'

'Well, yes. But a bit cold and manky' replied the dragon, warming up some of the residue with a well-aimed jet of flame.

And so the mighty combat was over, and once more it ended in a binge; and so it is that some heroic noblemen receive names like "The Fat". And so we shall leave our heroic heroes, as they man (and woman)-fully devour the mystic laze-bread of the Trolls. If nothing else, they will not go hungry for a good long time.

"This thing must be brocken!!!" A terrible, high-pitched, sing-song voice echoed through the dim passageways of Marrow Bones Studios.

"What's brocken, Mother?" A pitiful, hoarse, wearied voice answered. "Let's see, it couldn't possibly be your heart, because you don't have one.'

Leninia was too distracted by the frankly shocking images on her Cell- antír to bother with reacting to the Entish Guitar's brazen insult with her usual threats of torture and death.

"This Fellow...This Gal...This thing," she finally managed to say, "they're all...they're all..."

"Idiots?" The Entish Guitar supplied helpfully.

"I don't believe it," Leninia gasped. "I wanted a real adversary. I'm the most talented dark manipulator since Phil Whack'd-her, I deserve better than this! They carry on arguments with their swords, they engage in food-fights and flame-wars, they get stuck in witty-yet-annoyingly-distracting-from-my-glorious-persona sub-plots! They..."

"Well, what did you expect from a parody, Mother? In-depth discussions of Muddled Mirth for the lithe and the cunning? Some tall dude with a long name, cool sword and a manly countenance?" The Entish Guitar interrupted.

Leninia did not answer. She was deep in thought. She could not deny that as the group of the "gallivantin' village idiots" got closer, her grip on the Entish Guitar continued to slip. Not that she was worried, naturally, but why needlessly worry the already strung-out poor piece of talking wood?

For all her insults, Leninia had grown fond of the little piece of lumber. It's wry sense of humour sometimes reminded her of her last husband, John Lemmon. A tasty thing that one was, it was only too bad that...

But Leninia was not about to give over to regretting the past. There were things to be done today, such as deciding which sort of subliminal messages to be woven into which particular song, and other regular duties of the head of Marrow Bonea Studios.

Leninia stroked the Entish Guitar's strings and cooed nonsense to it in her magical voice (the voice was like the equivalent of a dangerous dose of cough medicine), and soon enough the hapless E.G. had fallen into a deep, drug-induced slumber, like everyone else in that dark, dreary and yet no longer so distant place.

[ August 19, 2003: Message edited by: Lush ]

“What do your Goblin eyes see, Snigga?”

Soregum was addressing an Orc of small breed, black-skinned, with wide bulging bloodshot eyes. The Goblin Tracker giggled nervously and gazed at the vista before them, his eyes straining such that they seemed to be in the final stages of taking leave of their sockets.

“Hehe … er … Foodfight!” he exclaimed in a thin, high-pitched snigger, gesturing in the direction of the sun, which was cautiously peering over the crimson horizon as if afraid to look for fear of what antics the day might hold.*

“And how do you figure that out?”

“Er … hehe … um ... A red sun arises. Food has been spilt this night. Hehe”

“Yeah, foodfight.” piped up a second diminutive Orc who was hunched over on the ground before them snuffling in the undergrowth. As he stood up, he sniffed and wiped away the detritus that had become attached to his huge, dripping nose, a nose that was of such enormous proportions that his remaining features gave the appearance of struggling to maintain their rightful place on his face.

“Bacon bits, pie crusts, tomatoes, cheesë-whíz, fish sticks, tartar sauce, bran flakes, spaghetti, meatballs, Jell-ô-Squares, rice pudding, cream of wheat, Caesar salad, hamburger casserole, ice cream, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, onion soup, barbecued ribs, and chocolate fondue are just a few of the foodstuffs that went flying through the air last night. I can smell ‘em all.”

And with that, he proudly hoisted his prodigious proboscis into the air and let out an almighty snort, showering Soregum with an unpleasant green gue.

“Yes. Thank you Schnozza”, muttered Soregum sarcastically, wiping the gunk from his cowled face. “What say you, Sedric?”

Soregum turned to the third Tracker, an ancient and emaciated Goblin tottering precariously on the edge of the low hill on which they stood. Predictably he sported two enormous ears, which he was absent-mindedly drilling with his gnarled fingers.

“Eh? You’ll have to speak up, sonny,” replied Sedric, raising a battered brass trumpet to one of his elephantine auditory organs. “All I can hear is the sound of seven mouths and one reptilian snout munching on a combination of bread, cheese, tomato paste, mushrooms and pepperoni ... oh, and a mournful keening.”

Soregum had had enough. Turning on the Goblins in rage, he exclaimed “Fools! May I remind you that we are on the trail of a crack team of hardened adventurers, quite the most dangerous enemies of the Red Nostril ever to have been assembled in a non-gender-specific grouping. They are unbendingly dedicated toward the Quest that they have set out upon. Do you really think that they are likely to engage in such food-related frippery?”

He shook his head, reflecting sadly on the fact that, of all the Orcs in Mordough, the only Trackers with any hint of a reputation that he had been able to find had been these three sorry specimens. And they had proved utterly useless and, as matters had turned out, quite unnecessary. Tracking the His-and-Hers-Ship had in fact proved astonishingly easy. It had simply been a matter of following the trail of apple-cores, sweet wrappers, chicken bones, half-eaten doughnuts and countless other discarded comestibles, not to mention the odd hairball. Then there was the flattened and scorched shrubbery, punctuated by various swooning adolescent lizards, which unmistakably marked the passing of a Dragon of ancient and imperial lineage. Soregum was beginning to wonder whether there really was any need for his three rather irritating and undoubtedly repulsive companions.

But it was the abundant references to mouth-watering foodstuffs that had really provoked Soregum’s anger. For seven days now they had followed the non-route-specific trail of the Non-Gender-Specific-Ship with nothing to fill their bellies but depressingly bland and alarmingly sugar-free Mordough rations. Indeed, so desperate had Soregum’s predicament become that he had been compelled to consume many of the discarded eatables that marked out their route. Worse, his pipeweed pouch was beginning to run dangerously low. Once again, his mind began to wander back to a time that now seemed so very long ago, replete with well-stocked pantries and …

All of a sudden, his thoughts were scattered by an insistent rumbling, gurgling sound. Immediately, he looked around in alarm and his hand reached for the short sword at his side, before realising that the ominous sound had in fact issued forth from his own poor unfulfilled stomach.

“Pardon me!” he apologised, although his companions were far more concerned with scratching their armpits, picking their noses and sniggering and gibbering inanely than with the affairs of his bowels.

Soregum turned to his steed, which provided yet another reminder of his miserable predicament. To his utter shame, he had to suffer the humiliation of riding on perhaps the least fearsome beast imaginable. Granted, the mount with which he had been furnished came with all the standard Mordough features – jet black hide, piercing red eyes, flaring nostrils – but when all was said and done she was still a pony. And a tiny one at that, he thought to himself, named Twinkle, of all things! Hardly a beast fit for an emissary of the greatest Dark Lord ever to have cut a cunning deal.

Sighing in resignation, Soregum mounted the dishearteningly cute beast and spurred her on with as much enthusiasm as he was able to muster in the circumstances. Whinnying in complaint, for her rider was just as much a disappointment to her as she to him, Twinkle began to trot delicately in the direction of the He-She-and It-Ship, following a line of Gil-Bar wrappers. After some hours, Snigga, Schnozza and Sedric roused themselves from their earnest bodily crevice investigations and set off on foot in pursuit, quickly overtaking Soregum and the daintily treading pony.

Thus continued the journey of the small, dark, cloaked figure, his little pony and the three misshapen Trackers.

* Astute readers may have noticed that the foodfight in fact took place to the west of the position of Soregum and his companions, rather than in the direction of the rising sun to the east, but does such trivial detail really matter in a tale of such epic proportions as that which is relayed in these documents?

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

SAVE - H.O.U.S.es (Hyenas of Unusual Size) show up to scavenge the battlefield, drawn by the scent of wasted bacon and flamed troll.

(Actually, I think that says it all, don't you? I mean, I may never actually need to fill in this "save", y'know? Just let your imaginations fill in the blanks... well, except for the H.O.U.S.es, of course. We all know what those look like...what WAS Peter Jackson thinking, anyway!?...Ah, but I digress. So, without further ado - Cue the scavengers. Stage Left.)

The effects of the Trollen (Trollish? Trollesque?) laze-bread on the This-And-That-Ship was everything that was promised, so it is not surprising that even the sharp but shapely Elven orbs of Merisuwyniel were slow to detect the arrival of certain skulking forms flitting through the trees and silently soaring overhead. Even the sound of a couple of firkins being rolled into place and tapped failed to distract the party from their post-troll feast stupor.

But as lovely Pimpiowyn reached and lanquidly pluck a mushroom from the congealed remains of Suprakool, a dark, gliding shadow fell across the sodden box. With the greatest of effort she tipped her glistening chin to the sky and commented, to no one in particular "Huh. Vultures."

At that same moment a polite cough from behind drew her attention to the pack of H.O.U.S.es (Hyenas Of Unusual Size) which now surrounded the Gallowship. The largest H.O.U.S. of them all then stepped forward, nodded towards the stack of laze-bread and asked politely, "Uh, were you going to finish that?"

[ August 20, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

Before Pimpiowyn could answer in the affirmative, Merisuwyniel hastened to speak. “I think we have had all that we care for,” she said, matching the polite tone of the leader’s voice. “You are welcome to help yourself to the rest.”

“Thank you!” he replied, motioning his followers to approach with a turn of his mighty head.

“Noooooooooo!” the half-hobbit maiden cried out, unwilling to give up the foodstuffs, difficult as they might be to digest.

Her betrothed awoke and, seeing her being threatened, as he thought, by wild beasts, reached out for his arrows. The ensuing scuffle aroused the others of the Itship, and thus the peaceful cooperation of different races which could have been sealed at their first contact was ruined by a misunderstanding, as has so often happened in the history of man/Elf/Dwarf/Hobbit-kind. (Oops, sorry, Chrys – Dragonkind too)

Arrows flew, swords flashed, axe swung, teeth were bared (yes, those of the H.O.U.S.es as well) and it was a wonder that none of the companions was killed in the fray. Fortunately, the following flight was in the direction of their intended journey, thus providing some forward action for the plot, finally! It would not have been entirely clear to onlookers, had there been any (whatever happened to all of the people at the Bacon-Binge? Chrys? Chrysophylax Dives, do you know anything about that?? Isn’t it enough that Orogarn lost his city without losing his people as well???), which side was fleeing and which pursuing.

In a mad attempt to do something, whether it made sense or not, Orogarn jumped onto the back of one of the H.O.U.S.es; it ran even faster, trying to shake him off. He clung tightly, though it headed for a cliff which appeared mysteriously before them. In the struggle, the chain with his crystal pendant loosened and fell off, just before the beast plunged over the edge of the cliff, into a river below. This raging water was marked on no map of the country and indeed there was no one who knew its name.

Those of the Itship who had thought practically (yet femininely, as Merisuwyniel did) had mounted their horses and were close behind. They gasped in distress upon seeing the son of the leader of Grundor disappear before their very eyes. Vogonwë vaulted off Tweedledum’s back with a double somersault combined with a flip around the animal’s neck and ran to the edge of the cliff. There lay the crystal pendant of Orogarn; he picked it up with a mournful expression on his face and tucked it into his pocket. Perhaps it would provide him with the necessary inspiration for a funeral ode.

Since none of them had ever paid attention to Orogarn’s steed (indeed, did anyone even know its name? It might have been Brego… ) no one noticed that it had left the group to search for its master. Who knows why it had developed such a sudden liking for him, leading to that devout loyalty?

“We must try to save him!” Merisuwyniel exclaimed. “But how shall we find him? Which direction should we take? And how can we cross yon river?”

She turned an untypically helpless gaze to the man who would have been her stepfather, had her mother lived. Earnur Etceteron paused, lost in deep thought before proclaiming, “We must go down-stream! The current will carry him in that direction.”

“Nonsense!” Kuruharan objected. “No fully-armed warrior can float on water!”

“It’s possible,” Pimpiowyn piped up. “This is, after all, a fantasy quest, so you can expect willing suspension of disbelief from those participating.”

The Gateskeeper said nothing. He was familiar with the principle of willing suspension of disbelief, since he expected that of customers who bought his soft wares, trusting the full-blown promises that he made.

Vogonwë was contemplating rhymes for the funeral ode he planned, so he obviously did not agree with his beloved’s theory.

In the meantime, what had happened to their newly-found foes, you ask? Well, the H.O.U.S.es, apparently a race with strong suicidal instincts, had followed their leader over the cliff in gross overestimation of their swimming skills and so found an untimely end.

Thus was the Fellow/Galship unhindered as its members rode in search of their comrade and of a continuing plotline.

As they rode slowly along (as the Itship was quite incapable of doing anything in a timely manner) Vogonwë lifted his voice in a melancholy dirge, extolling the virtues of Orogarn Two and lamenting his untimely demise (as, being a member of the Itship, his demise could not be timely):

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy hair was so unchanging
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy hair was so unchanging

It was big, in 80’s style, no matter
If that’s been out of style, for a while

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy hair was so unchanging

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You did not need a horsey
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You did not need a horsey

You stood so tall and noble
You always walked but never hobbled

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You did not need a horsey

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You stood in Grungy beauty
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You stood in Grungy beauty

To your father you did your duty
While the girls admired thy blue clad booty

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You stood in Grungy beauty

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy fashion was trend setting
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy fashion was trend setting

Your shirt was green like a tree bough
And the sword on it did glow

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy fashion was trend setting

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy life was snuffed out cruelly
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy life was snuffed out cruelly

You showed a certain lack of wit,
By taking that lemming-thing by the bit

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy life was snuffed out cruelly

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
We will miss you truly
O Orogarn, O Orogarn,
We will miss you truly

We will remember you always, pal
While we use your nifty crystal

O Orogarn, O Orogarn,
We will miss you truly

“Vogonwë,” Merisu said, “don’t you think that singing a funeral lament before we are assured of our friend’s death is, perhaps, not in the best taste?”

“Perhaps not, but I cannot wash this lazey taste from my mouth,” Vogonwë replied, “and it is certainly not the best taste.”

“Whatever,” Pimpi commented, and they rode on in silence.

Translator’s Note
The writings of Deeproot the Ent are interrupted at this point by a interesting treatise written by none other than Chrysophylax Dives. Thus far, this is the only known statement by a participant in these events written in response to this famous tome. Evidently, when Chrysophylax read this history he felt that in a matter or two his honor had been besmirched. Here in its (sort of) entirety is the statement of Chrysophylax Dives.

To Whom it May Concern:

Upon learning of the august efforts of the noble and scholarly Deeproot the Ent to record the magnificent deeds of the loose association of various hero-type persons, known in short as the Gallowship, I was delighted that my selfless acts of daring-do would be remembered throughout all time. However, it has come to my attention that the learned Deeproot (undoubtedly the result of deep-rooted prejudices against my fire-breathing and wood-burning nature) has cast a few aspersions in the general direction of my ancient and imperial person.

whatever happened to all of the people at the Bacon-Binge? Chrys? Chrysophylax Dives, do you know anything about that?? Isn’t it enough that Orogarn lost his city without losing his people as well???

In this particular matter I believe that an unfair accusation has been made against me. There are a few points to be made that I believe will reveal matters in their true light.

1) I should like to point out that the reference in question occurred in the aftermath of a bloody riot where large numbers of unarmed Grundorians were massacred at the instigation of a half-halfling and her weedy boyfriend. This incident was hardly my fault. It also sufficiently explains the subsequent absence of onlookers, spectators, witnesses, bystanders, sightseers, rubber-neckers, and Peeping Toms. Everyone in the general area had been ruthlessly butchered by the gallant and intrepid Questers.

Translator’s Note
A long discourse on various courageous and underappreciated acts by Chrysophylax Dives is omitted in this manuscript. It contained many references that proved difficult to verify, and there are some authorities who feel that much of the information contained in the omitted section flirts with the nether-regions of dishonesty. The statement resumes with Chrysophylax’s second point.

2) With regards to the unfortunate destruction of Minus Teeth, I have stated in many different places that it was a most regrettable accident that was not entirely my responsibility. I more than made up for this particular mishap with my glorious Twenty-four Labors, which included financing the rebuilding of the Citibank.

Translator’s Note
The reference to Chrysophylax’s bankrolling the reconstruction of the Citibank is murky at best. Unfortunately, the records of the rebuilding of Minus Teeth are such a morass of red tape, committee reports, contractor’s excuses, demands for payment, death threats, various members of the Board of Directors loudly accusing each other of all sorts of depravity, hidden legislation to defraud the merchants of the New Great Mall of Missing Dentures, litigation from the merchants of the New Great Mall of Missing Dentures when they found out about the Government’s little scheme, the gleeful gloating of the honorable Judge who heard the case because it gave him an opportunity to stick it to some of the politicians who had given him a great deal of trouble back in the days of his confirmation hearings, the obituary for the unfortunate Judge whose body was found the next day in a sack in the river, the desperate fumblings of the Proctor in an attempt to appear to be "doing something" about the woeful lack of progress being made in the construction, tabloid articles regarding the embarrassing incident when the Proctor was caught in flagrante delicto with his secretary, the impeachment proceedings of the Proctor by the Board of Directors, the hilarious accounts of the disgrace of the Board of Directors when a late-night panty raid went horribly awry (which generally proved the earlier accusations that the members of the Board of Directors had made against each other), the documented evidence of an understanding reached between the contractors and the merchants of the New Great Mall of Missing Dentures to make the government pay through the nose for the rebuilding, *deep gasp for air*, the execution notices for the contractors and the merchants after the Proctor found out about it, strikes by the workers because they were not getting paid, strikes by the military because they were not getting paid for suppressing the workers, bills at posh restaurants to the account of the Proctor for $15,000 martini lunches, numerous secret payments to a mysterious "Madame X" (the significance of which is still debated in most circles), reports by the police of sightings of a winged lizard-like monster raiding the bank vaults in the middle of the night, and complaints by the city manager that while the new Palace of the Proctor was finished the rest of the city languished in a general state of dilapidation, that it is really impossible to discern what happened, or indeed, how the city was rebuilt at all.

The remainder of Chrysophylax’s statement is an elegy on his own heroics during his dubious Labors, which has little to do with the story at hand. Said story will now be resumed forthwith.

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

The Fellow/Galship rode alongside the unknown river for days, always looking for signs that Orogarn might have survived his fall, but they found nothing. It was fortuitous that the river flowed westwards, so that they were able to travel in the direction for which they were bound while still keeping up the illusion of searching for their comrade.

“We draw nigh to the land of your father,” Merisuwyniel remarked to Pimpiowyn. “Are you familiar with it?”

“I was last there as a child,” she replied. “I remember nothing of it, yet I long to see it and to dig for taters – I mean, for my roots.”

They stopped riding, for the river took a bend and now obstructed their path. Wide it flowed before them, and it was impossible to fathom its depth. No bridge nor ford (nor general motor boat) could be seen, nor was there a ferrary nearby.

“Alas, that Orogarn is not with us!” exclaimed Merisuwyniel. “He, being trained in the arts of dental construction in Minus Teeth, would certainly have known how to build a bridge over this river.”

“What we need is a boat,” Etceteron offered with his usual perceptiveness.

“But there is no boat here,” said Pimpiowyn, expert at stating the obvious succinctly.

“‘Boat’ rhymes with ‘float’,” mused Vogonwë helpfully.

“Chrysophylax and I could fly to the harbour of Missland, where the expert shipbuilders live,” Kuruharan suggested suddenly. “We could purchase plans for building a chip – I mean, ship - there.”

“No need to spend money on plans,” interrupted Gateskeeper. “I can search for them on-a-line for free.” He proceeded to rummage through his baggage, finding a string which bound documents together. “I’m sure there is something… Ah, here it is! ‘The Guaranteed Unsinkable Ship!’”

Eagerly the others gathered around him, thankful for his apparently unselfish help.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Weeks later, with many setbacks, crashes and costs for materials that they hadn’t expected at the planning stage, their boat was finished. It looked good, thanks to the nice surface, so they boarded without any doubts. If it seemed a bit wobbly, what with luggage, horses and other paraphernalia, they attributed that to their lack of knowledge of seafaring ways. Kuruharan refused to join them, choosing rather to fly across on Chrysophylax. Soon they were on the other side, waiting for their companions to arrive.

At first they revelled in the luxury deck, enjoying the food and telling entertaining tales. But after some time, Pimpiowyn became impatient, wanting a glimpse of their goal. She ran to the front of the boat, leaning over the railing and spreading her arms wide in a gesture of welcome to the land that lay before them. Vogonwë, fearing for her safety, rushed to hold her. That was too much for the craft – it began to lean forwards, then to sink slowly but inexorably.

The members of the Itship rushed about helplessly, seeking for lifeboats or at least life vests. They now realized that there had been only one, and it was already in the water, with the Gateskeeper rowing toward the shore. Merisuwyniel kept her wits about her, but though she knew the Entish Bow would float, she doubted that it could hold her above water, much less the others as well. Her clothing was practical (yet feminine) on land, but not at all suitable for water sports. Would their quest come to an untimely end? Would she and her comrades drown in the murky floods? Could the horses swim? Would the Bow become water-logged and sink? And would she ever get the mudstains out of her blouse?

Just as she thought that her life was over, she heard someone cry, “The Sea-Gulls are coming!” Chrysophylax had finally aroused himself to save them, at an exorbitant price, of course, but before he could do so, huge birds came flying low, grasping them in their claws and carrying them to the shore. There they lay, gasping for breath and hardly able to thank their unexpected saviours. The fair fowls had flown away with nary a thought for reward, leaving Merisuwyniel and her companions grateful, though Chrysophylax and Kuruharan were disappointed at the lost opportunity for monetary gain. The Gateskeeper used the moment of confusion to rejoin them as if nothing had happened.

There they sat, as dirty as the earth upon which they had taken place, thereby almost invisible to all but the keenest eyes. The sound of thunder prompted them to look up at the sky, hoping for a welcome shower, but not a cloud could be seen. By the time they realized that the only cloud near them was made of dust and approaching rapidly, the riders were almost upon them.

Merisuwyniel stood bravely and proudly, despite her bedraggled appearance, and shouted, “What news of the Mike, Riders of Soreham?”

When Earnur had mentioned boats he had never envisaged the weeks of construction that had gone into their ill-fated cruise liner. He had, of course, meant the pencil-thin coxed twelves that he had first encountered on the turgid waters of the Tame River in distant Morbîrsluv*, city of knowledge.

Naturally he had hoped that his many years behind the oar, during which he had developed his fine sword-arm and high alcoholic tolerance, would finally come in useful. The plans, however, made no mention of oars, manned womaned or even Elved; although they did appear to include two bars and a section labelled Dûtî Frë. On the face of it this seemed more than a little superfluous for a fifteen-minute journey, but according to Harlindon and Wolf's design it was essential if vehicles or horses were to be carried. True to his new-found sobriety he stocked the bars with water, various flavours of lemonade and some alcohol-free horse linament that Kuruharan had sold him, before rewarding himself with a nice cup of scented herbal tea.

The crossing had been mostly uneventful. The usual massive orange whirlpools and swirling fractals had sported delicately with periwigged Nereids in the limpid purple waters of the river. The sky had rung with the gentle close-harmony singing of countless badgers, and although at one point the unsinkable boat had appeared to founder like a lump of granite he was certain that this had been an hallucination. Why would giant seagulls rescue him from drowning? How, indeed, could they lift a man in full armour? No, only the wrong sort of herbs in one's tea or an undigested nocturnal feast could cause such bizarre visions. He felt a brief stab of pity for anyone who could be convinced by so feeble a device as he wrung out his hauberk.

Fortunately the oilskin wrappings and Pinkjin's extraordinary aquatic ability had saved the priceless herbs of Dun Sóbrin, and some freak eddies in the current had taken care of the larger bar. He had time to fill his pipe from a random pouch and grab the ersatz Martini he had saved from the titanic wreck before the advent of the Riders of the Mike and the next phase of the trip.

~~~~~~~~~~~
* The location of this ancient city of learning and culture is unclear. Indeed in many accounts the name appears to refer to two distinct places. The literal modern English translation is 'Bridge of the Oxen'

The Riders of the Mike thundered down upon the Itship, the pounding hooves now deafening, the billowing dust raised by their stamping choking the air, the very ground trembling with the force of their passage. The Riders galloped past the bedraggled adventurers, then looped around, enclosing them in an ever-tightening circle.

The Lord of Dun Sóbrin swayed on his feet as he watched the circling horsemen. Closing one eye and squinting the other down tight in an attempt to restore equilibrium, he suspiciously eyed the half-empty cocktail glass which he had heroically managed to rescue even in the confusion of the shipwreck and the airlift of the Gulls. Not a single drop had been spilt, and a colorful miniature parasol was still cocked at a jaunty angle on the rim of the glass.

‘Where’s that music coming from?’ asked Pimpi.

‘You hear it too?’ asked Grrralph.

A dramatic orchestral swell rose above the thunder, complementing it, lending it an air of grandeur and portentousness where it might otherwise have seemed as threatening as a mounted Springle-ring at a First Planting fair. Without realizing it, the members of the Gallowship were suddenly gripped by the aching loneliness of the plain, the simple joys and daily pains of a hard life carved out of a rugged country. They felt the freedom of the wind in their hair at full gallop, became drunk on the smell of sweaty, lathered horseflesh and the rich tang of equine droppings returned to feed the wild green fields in a cycle that had repeated itself for Ages of Man and Elf. They felt the inexorable bowing of their knee joints, and their quadriceps and hamstrings throbbed with the soreness of long hours spent in the saddle, day after day, week after week, year after endless year.

It soon was clear that many of the Riders of the Mike were playing instruments as they rode – cellos and Fraûg horns, violins and violas, drums and cymbals. Those not playing chanted in a strange, unintelligible, but nonetheless pleasing tongue. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled by a rather thin bass arrangement, but then the Itship noted three riderless horses to which the smashed and broken remains of two double-basses and a tuba had been lashed, and the mournful effect of the music was redoubled.

The Riders tightened the circle as the melody built towards a crescendo. One hapless cellist grew dizzy and tumbled from his mount with a twang of snapping strings, but his fellow Riders, all battle-hardened troupers, never paused or missed a beat. The music climaxed with a ringing smash of cymbals, and on cue the Riders checked their mounts and faced them in towards the surrounded Itship.

A haunting soprano voice soared in the sudden silence. Its somber call was answered by a solo violin from somewhere in the back. The Riders lapsed into a low chanting, and the front rank of horsemen lowered their weapons at Merisuwyniel and her companions. These weapons consisted of a thin steel shaft tipped with three long prongs bent outwards at sharp angles. Each Rider gripped the shaft of his weapon with one hand, while his other held a handgrip set at a slanted angle at its base. These handgrips were held cocked near the mouths of the men, almost as if they were chanting into them. Many a foe had felt the bite of this peculiar weapon of the Sorethighhim, known as a mikestand.

One Rider, taller than the rest, edged his mount forward. A long crest of peacock feathers fanned from the top of his helm. Merisuwyniel felt a brief pang of envy and admiration for his rather glamorous headdress. The Rider lowered his mikestand, from which long colorful scarves flowed, and spoke forcefully into the handgrip in the Common Speech, ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?’

Merisuwyniel absently brushed back a lock of hair which had fallen quite fetchingly across one eye and opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word in edgewise, a low roar like the sound of a floodwater blasting through a narrow gorge arose. There was a dark blur of motion from the back, and almost before their eyes could register what was happening, a thickly built Rider drove straight at the horseman who had spoken. The charging Rider leapt from his horse and exploded into the speaker with a square, hard hit that sent both rider and mount flying. They flipped over twice, rebounded off a nearby boulder, and flopped violently onto the hardpacked earth in a sprawl of limbs, feathers, and harness.

‘Whoooo!’ whooped the new Rider. He was powerfully built, and his thick, long legs were so bowed that he was able to straddle both horse and rider as they cringed in the dirt. ‘Whoooo!’ he added for good measure. He wagged a thick finger in their faces. ‘Yoman, you know you can’t come up in here greetin’ these fools in Westestosterone, *****!¹ You know it’s the will of Théboleggen King that don’t nobody, I mean NOBODY, enter the gates of Improvas if they ain’t down with how we rap in our house! That ain’t new, baby!’

Merisuwyniel demurely cleared her throat, and the giant spun on the Itship. Black eyes blazed out of the Rider’s wide face. A glistening sheen of sweat coated his hairless head and thick, muscular arms. Two thick strokes of black warpaint were smeared under each eye, and a bandage was fixed across the bridge of his nose. He had the look of a man who had recently seen battle, or maybe who was just always ready for battle. He was clad in a tunic of fine steel mesh woven with glittering rhînestones which seemed barely able to contain his bulk. The rhînestones were artfully arranged in the pattern of two curious sigils:
http://www.barrowdowns.com/underhill/pics/rune.jpg
Vogonwë cocked his head. ‘Quickly, what rhymes with “freight train”?’ But before anyone could answer, he did it himself. ‘Migraine! Of course!’ He groped for his quill and a dry scrap of parchment.

‘Who are you?’ asked Merisuwyniel, allowing a rippling golden forelock to fall fetchingly across her eye once more. Few mortal men could meet those sparkling eyes for long without feeling it in their scabbard, but the Rider seemed focused and unaffected.

‘Who am I? Who AM I? I’m Érry son of Tait the Terrible, Middle Lhinebhacker of the Quexchinmike, man, that’s who I am. Who the **** are you? You can’t come tippy-toein’ up here heckling me in my kitchen! You just entered Érry’s Equestrian Event of Pain! Your ***** must be crazy!’

Etceteron sipped at his cocktail. ‘This, I guess, is the speech of the Sorethighhim, for it is like to this land itself, wild, untamed, and full of dirt.’

‘But does anyone here speak it?’ asked Merisuwyniel.

‘I never bothered,’ replied Kuruharan. ‘Why should I? These Horse Lords never have more than two pennies to rub together. Always looking to trade chickens or “special fertilizer” for good merchandise. It likes to make me sick.’

‘A few more of these and I can do a rough approximation of it,’ said Etceteron, draining his glass. ‘But under the circumstances...’

The Lord of Dun Sóbrin threw down the empty glass and gripped the haft of his blade. A low growl began to build in Érry’s throat. The chanting of the Riders grew louder and more urgent. Things might have gone ill then, but the Gateskeeper sprang between them, adjusting his spectacles, and said, ‘I think I can help.’

He raised his staff to his lips and began to speak into it in the manner of the Sorethighhim.

___________________________
¹ The language of the Mike is a strange and salty tongue which may sound harsh and violent to modern ears. As in other parts of this translation, asterisks have been used to shield the Innocence of young and impressionable readers.

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

Gateskeeper, as in the incident of the trolls, was knowledgeable in many languages ancient and current. From the common languages of Muddled-Mirth he seldom strayed, but could at need negotiate in the cryptic Sea Language of the Eunuchs he had long battled. He was even versant in the ancient dinosaurian dialect of Kho'bal, for their kind was not then extinct, nor were the main of their frames yet decayed unto the dust.

"Yo, don' be talkin' that **** to my posse, dawg!" said Gateskeeper to the Middle Lhinebhacker in a voice laced with a healthy dose of bad attitude, pronouncing the asterisks with just the right amount of flying spittle. "Yo' don' know pain 'till yo' dis deez bad homeys. Dey'd knock yo' head clean off if yo' could just stan' up strait on yo bo-legs!" The music of the riders, which had been sounding an ominous melody rising to a crescendo, was suddenly silent, in shock that so small a man would dare challenge...him.

Érry son of Tait the Terrible had never had anyone address him thus. Even the leaders of the Mike had fearful respect for Érry. His job was to keep even the mighty among the Sorethighhim from straying from the laws of the land and the will of their king, and many were the bruiséd among this Sorhéd of the Mike because Érry had caught them in some minor misdeed with a flying tackle. One rider, his arm in a sling, was the victim of Érry's gentle correction when he tried to clean his spear without the required spear-mint polish.

When the music resumed after a couple of beats of silence, it was subtly changed -- no less triumphant and sad than before, but with a thumping rhythm that seemed to shake the ground, and odd noises that sounded much like the spasmodic screetches of a drowning cat -- Érry's favorite music to tackle by. Érry's eyes grew narrow as he regarded Gateskeeper up and down, seeing in him only a skinny n'erd, the Sorthighhim term for the weak and craven souls with poor fashion taste. "Yo' could'n even clean my stable, white-trash geek-boy. Don' make me op'n up a fresh can o' medieval on yo butt, 'cause when Érry's th'name, pain's th'game! Whooooo!!" Érry finished with a flourish, finger in the face of the bespectacled man with the bad haircut. Gateskeeper did not flinch, but the chanting of the riders subsided a bit, in a musical embodiment of the phrase, "Guess he done tol' you, sucka!"

Vogonwe listened carefully to the challenge unfolding before him, trying furiously to write down all the new words he was hearing, in case any of them might provide a rhyme when he was otherwise stuck, marvelling at the Gateskeeper's command of language. The Lord of Dun Sobrin kept his hand to his sword in pretense of being ready to attack, when all he fervently wished was for Érry to use that bulging bicep to punch Gateskeeper's pimply face. Still, he had to give Gateskeeper points for courage, even though Érry was about to squash him to jelly -- this was the second time in as many subplots that Gateskeeper had intervened to save the It-ship from destruction, and Earnur knew he owed him big time. Even Merisu looked with fresh awe (for she had none left over from the last time) at the skinny geek kid, and though her pure heart was still pining for the loss of her beloved Gravlox it skipped a beat beholding the raw bravery before her.

Gateskeeper, of course, was nothing of the sort. Though the It-ship still did not know it, he was a wizard of some power, and knew he had the upper hand (and the lower one too for that matter). The very air that filled the distance between their locked eyes seemed to smoulder as he quietly folded his glasses and placed them in their case in his shirt-pocket, next to his three quills in their leather pocket-protector. Gripping his staff, he allowed a tense beat to pass before he spoke his challenge, "Well c'mon, then, girly-man, bring it!" There was collective gasp among both the Sorethighhim and the It-ship as they backed up a few paces. Érry uttered a loud growl as by blind instinct he dropped to a three-point stance, and Gateskeeper matched the motion, keeping the staff balanced in his free hand.

One of the riders called out, "Down!" "Set!" "Hut HUT!" Upon hearing the second "hut" Érry detonated from his position towards the Gateskeeper in a rush of muscles and chainmail. Gateskeeper too streamed out from his stance with a quickness born of outrunning disgruntled armed customers. The second before the two contestants converged seemed to slow to a crawl, each step hanging in the air like a dream-sequence of a slow-motion replay of a geriatric footrace. Yet Gateskeeper awaited his opportune moment, and just before the two of them were actually to collide, when Érry's huge bulk would cover the flash-that-always-accompanies-magic he lowered his shoulder and muttered a Word of Command-line, "firewall.exe!"

The effect was astounding. Érry bounced off Gateskeeper's momentary shoulder-mounted magic firewall as if he'd run face first into a granite monolith, flying 6 feet through the air and landing in an undignified manner on his rump, dazed. The It-ship immeidiately broke into cheers and whoops of joy as Gateskeeper did an odd dance of celebration, screaming "Uh-HUH! Who's yo' daddy?! Pain awaits, beware the Gates! Whoooo!!" The riders of Soreham looked vexed and sullen on their side, and their music became sad and defeated.

Érry shook his head to clear the effects of the sacking. Though the world was still spinning like a lazy corkscrew he saw Gateskeeper standing over him in token of conciliation, extending his hand to help him up. Upon rather unsteadily regaining his feet, Érry looked at Gateskeeper, smiled, and slapped him on the rump, saying, "nice hit, dawg. C'mon over to Improvas, lemme buy yo' an' yo' posse a drink." "I be down wi' dat," Gateskeeper grinned in return, then rejoined the It-ship on the sidelines, who welcomed him with much backslapping and dumping of cold water upon his head.

Following the musical arrival of the Quexchinmike (which he had enjoyed thoroughly, it was all so...musical), Grrralph had moved forward to the front of the Gallowship to stand beside Merisu. None of the Riders bore weapons which might harm him and he had no intention of allowing the ranks of his friends... errr... acquaintances... err... colleagues to be further reduced ("...accrued benefits, including medical, dental or pension are forfeit in the event that all members of an adventuring group are slain..." Standard Form Adventurers Contract, Paragraph 122(b)(17)(ix)(d)).

Thus, he was nonplussed by Érry's testosterone-tainted challenge, and was quietly debating the merits of using a combination of his morningstar and his whip (very effective when dealing with mounted foes) in the apparently upcoming battle when the Gateskeeper threw down and dissed the Rider. He quickly threw Kuruharan a fiver, taking the odds on Érry and stepped back to watch the mayhem. It had been some time since he'd witnessed a suicide...

What followed was surprising. Not only did he lose his bet, but he heard the Gateskeeper utter a phrase of a type he had heard before. But where? Then, he was struck by a flash of insight. Ignoring the pain, he reviewed his memory of a scene on a battlefield from not long ago. His former employer had backed a group of up-and-comers in a brief war against a mysterious force. The Eunuchs of Pea-Sea had performed admirably, multitasking their way through the battle which had ended in a draw. But during the battle he had heard a cry like the phrase Gateskeeper had whispered.

Moreover, it had seemed familiar even then. His faulty memory had failed him, but he had seemed to recall from his pre-wraith past...something. Something about an anti-trust and breach of contract suit against the International Brotherhood of Môgul (yes, IBM) a subsidiary of Môgul Enterprises, LLC. Not that he had any idea what "anti-trust" meant. A suit was, of course something you wore.

Here, unsurprisingly, his memory failed him again and he filed the insight away in the "miscellaneous" folder, along with the vague memories of a rubber duck in a bathtub and a breakfast of rice crispies. Returning to the here and now after his brief detour, Grrralph found the members of the Gallowship cheering, jumping and clapping the Gateskeeper on the back. Merisu in particular seemed exhilarated, leaping about vigorously with her luxurious hair seeming to flow rather than wave in the wind. She did not notice that her bow had fallen off her shoulder.

Grrralph bent and picked it up. It seemed to vibrate in a peculiar manner. Then, to his surprise, it spoke. "Here now, are you just going to admire me or are you going to to give me back?"

He caressed the wood gently and turned reluctantly to return it to Merisu. Even as he handed it over, he recalled the words of his fellow ThingWraith from several days before. "Damn volcano, there goes our free ride.." No, not those words. Wrong story. How about: "he told me to be on the lookout for some missing blocks of wood..." Grrralph looked at the bow on the Elf's shoulder for a moment, then looked away to the east...towards Moredough...

As Grrralph gazed East, a baleful eye or three gazed darkly back at him and his companions from the depths of the Land of Shadowy Deals.

A peculiar, strangled, gurgling sound issued forth from the leather armchair where Môgul Bildûr sat intently watching the images flickering on the Sate-lantir before him and gently stroking the fluffy ball of mangy white fur on his lap. The sound gradually increased in intensity until it became a hoarse, rasping roar laden with malice. Strangely enough, it turned out to be a laugh.

“It goes well, my friends”, cackled Môgul, addressing no-one in particular.

“Indeed it doesss, my Lord”, hissed Greedhog, sensing that a reply was required and happy to provide it seeing as he charged by the hour and was keen to prolong the usefulness of his presence in the chamber for as long as was able. In any event, the only other occupants of the room were three off-duty Nazgûl and, since they were frolicking in the background practising a new dance routine that they had just worked out, it was clear to Greedhog that it was up to him to play the sidekick role in the exposition of the Dread Developer’s machinations that he sensed was imminent.

“It is clear that this company of witless fools is no match for my power,” gloated Môgul. “When the time comes, I will crush each one of them like so many non-gender specific ants.” As a Dark Lord, it was, of course, Môgul’s unassailable right to assume with unshakeable confidence that his victory would prevail, despite all precedent to the contrary. “But for now, Greedhog,” he continued “we have them well and truly ensnared. They cannot make a move but that we know of it.”

“Yesss. The ssspies of Moredough are everywhere, my liege”, replied Greedhog darkly.

“What news of Minus Teeth?”

Greedhog smiled a smug and self-satisfied smile. “The Proctor had no choice but to take the loan offered to him by our agentsss. And thanks to the dark cloud of Lítig-aî-Shön with which we have enveloped the city, his finances are ssstretched to the limit.”

“Ah yes, Lítig-aî-Shön,” purred Môgul reflecting with twisted pleasure on the power of the Black Art, known mockingly in the Common Tongue as Dispute Resolution, which had been developed and perfected over many years by the Amber Lance Chasers, the most cruel and depraved of the Loyers who worked within the deepest dungeons of the Dark Tower Block. The people of Minus Teeth, their sense of grievance heightened to the full, had been powerless to resist the evil force as it swept through their city, turning neighbour against neighbour, servant against master and citizen against governor, indeed anyone on the lookout to make a quick buck from their misfortune against anyone else that they could pin it on and who appeared to have the means to pay. The Proctor had of course presented the most obvious target for their frenzy, since it was generally assumed (albeit wrongly) by all and sundry that he was loaded and that it was all probably covered by insurance anyway.*

“Soon it shall be ours, Greedhog,” continued Môgul. “And, with it, the lands of Ethyline, Listerine and Dol Amstel. The hapless citizens will have no choice but to bow down to me as their Overlord. lol! i is so kool1 **** i rOol!!!!!!!!” he exclaimed, lapsing into the Black Speech of Slangbad in his enthusiasm.

A cacophonous clamour barely recognisable as laughter rang round the chamber again as Môgul contemplated with satisfaction the other deals that were currently in the pipeline. The Loyers of Gul-Duldor were on the verge of closing a lucrative Sale and Leaseback Deal with the Elves of Topfloorien who, judging that their time in Muddled-Mirth was coming to an end, were quite content to relinquish permanent ownership of their lands in return for handsome reward, notwithstanding its source. Môgul shivered with devilish delight in anticipation of gaining title to the luxury shopping malls and high-rent apartments of the Salad Realm. And messengers had been dispatched to the Dwarven Kingdom of Trebor, with its rich sherbet mines. Môgul fancied that the Dwarves of that land would have few qualms over accepting Moredough’s (literally) filthy lucre in return for a quick deal.

And all the while preparations were underway for the charm offensive that was to follow in the wake Môgul Enterprises’ hostile take-over of the lands of Muddled-Mirth. On the six hundred and sixty-sixth floor of the Dark Tower Block, an army of I-Mage Consultants and Gurus of the ancient art of Pé-Är (an art which some said was first practised in Valleyum itself) had joined with the dreaded Whirling Physicians of S’pín to fulfil the brief given to them by the Dread Developer: to make evil the new good. And in the grog-soaked and pipeweed-stained gloom of their offices, they faithfully toiled away, devising slogans, poster campaigns, free-gift promotions and irritating Cell-antir messages, labouring to achieve leading brand status for the Red Nostril (ahead even of McDonelds, Pûkel-Cola and Mireboro pipeweed). Môgul himself was particularly pleased with a series of portraits which had been produced depicting him as a devilishly attractive man with a smart goatee beard and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, tagged “Môgul: the acceptable face of evil”.

Soon the negotiations would be over. The battle for the advertising space of Muddled-Mirth would begin.

Still chuckling to himself, Môgul turned his attention back to the Satel-antir, watching as the His-and-Hers-Ship bonded with the Sorethighim. As the Gateskeeper came into view, a thought occurred to him and he waved a nebulous pseudopodium over the flickering orb. Instantaneously, consternation spread over the Gateskeeper’s face as he withdrew from the company and reached surreptitiously for his Cell-antir.

“Hello, Gatesy,” snarled Môgul menacingly.

“You shouldn’t be calling me at work,” the Gateskeeper hissed back. “What do you want?” Then, belatedly remembering the correct etiquette for addressing a Dark Lord, he continued “Er … I mean it’s a pleasure to hear from you, O Mighty Embodiment of Evil. How may this humble servant be of service to your Majectic Malignant Maleficence?”

“I see that you have hooked up with the Men of the Mike. You will no doubt be aware that the land Soreham is one of my intended acquisitions.”

“Well … er …”

“My agent has the ear of Théboleggen King and bends him to my will as we speak. Soon, the empty plains will be replete with row upon row of soulless semi-detached suburban dwellings.” Môgul’s rasping voice lapsed into a rasping chuckle, as it always did when he was recounting his evil plans for the listening pleasure of anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot. “I have been breeding Orcs with Golfing-Men for the very purpose of selling off these highly desirable residences. They are the Dês-Res, the Agents of the Estate. Ten thousand strong they are. An army bred for a single purpose: to misdescribe properties to the Race of Man."

“Sounds good, O Damnable and Despicable One,” chipped in the Gateskeeper, adding hopefully “Will they have need of my soft wares?”

“All you have to do, my four-eyed friend, is to ensure the safe passage of the Whatever-Ship. Things could get messy. I want you to make sure that they don’t get caught up in it. Your efforts have pleased me so far, but it is imperative that every single piece of this accursed Broken Ent be found … just to make certain that there are no … ah … unfortunate developments.”

“I’m right on it.”

“Oh and Gatesy?”

“Yes”

“Should you fail in this task, you will find yourself making the acquaintance of the SoBig Wyrms of the Master-Blaster’d Heath.”

The colour drained from the Gateskeeper’s face. “I shall not fail you, Most Illustrious Prince of Perdition.”

“Good. This Cell-antir will self-destruct in five seconds …”

“Eh?”

“Just kidding. My new counsellors tell me that the use of humour is a key weapon in the art of selling oneself. I’m not sure that I’ve quite got the hang of it yet, though. Goodbye.”
_____________________________________________

* The small-print in the Wight City’s fire insurance policy had in fact contained an Urulóki Exclusion Clause which excluded all cover in respect of “any loss, damage, cost or expense occurring in any way whatsoever, whether directly or indirectly, in consequence of the presence in the City (hereinbefore defined), with or without the knowledge of the Policyholder, of any monstrous fire-breathing creature, whether winged or otherwise, including without prejudice to generality of the foregoing any Dragon, Fire-Drake, Fire-Serpent, Fire-Wyrm, Salamander, Hydra or Wyvern”.

[ September 02, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[ September 03, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

May the gravy of the Valium protect you.
~~ Shut up, mom! I’m trying to sleep…. ~~

What gravy is given me, let it pass to him. Let him be spared. Save him.
~~ Come on… just ten more minutes…. ~~

Orgarn, wake up already!
~~ Two! It’s Orogarn Two. How many times do I have to say it? ~~

I give up! Go ahead and drown!

* * * * * * *

Hay! You can lead a Morosa to water, but you can’t make him drink, so what in the name of Fellofftheroof are you doing floating around in the river, Oatie? There’s a wallet to be found.

* * * * * * *

Orogarn Two opened his eyes onto a cloudless blue sky blocked almost entirely by the slobbering muzzle of Singéd, the mini-Morosa sent by his father to aid him on his journey. The creature gave him an affection nudge that would have been endearing had it not pushed him beneath the surface of the body of water he was lying in. With a violent sputter, a spray of frothing bubbles, and a few colorful expletives, Orogarn Two twisted around onto his knees and gasped for breath. The frightened little horse bolted into a nearby stand of cattails where it stood shivering.

“What in the name of wonder?” he shouted to the hiding beast. A shadow came over his face, and he closed his eyes. “Of course, I remember! The Hyenas came on us, and I was worsted.” He clutched as his neck. “Ah! My crystal is gone.”

He turned his head to see that he was kneeling at the edge of a narrow river that flowed quickly by. Upstream was a rocky rapids, above which was a familiar cliff. He attempted to stand, but his legs would not hold him and he fell splashing into the water where he lay exhausted.

“Ai,” he muttered.

After a while, the friendly muzzle again prodded him, this time with less force and more care. Orogarn Two opened his eyes into the fuzzy face of his horse who stood quietly waiting, as if offering him assistance. Sensing that the little Morosa was trying to help him, Orogarn Two reached up and took a handful of its mane. Slowly and painfully he dragged himself upward until he was leaning against the horse, but when it became obvious that he would not be able to climb onto its back, Singéd laid himself down so that the Grundorian could pull himself up. With a grunt, the creature rose to its full height and plodded off away from the river with its master’s feet dangling nearly to the ground.

* * * * * * *

Hours or maybe days later, who could tell?, Orogarn Two woke to find Singéd wandering across a landscape of rolling hills and high grasses. Everywhere he looked, the view was the same, but it seemed as if the small Morosa was following a trail of some kind, so the Grundorian decided to wait and see what happened. To pass the time he, he studied one of the records he had discovered in the Citibank archives.
WESTEMNET POLICE DEPARTMENT
Arrest Report

Arrest #: 96-07-043

Date/Time Reported: 07/06/2696 @ 2103
Arrest Date/Time: 07/06/2696 @ 2109
Booking Date/Time 07/06/2696 @ 2210
Involves: Theft
Reporting Officer: Lorgal of Bredel

Bail for the Court: WESTEMNET DISTRICT COURT Set 07/06/2696 @ 2310 BSPR: 400 silver pennies
Personal Recognizance Set
-------------------------------------------
Defendant: Skinflint (Ent - Birch)
-------------------------------------------
Victim: Ecthelion I
-------------------------------------------
NARRATIVE FOR PATROLMAN LORGAL

On 7/7/96, AT APPROXIMATELY 1103, MR ECTHELION CAME TO THE STATION TO REPORT THAT HE HAD BEEN THE VICTIM OF A PICKPOCKET. THE INCIDENT IS ALLEGED TO HAVE OCCURRED IN FANGORN FOREST NEAR THE BEEF WELLINGTON ESTABLISHMENT. MR ECTHELION STATED THAT HE HAD STOPPED BY THE ESTABLISHMENT FOR A QUICK DRAUGHT AND WAS JUST LEAVING WHEN HE WAS FORCIBLY RAN INTO BY THE DEFENDANT, MR SKINFLINT. MINUTES LATER, MR ECTHELION REALIZED THAT HIS WALLET WAS MISSING AND HE SUSPECTED THE ENT WAS RESPONSIBLE. WHEN MR ECTHELION RETURNED TO THE BEEF WELLINGTON HE FOUND THE DEFENDANT BUYING ROUNDS OF STRANGEREEKS FOR EVERYONE. HE APPROACHED THE ENT AND AN ARGUMENT ENSUED THAT RESULTED IN BOTH THE DEFENDANT AND THE VICTIM TO BE DETAINED BY OTHER PATRONS. WHEN OFFICER LORGAL ARRIVED AND DID A PROBABLE CAUSE SEARCH ON MR SKINFLINT, HE DISCOVERED A WALLET BELONGING TO MR ECTHELION. MR SKINFLINT WAS IMMEDIATELY ARRESTED.

He looked up from to document to see that he had come to the ever-present swath of destruction that followed the It-ship.

"Hurry, Singéd! We've made up a lot of ground. We can't be far behind now."

[ August 28, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

“Merrily the Itship rode along,
Rode along, rode along,
Merrily they rode along,
Along on great big steeds.

Pimpi had her green garters on,
Garters on, garters on,
Pimpi had her garters on,
Underneath her divided skirts.”

“Vogonwë?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, dear.”

[ September 04, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

Merisuwyniel rode amidst the Fellow/Galship and the Sorethighhim, her eyes shining with excitement. Despite being an emancipated shieldmaiden, she had found the recent display of male prowess extremely exhilarating. Now that the groups had become friends, the level of Westestosterone conversation that surrounded her was quite stimulating – or perhaps the wave of feelings that came over her was encouraged by the music still being played by the Riders’ Big Band?

Ah, the music! She listened enraptured, wishing that she too could take part in creating something so wonderful. She fingered the Entish Bow, wondering if more strings could be added to make a harp of it. The agitated vibrations with which it responded to that thought caused her to abandon the notion, but the idea continued to nag at the back of her mind.

She had been trained in all of the arts a shieldmaiden needed, except music! How could it be that this important area had been neglected? All Elves, of course, can sing, for they begin to learn the art before their letters. Snatches of a song long forgotten came back to her memory:

Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk,
She says I began to sing long before I could talk…

…I have a talent, a wonderful thing,
’cause everyone listens when I start to sing…

I’ve been so lucky, I am the girl with golden hair,
I wanna sing it out to everybody:
What a joy, what a life, what a chance!

So I say:
Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing,
Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing.
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty,
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music,
For giving it to me.

Nevertheless, the fact remained – she had never learned to play a musical instrument. The knowledge rankled, and she resolved that it was imperative to fill this gap in the long list of her abilities as soon as possible.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Thus occupied, she was startled to find that they were already approaching the city of Improvas. Proudly it stood upon the crest of a rocky hill, and a glint of gold from the roof of a hall at the very top seemed to flash a greeting to them. The leader with the magnificent feathered plume, whom the others had respectfully called “Yoman” – or was it spelled “Éyoman” in their language? – guided them to a hospitable looking inn. A horse’s head upon a background which almost looked like a bed (too strange to be possible, Merisu decided, and hoped for an explanation later) swung above the open door, and its lettering pronounced this to be the Horse Head Inn.

“Here you shall find accommodations for staying in our city,” Yoman told them, “and for your horses as well – Sethamir’s Stable and Instrument Repair Shop next door will lodge your steeds. We shall come to join you as promised for welcoming drinks when we have taken care of our own mounts. The Innkeeper, Dêthderrydol, (‘a half-enigma’, he added in a whisper) will welcome you in the meantime.”

It was late that night. So late that even the obligatory late-night partying of the Sorethighhim, and the even later-night partying of the Gallowship, had finally subsided into silence. All was quiet, except for a soothing melody that drifted through Improvas from an undisclosed location.

All slept in the city. The music continued. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the music shifted. It took on a note of unease, almost of growing danger. Perhaps not all the city slept after all.

A small but rather stout shadow slipped behind a building. A moment later a much larger shadow slunk (actually trundled is probably a better word) past. This second shadow took several moments to pass by. The tempo of the music picked up just a bit.

With almost depressing predictability someone’s greed had become inflamed at the sight of the golden roof of the hall on the hill and they were determined to filch a few tiles. Late that night they stole out of the inn (and stole is the right word for it because somebody stuck his claws into the till before they left, while out in the stables somebody else was carefully lifting some of the valuables of the inn’s other customers) and they started sneaking up the hill.

Now there was a decided note of menace in the music and the tempo continued to increase.

The two shadows reached the wall at the top of the hill that protected the Golden Music Hall. The larger shadow leaned against the wall and the small shadow climbed up the large shadow and over the wall. The bigger shadow followed.

The music became downright threatening.

A few minutes later the two shadows were on the roof of the hall looking for a likely spot to begin their operation. They huddled together for a moment to confer. The music brought to mind an image of a great predator about to pounce on its helpless prey.

There was a pause, almost as if the music was holding its breath waiting for the worst to happen.

The air was split by a furious cry…

"GOLD-PAINTED TILES!!!!" shrieked a voice.

A massive choir suddenly erupted in full-throat, howling out a horrifying piece of music calculated to raise goosebumps and twist the spine.

"AYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!" yelped the two shadows on the roof, scared into next week.

"Oh Great!!!" yelled one voice. "Now I have to change my pants!!!"

"I could have lived my entire life without knowing that!!" shouted another.

*CRASH* *BOOM* went the roof as it collapsed under their weight.

"Pawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh…" went the choir (and from the sound of things most of the orchestra too.)

The noise of the Golden Roof's collapse and its accompanying music woke the Gallowship. They ran to the door of the Inn and watched as men ran to and fro assessing damage, carrying poles to prop up the roof and chasing shadows in an attempt to capture the perpetrators of this vile deed. In the midst of the commotion, Chrysolphylax flew in, bearing a dusty and bruised Kuruharan.
"Where have you been?" asked Etceteron suspiciously.

"Oh, just flying about, scouting out the neighboring lands," answered Kuruharan as he nonchalantly brushed masonry dust from his trousers.

"You didn't have anything to do with the collapse of the Golden Roof, did you?" asked Merisuwyniel as the Dwarf picked pieces of mortar from his beard.

"Painted!" he cried. "I mean, no! Not at all. What would I be doing with a roof anyway?" He yawned mightily. "Well, time to turn in." He turned and swept dramatically through the doors of the Inn.

The Gallowship followed, and walked through the hall towards their rooms. Suddenly, Pimpiowyn stopped. "Hungry?" asked Etceteron without much interest. "Yes!" she replied. "But where is Grrralph?" Indeed, Grrralph was nowhere to be found...

---------------------------------

...unless you happened to be on a hilltop several miles away, which was exactly where Grrralph was. He had sat quietly as the Gallowship had drunk its way through a hogshead of ale that evening and watched as they devoured platter after platter of spicy Balfrog wings. He, of course, ate and drank nothing. His...malady precluded such activities. But throughout the evening, his gaze had been drawn over and again to Merisu and the bow which was slung upon her shapely shoulder.

When the Gallowship retired to their rooms, Grrralph found that he could not sleep. He slipped out from his room and wandered down the hall until he reached Merisu's quarters. He examined the lock and then drew out a long dagger which he inserted into the keyhole. After some fiddling, he was rewarded with a click. He stood there for a moment, then sheathed the dagger and walked off into the night. He entered the stable, saddled his horse and rode off towards the east.

The hill he climbed was bare and rocky. The hilltop was cold, just like he liked it. A wind rushed from the west and the skies were clear. He tilted his head back and emitted a long drawn out wail which the wind promptly seized and carried off towards the distant Mountains of Moredough. Then he sat down and waited.

Perhaps an hour passed before the rushing of great leathery wings roused him. A Nazgul landed on the hilltop and its rider jumped down. "Oh, it's you," said the Thingwraith. "You rang Lurch?"

Grrralph bristled at the words of the Wraith and his hand...black glove, almost of its own volition reached toward the hilts of his sword. Then he stopped and stood straight before the wraith as he answered. "Ssssam," he said as pleasantly as he could manage. "How's Tricks?"

"She's fine," answered Ssssam. "But what do you want, Tall, Dark and Gruesome?"

Grrralph's breath hissed between invisible teeth. "You still haven't foregiven me I see..."

Ssssam responded in a mocking voice. "'Just go on up to the Gates of the City, Jjjjohn. Knock and maybe they'll let you in.' 'Oh don't worry about the Shieldmaiden, Jjjjohn, she can't hurt you.' 'Whoops, there goes Jjjjohn.' He was the captain of our team and you talked him into that fight."

"I thought the prophecy referred to Man as a race, not man as in a male..." snapped Grrralph.

"You thought?" hissed Ssssam. "That was your first mistake... yoooow!"

Grrralph, who stood about 2.5 meters tall, grabbed Ssssam, who was maybe 1.3 meters in platform hob-nailed boots and lifted him into the air with one...glove. The Nazgul hissed until Grrralph swatted its snout with his free glove.

"Listen screwhead," growled Grrralph. "I'm here on business! Geeeeorge told me you guys and your boss are looking for some hunks of wood. Why?"

"The Boss says they're magical and he wants 'em," squeeked the suddenly much more polite Wraith.

"What do they look like?" demanded Grrralph.

"All different shapes and sizes," whined Ssssam. "They've been crafted into bows, guitars, artificial limbs and such. Look, I'm sorry. Put me down Grrralphie, would ya?"

Grrralph dropped the very contrite Sssam into a puddle that had been created by the nervous Nazgul. "Who's your boss?" asked Grrralph.

"A cockroach, aaaaiiii!" Grrralph had placed his red spike-heeled boot onto Ssssam's chest and pressed him down into the puddle. "C'mon Grrralph, I can't take the uniform off you know. OK! It's Môgul, Môgul Bildûr!"

Grrralph stepped back. "The name's familiar, but I can't place it," he muttered.

"Why do you want to know, Grrralph?" asked Ssssam as he stood up and tried to brush the dampness off his cloak.

"I'm...thinking of changing jobs," he replied. "I thought maybe if I could find some of this wood, maybe I might be able to cut a sweet deal."

"Sure, Grrralph," said the Wraith as he backed slowly away towards his Nazgul. "We'd love to have ya!"

Grrralph stepped forward and grabbed Ssssam again. "Do something for me, junior. Find Grrruff. She's hanging out in the Gloomy Mountains, on the south side of Moredough. Send her to me."

"Sure, sure!" whispered Ssssam as the taller Wraith released him. "Right away!"

Grrralph turned and walked back to his horse. Then he stopped and called over his shoulder. "Ssssam..."

"Yeah Grrralph?" answered the second Wraith as he mounted his Nazgul.

"Don't ever call me 'Lurch'...."

[ September 04, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

Merisuwyniel had retired to her room relatively early. The males of various races, both His-and-Hers-Ship and Sorethighhim, were still vying with one another to demonstrate the degree of their friendship by consuming large amounts of intoxicating beverages. The Elven maiden had no objection to invigorating liquids, but she preferred daintily sipping miruvor or châm-pägne to guzzling ale. However, such specialties were not on stock in the common room of the Horse Head Inn; she had resorted to nibbling peppermint patties and drinking PeppermintPatty™ tea until she was weary from so much refreshment and wanted to sleep.

It seemed to her that she had just closed her eyes when spotlights went on, illuminating a stage. A dancer appeared, wearing a headpiece plumed with peacock feathers. She gasped as she recognized the face – it was her own! Other dancers joined her, music sounded, and as legs were kicked high, she realized that she was dressed only in a few feathers. That was certainly not practical, though it was undeniably feminine. Embarrassed to be seen with such minimalistic attire, she frantically looked about for a place to hide, but the music went on and on, and she could not stop dancing.

Suddenly her pointed Elven ears heard a sharp click and she awoke with a start. Breathless, she listened for further sounds, but there were none. Her hand reached for the beautiful and deadly dagger that she always kept under her pillow – a necessary precaution for a shieldmaiden, since the Bow was a bit unwieldy in close combat. When she heard no more noises, sleep again overwhelmed her.

A bright light blinded her; she was sitting on a barstool in the middle of a stage. Expectant faces looked up at her as she began to sing. Her gentle voice filled the room, accompanied by the soft strumming of an instrument. Looking down, she saw that she herself was the musician, fingers plucking the strings of a wooden object that rested on her crossed legs. She could play!

Her delight was short-lived, for she suddenly realized that the faces looking at her were leering, all of them male. She was wearing only the instrument, nothing else. And they were calling for it to be removed! She longed to be rescued, but the faces came closer, becoming more and more threatening. They crowded the stage, the boards began to tremble, and with a loud crash, the platform collapsed.

Panting, she sat upright in her bed. It took a moment for her to realize that the crash had been real, not merely a part of her dream. Voices sounded in the hallway, feet rushed past her door, and she hurried to join them, not without taking the precaution of robing herself in a modest yet very becoming wrapper. Bewildered, she watched the rescue action and wondered what had happened, vaguely aware that there was something strange about the coinciding appearance of Kuruharan and Chrysophylax. But she was too tired to pursue that thought and happy to return to her bed as soon as possible. She slept deeply and soundly, and if any more dreams troubled her, they are not recorded here…

[ September 08, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

The swaybacked little horse trudged along steadily, eyes to the ground and nose hanging low. On his tired back, the son of Denimthor rocked precariously from side to side as he sat perched in a semblance of sleep, occasionally startled into semi-consciousness when a blue sueded shoe collided with a small rock or tangle of prairie grass. For more than 24 hours since awakening his master in the cold waters of the Contrived River, the tiny horse had carried the heavy Grundorian along the food-strewn trail of the Itship.

Slowly, the inky blackness of night gave way to the muddled watercolor grey of impending dawn, and the devastation of the Whatevership’s passing began to become more painfully apparent. What had seemed as only a wide swath of trampled grass and discarded candy wrappers soon became a deep, wide, ugly gouge in earth coated in a morass of bacon bits, ranch dressing, and molted dragon scales. Worse yet, all along the disgusting highway of filth, great billboards had been hastily erected touting various unfamiliar products and services.

Orogarn Two, suddenly awake at the sight of such vulgar promotionalism, read some of the signs aloud.

“Dude, yer getting’ a Dale.”
“Mike – Just do it!”
“Feed a Woozie for only 19sp a day.”

Orogarn Two was flabbergasted. Never before had he seen such blatant advertising, not even in the Denturian’s Quarter during ‘Brush Your Teeth Week’. Though he did not recognize most of the products, it was obvious that they were wicked, subversive items that would surely undermine the rules of common decency and good behavior. Who had erected the monstrosities, and how had they done it so fast? Where were the Proctor’s legions of inspectors and regulators?

He kicked Singéd, who was munching on a crumbled package of Pûkel Pop Rocks, and the little horse picked up speed and trotted away from the offending eyesores. With his mouth fizzing and foaming, the midget Morosa soon carried its master past the most offensive poster (“Mantoes – The Freshmaker!”), over a high ridge, and down the trail toward the imposing fortress of Improvas, which had conveniently come into view. With a shout of triumph and a last look backwards, Orogarn Two forced his mount into an all-out gallop but soon had to stop because his shoes were getting gunked up with all of the little white flowers they were running through.

“Odd place for flower gardens, I’d say,” muttered the Grundorian as he noted the dozen or so mounds covered in tiny white, star-like blooms. He swung a leg over the beast and stood beside it, leaning down to brush his shoes off. “Let’s enter this place to see where our companions are.”

The two strode forward, and as he entered the gates of the fortress, a flag bearing the symbol of a horse’s head fluttered over the wall and landed near his feet. He picked it up, folded it neatly, and put it carefully into one of Singéd’s saddlebags.

[ September 07, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

It is perhaps not so strange a thing that nights which are filled with the imbibing of large quantities of mead, the singing of raucous songs, and competitions of manly virtue are good to spend, but difficult to remember afterwards and generally not much to listen to in any case; the jokes and shenanigans which seem best in the throes of a drunken stupor are usually less entertaining in the cold grim light of sobriety. Nevertheless, more events of that eventful evening are here recorded.

Dêthderrydol the Innkeeper made a game attempt to minimize irrelevant side chatter and guide the evening’s activities, which consisted mostly of long sets of music from the House of Band (various Men of the Mike sitting in to jam as the opportunity and desire arose), interspersed with bouts of such testosterone-laden games as “Pin the Tail on the (Living) Horse”, “Pin the Man on Your Left”, and, as the evening drew on, “Pin Yourself to Yourself”. These competitions were accompanied by the running commentary of Ale Mikells and Jøn Maddâun, two of the Sorethighhim who were particularly skilled in the art, and by a rousing soundtrack which made the games more entertaining and emotionally involving than they had any right to be. Dêthderrydol, finding her efforts misunderstood, misconstrued, or just plain ignored, finally gave up and shuffled off to a back room, muttering something suitably half-enigmatic about having to “answer her PMs”.

Pimpiowyn had of course been raised by a Man of the Mike and eagerly joined in the fun, making an especially good showing in a sausage eating contest early in the evening, but Merisuwyniel eventually convinced her that it was unseemly for an aspiring Shieldmaiden to wrestle with sweaty men unless she was either throwing herself at a hunk of a future King or else properly disguised as a man herself. They both retired early to their rooms, though Pimpi lay long awake as thoughts of baked beans, sauerkraut, mashed taters, ribeye steaks, cornbread, and other traditional foods of the Mike danced through her head. The large mass of undigested sausage turning over restlessly in her stomach may also have contributed to her sleeplessness.

The men of the Itship, being naturally heroic and eminently skilled in all manner of manly arts (including but not limited to cleaving orcs in twain, the general hewing of limbs, the guzzling of vast quantities of spirits, and the melting of average and above average females) soon won the respect and admiration of their new friends the Sorethighhim. The Itship quickly perceived that each of the Men of the Mike nurtured a passion for some particular performing art, and dreamed of one day becoming famed as the greatest in all the land in the practice of his chosen discipline. Though he never spoke of it aloud, it was clear that Yoman yearned to be the prima donna of a dancing chorus line. Some Riders had memorized monologues or worked out comedy routines between them, others had perfected complex but queerly expressive gymnastic routines, and all were eager for news of the latest fashions in armor and leather harness in distant lands.

Vogonwë was easily swept up in the spirit of performance and machismo and took advantage of one of the breaks of the House of Band to grab a mikestand from a drunken Rider and recite an impromptu bit of verse:

I think that I shall never see
anyone as good as me
at slayíng foes and cracking heads
or taking maidens to their beds.

This prompted first stunned silence, then much hooting and cheering and many a congratulatory slap on the half-elf’s heroically taut rump. Vogonwë was at first much dismayed by this strange ritual of the Sorethighhim, but then took to the practice with such enthusiasm that before the night was done he was given the honorary name “Hándanurâz” by the Men of the Mike and officially adopted into the Yoyurded commanded by Érry.

Érry encouraged the men of the Itship to join with him in disciplining other Riders as the need arose (which it did with alarming frequency). When it was discovered after one such unfortunate incident that Chrysophylax could breathe fire, the party moved outside for a spell, where the ancient wyrm was asked to set ablaze all manner of objects: a park bench, a wagon wheel, an armoire scavenged from a carpenter’s shop, a scarecrow “liberated” from the fields of Hámmerhed (a local farmer), even a stray dog. The pained shrieks of this last as it burned threatened to spoil the fun of the evening, but Chrysophylax saved the day by swallowing the crisped hound whole, and the party moved back inside by general unspoken agreement. Kuruharan, beard and eyebrows singed and smoking, had managed to do a brisk business in “beer helms” – steel helmets designed to hold six mugs of ale which could be drunk simultaneously through a tube by the wearer, novelty hand mitts holding up a giant index finger in a “We’re #1” gesture, hastily done up “Riders Rool, Orcs Drool” doublets, and skewers and marshmallows.

In short a good time was had by all – all save the Gateskeeper, who drank only sodâpaup and peered through his spectacles with unblinking eyes at all that passed, quietly noting demographic patterns and absently formulating marketing schemes. Though there was much to observe, he did not fear missing anything important: he knew that he could later review his magic log, which recorded all that occurred down to the smallest detail, if he needed to refresh his memory or fill in any gaps in his knowledge.

The Gateskeeper in his detachment noted many strange things. One was quite obvious to anyone with eyes in his head: that these Riders, as dedicated as they were to the Arts, were even by the low standards of Muddled-Mirth raging chauvinists. Women of the Mike ran the inn and worked in the kitchen, but participated in none of the entertainments performed by the Riders. This was painfully apparent during the performance by two Riders of a passionate scene from Rummyo and Havewemet, a play by Shakesbeere, a local poet of some repute.

But the Gateskeeper also noted a subtle subtext of fear amongst the Men of the Mike early in the evening when the impromptu performances began. It was communicated in worried looks and tense faces, but the Riders seemed unwilling to acknowledge it openly in front of their guests.

“Grimy Hasbéen won’t be happy—” one Rider finally started to say, but he was silenced by a flying check from Érry, who straddled him, yelling, “I don’t wanna hear no jibber-jabber about Hamstrung, son! I’m built for this, G! It’s gonna be a long night, a long night if you come up in here talkin’ ‘bout Hamstrung said this or that! You’re auditioning for a lead role in Érry’s Musical Pain Comedy, and you will get the part!”

And that was the last mention of the mysterious Hamstrung that evening. Later, as the copious amounts of liquor and the thrill of performance began to take hold, the subtext of fear gradually disappeared.

Lastly, and most interestingly, the Gateskeeper noticed many an oath sworn by the “Thighs of the Sorethighhim”, or the “Wood of the Thighs”, or the “Shanks That Do Not Grow Weary”, or, in the tongue of the Mike, “Those Mean **********ing Legs”. At first he thought these phrases a peculiar idiom of the Mike, a metaphorical reference only, but he eventually surmised that the Riders referred to actual thighs, apparently housed in the Goldlamé Hall, which were considered the spiritual backbone of the Sorethighhim.

The evening ended abruptly when Etceteron smashed a gëetar to top off a rousing rendition of “She’s an Orc, Baby”. The instrument was dropped next door at Sethamir’s for repair. The Riders who had passed out stayed where they lay; those who could still walk bid their new friends farewell with many a pat on the behind and the traditional Sorethighhim valediction, “Good night! You’ve been a great audience!”, and staggered off to their homes. Yet even as the inn settled in for the evening, the Gateskeeper continued to observe – he had noticed Grrralph slip away after the last of the Riders had gone, and later noted when Kuruharan left his room and opened a port in a serving wall for Chrysophylax when they thought the rest of the Itship were all abed. The Gateskeeper saw it all, and filed it all away, wondering how he might use it to his advantage later.

[ September 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

As Grrralph rode back towards Improvas, something was troubling him. He had ridden nearly three miles before he realized what it was. Whereas yesterday the Itship had ridden over broad green plains and through forests and fields, the rising sun was revealing a slightly different landscape. It seemed that a billboard had been erected every 100 meters or so. He slowed his pace to take in the colorful signs and catchy slogans.

A sign for a chain of steakhouses read "Where's the Beef?" He chuckled at the outraged look of the customer as he ran his sword through the waiter.

A sign for Sethamir's Stables, Inc. (trademark pending) showed a patron throttling the equerry while screaming "I'm not gonna pay a lot for this horse!" Apparently, the Itship had made a good choice when stabling their steeds.

Yet another, advertising low rent housing, portrayed huts with two-horse stables. The slogan there read "Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun!" Odd that all of these advertisements ended in explamation marks, he mused.

An image of a dragon wallowing in a swimming pool behind a group of slightly higher rent townhouses caught his attention next. A puff of smoke from the dragon's mouth formed words which read "They're Grrrreat!" Grrralph particularly liked this slogan and wondered at the cost of these fine residences and whether he could afford them.

As if to answer this question, the next billboard promoted Mogûl's Mortgages. An honorable and serious looking banker sat behind a desk in this advertisement. The caption read, "We make our money the old-fashioned way, we EARN it!"

The next billboard was in the process of being erected. A massive cart sat at the side of the road. It was filled with billboards and was drawn by four very unhappy looking horses, each of which had been painted bright red. The sign on the cart read "Bildûr's Boards, A Little Dab Will Do Ya!" Grrralph didn't think much of this slogan. First, the boards were not "little". Second, the hundreds of signs that he had seen hardly constituted a "dab".

This sign was being erected by several Orcs. The subject was Achilles' Armouries. A smiling hero had run his foe through with a spear. The dying warrior was saying, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" Grrralph approached the Orcs to compliment the advertising agency. As he drew near, he could hear them singing.

"O Muddled Mirth,
O Muddled Mirth,
We spread our waste on thee!
And hide the pines
With billboard signs,
from sea to oily sea!"

One of the Orcs looked up in surprise as the sound of hooves was heard over their song. Their initial reaction was to draw their swords. Then they relaxed when the saw the black cloaked figure. "It's only a Wraith," the leader cried and his fellows resumed their labor.

The Orc Captain approached Grrralph with a toothy smile. "The boss wants us to put these up at night, but we wanted to do one more before heading home."

"Home?" asked Grrralph.

"Yeah," said the Orc. "Back to Moredough. Soon we'll have fortresses everywhere, but for now the Boss wants us to maintain a low profile."

"Where will your fortresses be?" asked the Wraith.

"We'll probably have one here at Improvas," answered the grungy and feral looking Uruk. "And soon we'll take over Grundor and Topfloorien and Trebor. Soon after that, this name will be everywhere!"

He pointed to a line of small print on the billboard which read, "Achilles' Armouries is a subsidiary of Mogûl Enterprises, LLC." Grrralph nodded, recalling Sssam's words about his employer. "Looks like Mogûl is taking over everywhere," Grrralph mused as he rode on towards Improvas. "...and Mogûl wants the wood..."

[ September 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

Many a curious stare followed Orogarn Two and Singéd as they trudged through the muddy streets of Improvas. Dirty-faced, tow-headed children, legs already beginning to bow, laughed and pointed as they passed. Men nudged their neighbors and tipped their chins towards the pair. ‘Hey, nice dog!’ someone called out.

Orogarn paused, meeting the eyes of the onlookers, and gestured grandly.

‘Behold!’ he cried. ‘Here is Singéd the Great, whom no other hand can tame.’

‘We have leash laws in Soreham, Grundorian.’

Orogarn ignored the taunt and continued on. Singéd shot him a thankful glance for at least making the effort.

Men of the Mike were busily repairing a large hole in the glinting roof of the distant hall, a sure sign that his companions were near. Drifting smoke which still lingered from the previous night’s party soon led the two trail-stained travelers to the courtyard in front of the Horse Head Inn. Inside, the Whatchacallitship was just finishing up breakfast.

The sudden reappearance of Orogarn was met with great wonder by his fellow adventurers, who had long since given him up for dead, divided up some of his gear, and written off their debts to him. Nevertheless, they greeted him enthusiastically. Merisu almost went in for a hug, but at the last moment gracefully opted instead for a comfortable distance and air-kisses on either cheek – the Tower of Dorktank to the north had recently begun dumping industrial sludge into the Contrived River, and Orogarn smelled none too clean.

Vogonwë returned Orogarn’s crystal locket and gave him a swift slap on the rump in the Soreham style, which nearly led to a duel until the custom was patiently explained by Etceteron and cooler heads – for once – prevailed.

Just as Orogarn got caught up on all that had transpired during his absence (the retelling accompanied in four part harmony by a few Riders who had roused from their slumber), a horseman who had not been at the previous night’s party – and who had a decidedly shady cast to his narrow eyes – arrived to summon them at once to an audience with Théboleggen King. The time was full ripe for the Itship to move on to the next scene, so, gathering their gear, they followed the messenger without question.

* * * * *

Bypassing all description of the quaint homes of the Sorethighhim and the clear, clattering stream flowing beside the path and suchlike, the Uniship soon found themselves at the top of a high green terrace where two guards sat on stools with naked mikestands laid across their knees. Their golden hair was plaited and arranged on their shoulders just so, and blazed fetchingly in the early morning sun. One of the guards stepped forward and spoke to them in Westestosterone.

‘I am the Bouncer of Théboleggen. Hámanchese is my name. Here I must bid you lay aside your weapons before you enter.’

Hands strayed towards scabbards and into the folds of cloaks. Handles lovingly bound in tooled leather were fingered, morningstars hefted, twin axes clicked against one another. A rumble from Chrysophylax spoke of searing fires stoked deep within the wyrm’s belly.

Hámanchese coughed into his fist.

‘...or, or you could just promise not to use them. Without provocation. Unnecessarily. You look like good people, I’ll trust you on that.’

The adventurers began to move past the Bouncer, but he spoke up again.

‘Also, I’m supposed to check to make sure that you’re not sworn enemies of Théboleggen King, the Mike, and/or the good people of Soreham over which he rules etc., etc. And that you’re all over twenty-one.’

Twin puffs of smoke escaped Chrysophylax’s nostrils.

‘Right, but of course we’re all square on that. Except these ladies here, if I didn’t know better, I’d never guess you were a day over eighteen. Thirty-three at most in Elf years. I mean that.’ Then he continued in a lowered voice, ‘Listen, this is just a day job for me. I’m really an actor.’

The Bouncer carefully stamped the hands, claws, and mailed fists of the Itship, each in turn, then pushed open the tall doors so that they could enter the Goldlamé Hall. Sounds of music and desultory laughter drifted out of the dark opening.

As they passed inside, the voice of Hámanchese followed them in an afterthought.

‘Entering the Hall also implies agreement to the two drink min—’

But he was abruptly cut off as Grrralph swept the doors closed.

Inside it was close and dark after the wind and bright sunshine upon the hill. As their eyes changed, the travelers saw that tables were arrayed on the main floor of the hall. Golden cloths were hung upon the walls, and at the far end of the house, beyond the tables, was a raised stage. Most of the damage from the previous evening had been repaired, and only one thin shaft of light shone in through the nearly patched hole in the hall’s great roof. It was made of decidedly cheap materials and was rather shoddily constructed, and so was quickly and easily repaired.

The place stank of cheap booze, and a thick haze of pipeweed smoke filled the chamber even at this early hour. A general pall of disreputability hung like a shroud over the audience seated at the tables. They seemed restless and sullen, and when they laughed or applauded, no trace of sincerity could be found in the gestures.

‘That isn’t golden cloth, right?’ asked Merisu in a hushed voice.

‘Gold lamé,’ said Kuruhuran, then added quickly and a bit too casually, ‘At least, that’s what it looks like from here.’

‘It looks smaller than I thought,’ whispered Pimpi, who had heard many a tale of the glory days of Improvas from her father.

‘And tackier,’ added Vogonwë.

The reason the hall had not completely collapsed was immediately evident: two mighty pillars sprang from the flagstone floor and soared in gently bowing arcs to the roof. The pillars were stout, almost muscular, shaped from beautiful, intricately carved wood which gleamed with a rich golden hue that a thin film of nicotine only enhanced. The Gallowship perceived that these must be none other than the fabled Thighs of Soreham. Despite their great age, the wooden pillars seemed to throb with life and a certain impalpable earthy wisdom.

Beyond the Thighs, on the left side of the stage, was a bandstand. A pale man in a suit of extravagantly bright purple cloth stood at the head of a group of Riders who clearly had been handpicked not for their talent with their instruments, but for their brawn and their dumb, brute loyalty to the bandleader, Grimy Hasbéen.

On the right side of the stage was a plain desk, behind which sat a bent old man. He was clad in a golden sansabelt jumpsuit which must once have been dazzling, but now seemed shabby and dull with years. A rakish ascot was nearly hidden under a frizzy white beard, and his face was as seamed and wrinkled as an old adventurer’s codpiece. A line of drool depended from his lower lip and glistened in his beard like dew in a spider web.

‘So, a funny thing happened,’ mumbled Théboleggen King in a cracked old man’s voice. ‘Uh, the roof fell in.’

‘The roof fell in?’ Grimy asked loudly.

‘The roof. Fell in. We got a big hole up there. Men working. The whole thing. What’s up with that?’

One of the Riders rolled off a lackluster BA DUM PSHHH! on his drum kit. The audience, under a heavy glare from Grimy, laughed and clapped in insincere appreciation. The old king seemed not to notice.

‘It’s crazy!’

The Itship was milling about in the back of the room, wondering if it was possible to fade back out the door or maybe just pick a fight, when a haggard young woman approached them.

‘I’m Éowhine of the Mike and I’ll be your serving wench this morning. There’s a two drink minimum. What can I get you?’

But before they could even react, the crowd quieted and Grimy’s eyes were upon them.

‘Now, your lordship,’ he said in a loud voice that dripped with menace and contempt, ‘I understand we have some guests with us today.’

‘Yes, yes. They’ve come all the way from... somewhere else to be with us. Ladies and gents, please put your hands together and give a big Soreham welcome to... those people back there. Yes, you. Come on.’

The audience clapped lightly, and all eyes in the room turned to the Itship.

[ September 11, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

the ancient wyrm was asked to set ablaze all manner of objects: a park bench, a wagon wheel, an armoire scavenged from a carpenter’s shop, a scarecrow “liberated” from the fields of Hámmerhed (a local farmer), even a ...STRAY DOG! - “The Reunification of the Entish Bow” post 62

The rosy rays of dawn reached out to warm the staves of a lowly straw-filled barrel that lay behind Sethamir's Stable and Instrument Repair Shop, lightly caressing the brow of its sole occupant. Bärky, Puppy Hound of the Mike, opened his wide, liquid brown eyes, twitched his adorable button puppy nose, and stuck out his sweet, lil pink puppy tongue in a prodigious yawn. Poking his nose out of his lowly but cozy home, he panted with delight as he prepared to enjoy the sights, smells and songs of his beloved city, Improvas.

But one thing was missing to make his puppy-happiness complete. "Mother?" he whined, and receiving no answer, he decided that his dear mother must be playing some wonderful new game. So Bärky, Puppy Hound of the Mike, set out prancing down the street one his little puppy toes, wagging his plume-like fluffy puppy tail, all the while calling "Mother! Oh, dear Mother! Where are you?"

It was Snoggert, the wise, old sewer rat, who finally could bear it no longer. Poking his grey, grizzled snout out of a discarded pile of used mead jars and sodden oboe reeds, he called softly but firmly to Bärky. "C'mere, kid. I got somethin' to tell ya..."

***************

"MOTHERRRRRRRR! NNNNNNOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

The piercing yelps leaped across the plains of Soreham, pulled a bank shot off the Ecru Mountains, dawdled along the Pretty Good River and finally slouched towards the Forest of Canned Corn.

"Precioussss! They have violated the sacred rule of tale-telling!"

Never off dogs or small children! This is sacrilege, Fluffy!"

"The Itship must die!"

[ September 11, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

Grimy Hasbéen, son of Washtup, motioned the Itship forward with a hand the color and liveliness of flour paste. As their eyes adjusted to the strange lighting they could make out (through the pipeweed haze) Hasbeen outfitted in the traditional black ptôcksǽdo of the court of Improvas, accented beneath with a white tunic and a small black cravat tied in odd fashion around the throat. He would have been a dashing figure except that he had no figure to speak of. Had a corpse already liquid with decay arisen from the grave, arrayed itself in party finery, and splashed on some aftershave, the effect could not have been more hideous. *

The Itship had little choice but to obey the ghastly summons to the stage, as the massively built and nattily-dressed bouncer-corps outnumbered them 3 to 1. The half-lit, half-empty hall half-heartedly applauded the strangers as they shuffled forward with all the enthusiasm of a young child ordered to bed. Gateskeeper in the midst of the group kept his eye on Grimy, something familiar in his look, his manner…then he remembered.

Grimy had been a groupie of Sauerkraut, a hanger-on back at Dorktank who never quite got the hang of wizardry, either on or off the stage. But ol’ cabbage-head (as they used to refer to Sauerkraut during meetings because it made his eyes bulge) appeared to have found a use for him as a low-level Têch support assistant for Networkgaard (or “the Net” for short), making sure packets of information were correctly routed to destinations within the influence of the Net.

But what was he doing here? Was this the agent Môgul Bildûr mentioned who “had the King’s ear”? Gateskeeper continued to ponder, wishing he could surreptitiously make a call on his Cell-antir as the quest-ians mounted the stage and assembled beside King Théboleggen. Grimy Hasbéen joined them on the stage in seeming gesture of welcome and glaring at those in the audience whose appreciation seemed somewhat unenthusiastic.

At close range the King looked to Gateskeeper as more than haggard and old. He appeared as though something had drawn all the strength and vitality from him, as though his life had not worn away gracefully but had been systematically sucked dry like the kegs of ale from last night’s party. It looked like the work of his old mentor Sauerkraut, but the Dorktank of Networkgaard was many leagues away, and Sauerkraut was supposed to be in league with Môgul. Besides, there wasn’t a cell-antir antenna large enough to carry the image over the Ecru Mountains. Unless…it was then that Gateskeeper noticed a pair of small black lines that protruded out from under the King’s desk, leading away towards…the thighs.

King Théboleggen attempted to stand, but merely achieved a different slouch in his chair, shifting to look up at the newcomers. Looking out at the crowd he muttered, “What a great group, eh?” the old King wheezed, “Troupers. That’s what I say. Every one of them. And we’ll see how they do here on Sorethighhim Idol, right after this.” The little band that accompanied the drummer in the corner played a short tune as the stage light shifted to a very animated troupe of players who bounded onto the other side of the stage and began extolling the excellence of a brand of sodâpaup, Dorka-Cola, in a short skit.

Gatekeeper's mind was working at high speed now, for Dorka-Cola had never been seen outside the confines of Dorktank by him before. In the vast and putrid manufactories of Moredough the minions of Mogul turned out the #1 brand in Muddled-Mirth, Pukel-Cola. His monopolistic schemes had driven all competitors off the market, then driven up the price of the addictive caffeine-laden beverage. There could be only one conclusion: Sauerkraut was trying to undermine Mogul's plans to overrun Soreham. It all began to make sense now. Mogul, only recently escaped from his erstwhile prison had no idea of the advances Sauerkraut had made for reaching masses with the power of The Net. Mogul was mired in low-tech advertising such as billboards and such. With the power of the Great Thighs to carry his message, Sauerkraut would be a formidable advertising force to contend with, especially once he rediscovered the lost art of the pop-up. If Gateskeeper was to succeed in the task to which he was now bound by Mogul, Sauerkraut had to be stopped.

Meanwhile, the Itship was now quite taken aback (abackstage, that is). Grimy, an insincere smile upon his leering countenance, told them, “So you think you can perform up to the high standards of our Mike, do you? Nay, do not start, word has reached me of you poor players strutting and fretting your hour upon the stage last night. A tale told by an idiot! You were all so full of sound and fury, yet signifying nothing. Well now, you shall have your chance to prove your so-called talent before our panel of one – King Théboleggen himself shall judge you. And woe to you if you fail to please him.”

“Oh, lovely!!” cried Vogonwe in utter delight, “An audience with a king! I shall recite a new poem I just composed for the occasion, if only I can figure out a way to get the words “toast” and “pomposity” to fit in this last line…” Vogonwe’s final comments went unheard, for by unanimous agreement Earnur Etceteron conked him out cold with the butt of his sword (which complained loudly of the indignity) lest he seal their demise.

Merisuwyniel, who had seldom known fear in times past, now found herself trembling (with fear or excitement she unsettlingly could not tell), for she now realized that the hall of Improvas looked uncomfortably like the places she had “performed” in that strange dream she’d had the night before. “We don’t have anything prepared for a real performance, what shall we do?” Merisu cried in a somewhat less than practical (but quite feminine) tone. Earnur, after setting the now-unconscious Vogonwe aside on a small cot, drew himself up to his manly height, drew his manly sword (which complained in the , and said in a manly tone, “we have no choice but to fight our way out…”

“No, wait,” Gateskeeper interrupted, and for the third time Earnur found himself taking the back seat to this upstart four-eyed freak from who-knows-where who kept preventing him from winning renown and glory in manly battle. His arm almost started to swing of its own accord, and would have cloven Gateskeepers spectacles in twain had not Orogarn stayed his hand. Earnur gave Orogarn a dirty look. Orogarn said, “Just hear him out.”

“Do even you not trust the arms of your own people? You’re all too ready to trust this vagabond.”

“There is no strength in arms that will avail us in this situation,” Orogarn said. “Now hear him.”

Gateskeeper explained, “I have seen this malady before. The King’s life is being drained away by the power of ‘the Net.’”

“The Net? But that is leagues and leagues from here! How can it be so?” questioned Pimpiowyn from around a mouthful of hors d’oerves from the backstage catering table. “Yes,” agreed Orogarn, “his bratwurst has grown long indeed if he can affect the king here in Improvas.”

“It is true, but Sauerkraut is crafty, and the power of his kielbasa is great. They say he walks about here and there, dressed as an old hot-dog vendor in white. The Net draws you in with delusions of great knowledge and wealth to be had, and then drains your life away in endless hours of online chat and games of Neopets and Checkers. We must perform a…disconnection.”

Merisu blinked back a tear at the sad story of the king’s entrapment, and nodded her assent to Gateskeeper’s idea, as did the others. “The only way Sauerkraut could maintain a connection with this realm is through the power of the great thighs in the center of the room,” Gateskeeper continued. There are magic lines that connect the king's desk top to the thighs, but they cannot simply be cut – the disconnection cannot be too sudden, or the king might be killed outright. This means two things. We must stall for time, and one of us has to get close to those thigh-lines without being noticed.”

Grrrralph, in his voice of miserable cheer, volunteered to go first when Grimy came back to fetch the first kôntestant for the show. And then the rest of the group dissolved into discussions of comedy routines, songs they might sing, or snatches of old plays they could remember. Orogarn and Gateskeeper stepped aside to discuss how to distract the crowd from their approach to the Great Thighs, and Grrrralph followed Grimy back to the stage.

When the poorly-tuned band played the advertising troupe off the stage, Grimy announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen of Soreham, Sorethighhim Idol is pleased to present, from parts unknown, the inimitable Grrrralph!” There appeared to be some renewed interest from the crowd and a smattering of real applause as the patrons settled in for the first performance of an outsider upon their stage. Once the applause died away, Grrrralph motioned with one hand to the band, who began a mournful tune. Then, with a slow deliberate motion, Grrrralph did something completely unexpected: he removed his hood…

*with posthumous apologies to C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

“Are we there, yet? I can smell burnt dog flesh.” whined Schnozza in a voice which seemed to emanate almost entirely from his bulbous nose, despite the constant stream of thick unpleasant gloop that should have blocked its passage.

“What’s that, sonny? I can’t hear a word yer saying for the racket of those darned hooves and that blessed music,” replied Sedric, his ears flapping in the soft breeze as he swayed unsteadily on his scrawny legs.

“Don’t be silly,” giggled Snigga as his bulging eyes scanned the horizon. “There’s the King’s Hall, look. Over there. They just went in. Hehe. We got miles to go yet.”

The group stood on the outskirts of Soreham regarding the wide plains and great open lands of the Mike, the dazzling view spoiled only by the detritus which marked the passing of their quarry. They were indeed at least a days’ ride from Improvas. The stubborn footfalls of Twinkle had proved no match for the sturdy mounts of the Riders of Soreham and the Guys’n Dolls-ship’s own steeds and so they had fallen somewhat behind in their pursuit.

“Who you callin’ silly, yer gibbering clown?” growled Schnozza.

“That would be you, big-nose.” tittered Snigga.

“Eh?” said Sedric.

“Why, you …” spluttered Schnozza, picking up a rock and hurling it at Snigga. The goggle-eyed Goblin ducked and the rock hit Sedric squarely on the forehead, knocking him to the ground. Snigga was by now giggling uncontrollably.

“Hey! Watch it, sonny. Or I’ll punch that fat hooter of yours clean through yer head!” exclaimed Sedric, his joints creaking as he slowly picked himself up.

“Oh yeah! You and whose army?”

“Barmy am I? Well, I can still show yer a thing or two, yer young whipper-snapper. That’s the problem with you young Orcs these days. No regard for yer elders. I am Sedric! I command …” he paused, groping for the right word “… respect!”

“You don’t even have command over yer own bladder.”

At this, the ancient Orc flew at Schnozza, displaying an agility which had previously been notably lacking. The two of them rolled around on the ground in a whirl of flying fists, flapping ears and droplets of goo.

“He he … tee hee … a-ha … a-ha … A-HAA HAA HAA!” howled Snigga, huge tears welling up in his enormous eyes as he too rolled around on the ground convulsing with laughter, until the two grappling Goblins grabbed him.

Some days previously, Soregum had taken the decision to ignore his companions. But now, as he sat on his dainty steed slightly apart from them, the sound of their bickering and the ensuing melee nurtured in him an intense desire to be rid of them. And gradually a plan emerged within his shrouded head.

“Come on,” he said, urging the reluctant Twinkle forward.

*****************************

Several hours later the gormless Goblins, noticing Soregum’s absence, curtailed their scrapping and set off after him. They found him lying on a low hill, surveying a Sorthighhim settlement that lay a short distance away. Twinkle stood at some distance grazing on the patchy grass.

“You stay here,” he commanded them. “I’ll scout ahead.” As he moved off stealthily, the grotesque trio took no time in resuming their squabble.

The settlement comprised a large grouping of covered wagons clustered around a low thatched building. The site was littered with burnt-out chariots, discarded wagon-wheels and other such rubbish and drab clothes hung from lines strung between the wagons. As Soregum approached, the place seemed deserted, although he could discern above the sound of dogs barking a low murmur, punctuated by the occasional howl, which seemed to come from the building in the centre. Slowly, he crept between the long wagons, which had clearly not moved in many a year, making for the building. Once there, he hid in the shadows at the side and peered through a grimy window.

Inside, he saw a large number of people, seemingly the entire population of the Wagon Park, sitting in rows facing a stage, chattering excitedly amongst themselves and letting off the odd enthusiastic whoop every now and then. They were rough and unkempt and presented a startling variety of shapes and sizes ranging from the clinically obese to the dangerously skeletal. Their hair was, without exception, a pale straw colour, the favoured style (for both men and women) being long at the back but cropped short on the top and sides. For some strange reason, the style put Soregum in mind of a fish of some description, although he could not place which one. But, despite their apparent modest means and poor fashion sense, they seemed a merry folk. And they certainly appeared to be enjoying their food and drink. Soregum’s heart leapt at the sight of the enormous portions of beefsteaks, chops, ribs, cutlets, beans and fried potatoes, and the copious quantities of ale, being served at the bar.

As he watched, a small bespectacled man clutching a mikestand sprang neatly onto the stage. Immediately, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, howls and catcalls, chanting at the tops of their voices: “JÉORRI! … JÉORRI! … JÉORRI! …”

“Thank you. You are most kind.” began Jéorri as the noise of the audience subsided. Adopting an earnest expression, he continued “Have you ever wondered whether your partner might be seeing someone else behind your back? Well that’s exactly what our next guest has been doing. And it wasn’t another man, or even a woman, she was seeing. Let’s meet her. Put your hands together for Léonora.”

The crowd went wild again as a plump woman with short cropped hair jumped out of her seat and ran on to the stage waving her arms wildly and screaming uncontrollably.

“Hello Léonora.”

“Hi Jéorri.”

“You’ve been seeing Éodmund for some months now, is that right?”

“Why, dat’s right, Jéorri. An’ ah do lurve him, Jéorri. Ah really do.”

“But you’ve got something to tell him, haven’t you.”

“Yeah, ah sure have, Jéorri … ah bin gone seein’ someone else on da side.”

Léonora sniffled and wiped non-existent tears from her eyes as the audience engaged in some good-natured booing and whistling.

“Well let’s bring Éoddi on so you can tell him yourself.”

Again, the crowd erupted as a mountain of a man, his head completely shaven save for a braided strand that resembled the tail of a rat hanging down at the rear, entered the room and took to the stage. He was apparently quite oblivious to what had been occurring up to now and waved and smiled to the audience as he made his way up to Léonora and embraced her. Then, egged on by Jéorri, she sat down and took his hands in hers, looking down at the floor in feigned embarrassment.

“Ya know ah lurve ya, Éoddi baby, dontcha …. but ah got somethin’ dat ah gotta say to ya …. um … well, it’s like dis, baby … ah bin seein’ someone else …”

Éoddi looked crestfallen. As the tears welled up in his eyes, all he could say was “But … who …?”

“It’s Dwain Hammerhand, baby…”

“Why dat *bleep*in’ midget! I’ll *bleep*in’ grind his *bleep*in’ bones to *bleep*! I’ll fry his *bleep*in’ beard!” exclaimed Éoddi, rising to his feet as his temper got the better of him. The bleeps came courtesy of a little old man with a loud tin whistle standing at the rear of the stage, whose job it was to drown out the most colourful of the expletives.

“He ain’t no *bleep*in’ midget, Éoddi! He’s a Dwaaarf, a *bleep*in’ Dwaaarf!” cried Léonora, as if the correction was likely to calm the distraught man down.

“Well, let’s meet him.” said Jéorri, helpfully.

Howls, whistles, jeers and whoops filled the room as a sturdy Dwarf with a long red beard, braided in the manner of his kind, entered and walked up to the group on stage. As Éoddi made a lunge for him, two burly fellows leapt on stage to restrain him and hold them apart. By now all three were cursing loudly at each other and the little old man with the tin whistle began to turn an alarming shade of red with the effort of keeping it clean.

Judging that the time was right, Soregum ran up to the door and burst into the room, feigning terror and shouting at the top of his voice “ORCS! ORCS ARE COMING! HELP!”

As one the crowd went silent and turned to look at Soregum.

“I’m being chased by a band of Orcs! Help me!” he cried.

This crowd erupted again, cheering, howling, whooping and whistling all at once.

“Where?” cried Éoddi, immediately forgetting his former woes in the excitement.

“Just outside town to the east.” replied Soregum.

“Well how d’ya like dat! Looks like we gonna hunt ourselves some Orc!” shouted Éoddi, making for the door. The entire room followed him, brandishing an assortment of crude wooden mikestands, banjos, mouth organs and wash-boards.

*****************************

The Goblin trackers, still thoroughly engrossed in their dispute, never stood a chance. Within no time, their three misshapen heads were proudly on display, impaled on wooden mikestands on the outskirts of the Wagon Park. And shortly thereafter, Soregum was sitting comfortably at the bar with a large mug of ale and drawing with satisfaction on his pipe, having just polished off six courses of assorted meat, fried vegetables and pastries, while a local poet, Éominem, entertained the crowd.

As he happily went on his way the following morning, Soregum stopped to smile cheerfully at his unfortunate former companions. Things were looking up. Even Twinkle was happier, having been comfortably stabled overnight and sharing his pleasure at the absence of the quarrelsome Orcs. As they rode off in the direction of Improvas, Soregum began to whistle.

Shortly after his departure, a dark horde appeared on the hills surrounding the Wagon Park and began to file inexorably towards the small settlement, brandishing cruel eviction notices and terrible redevelopment signs.

[ September 12, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

END OF DISK ONE!

TO CONTINUE THE REUNIFICATION OF THE ENTISH BOW PLEASE INSERT DISK TWO!

Thank You.

Translator's Note
Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings in the human mart?
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.John Keats was, of course, a great enthusiast of Entish literature, and took an active part in the four-year project to translate this section of the text. This project ended in disaster with the insanity of the Reverend Dr. Ernest Thrippshaw, head of the project, and the sudden descent into opium abuse of all thirteen of his colleagues. This was attributed to the influence of Keats himself until Professor Olaf Gundvarsson of the University of Oslo reported his team's findings that one sentence, which requires almost a full day to recite, is in fact an obscure tense of the verb to be. The translation into English via Norwegian is reportedly "I might be in the season when ancient roots course once more with youthful sap and leaves sprout forth, but shall not be in the cold, cold season in which leaves fall and frost bites the bough. Of late the ivy drinks too deep and axes are heard, yet nonetheless the acorn of hope puts out its tender shoots, and I am thankful for your interest." As one may readily observe, this sentence is a great deal more concise and memorable in modern English, albeit that the newer language would be considered obscenely hasty by Entish standards. The final word, I think, should go to Dr. Thrippshaw himself, whose tireless work on the following section has gone so woefully unrewarded, even among his fellow philologists: "Do not speak to me of Entish bows! I am at my wits' end with them, and had not the great Emperor Charlemagne lately appointed me Elector Palatine I should stand before you now a babbling lunatic! Begone from me, thou foul reptiles, for thou art tainted with the juice of the radish; and such are anathema to all who follow the Vole of Truth!" (Impromptu valedictory address to the University of Oxford, August 18th, 1819)
-----------------

Mithadan's Post:

Grrralph stepped up onto the stage and cleared his throat. Then he drew his sword. A grrrowl arose from the audience, but the wraith waved them away and began a dance, using his sword in place of a cane. Then he began to sing.

"What good is sitting
alone on your throne?
In your old robes, starched and pressed?
Life is an endless quest, old chum.
Come on and join our quest..."

Grrralph tapped and spun his way across the stage, then stopped directly before the King. With a deliberate motion, he raised a glove and yanked down his hood. In the dim light, it appeared that a shadow occupied the space between his cloak and a black steel helmet that rested upon his...shadow. Then, moving in time with the beat of a drum, the hood crept back into place, bit by bit, resembling a black slug crawling upon a rock.

The King laughed and clapped delightedly as Grrralph resumed his song and dance. The wraith began a bump and grind, then did the splits as he sang.

"Put down your knitting,
your sceptre, your crown.
Come have a holiday!
Life is an endless quest, old chum.
Come join our quest today!"

Grrralph again halted before the throne. This time he raised his sword and swung it like a baton. In its final twirl, it cut off his hood (Grrralph had ducked his head down into his cloak, turtle-fashion). The cloth fell to the ground and disappeared in a puff of smoke. But from his shoulders, threads crept up like a nest of snakes and, writhing in time with the music, wove themselves together into a new hood.

"Oh, he's good!" cried the King. "He's good! How do you do that, huh? C'mon, tell me how you do that!"

Grrralph bowed, then spoke in a deep and mournful voice. "I will tell you as much as I know, or at least, what I can recall," answered the wraith. "It's kind of a riddle, I think."

His eyes shone bright red as he continued:

"You've been traded to me,
for fair compensation.
For a reasonable fee,
you'll join our dark nation.

You'll wear my gear,
cloak, armor and hood,
now don't shed a tear,
but they're with you for good.

They'll weigh on your mind,
they ain't going away soon,
until potion you find,
made from light of the moon."

Then, with another bow, Grralph backed away and ceded the stage to the next entertainer.

******
Squatter's Continued Post:

There comes a time in the career of every great hero when he is compelled to hold conversation with inanimate objects. Perhaps this is in some way due to the action of the heroic metabolism, which enables them to hear and see that which is hidden from lesser men. Perhaps it is a property of the weapons they carry that they should possess the gift of speech. Then again, perhaps it is a sign that most heroes are stark raving bonkers and not to be trusted with any task more complicated than mucking out the stables. Whatever the reasons, Earnur was currently conversing with the dread blade Bystandr[1] that men now call Griper.

"Look, I don't see what's so difficult to grasp about this: you're a sword. Your entire purpose in existing at all is to maim and kill, to have oaths sworn on your blade and to look impressive for passing damosels. What's the point in being a sword if you hate fighting?"

I didn't ask to be a sword, you know: back when I was just an ingot I wanted to be a ploughshare. It was just my bad luck that I happened to fall into the hands of Dwarves just as they got a big order from the king of Dor Sumyewinion. I was a victim of society.

"That's what they all say," replied the implacable knight. "But no sword of mine is going to be a conscie. You'd better buck up and do a good job or I'll have you made into a shovel and give you Jethro the stable boy! Now be quiet: I have to think."

On the other side of the moth-eaten velvet curtain that separated them from the main hall, all was silence as Grrralph made his way to the stage. The unisex-ship dithered heroically, asking pointless questions about the king's connection to the net whilst hedging around the real issue of who was actually going to sever that link. It was now clear to all of them that as ill-luck would have it the great Thighs that appeared to hold up the roof of the Goldlamé Hall were parts of the Ent That Was Broken, and therefore fair game for theft. It was also clear that pinching them would be a lot more difficult in front of a hall full of people. Perhaps, then, it was just as well that at that moment, on the other side of the curtain, Grrralph removed his hood and launched into his act. As he spun and gyrated to the end of his eerie performance, all eyes other than those of the fuddled King were fixed on the dark figure in horror. Several people unfortunate enough to believe the evidence of their eyes sidled towards the exits and Grimy made as though to flee the stage. At that moment, as the success of their unrehearsed and rather shaky gambit hung in the balance, Kuruharan opened his hand, in which lay a small black box. From it, tinny yet perfectly audible, came the sound of fair Elven singing, and it slowly swelled to fill the entire hall.

*******

[1]In Quixotic, this name can mean either to be present or not to be present at a great event. Why this somewhat odd pun should be given as a name to a sword was a compete mystery before the translation of The Re-Unification of the Entish Bow, which has shed new light on this as on a number of other aspects of life in Muddled Mirth.

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

And lo! feathery light strains of music suddenly erupted delicately on the scene. The renowned Elven minstrel, Barrë Maníloe, smirked out a tune* that was catchy in much the same way a cold is catching.

Her name was Loléf, she was a half-elf
With Similars in her hair and pointy ears pointing... there!
She would sing and do the springle-ring
And while she tried to be a star,
Toní was imprisoned in Barad-dûr
In a dungeon full of gore,
They tortured him from 8 till 4
What is one limb when you have another?
Who could ask for more?

At the Barad (Ai!), Barad-dûr-a (or Barát-Höm-a)
The hottest spot east of Grundor-a
At the Barad (Ai!), Barad-dûr-a
Fire and pain was always the game
At the Barad....they wear gloves

(Barad Barad-dûr-a!)

Her name is Loléf, she was a half-elf
But that was a stanza or so ago,
When this used to be a poem
Now it's a ramble, but not for Loléf
Still pointing with her ears, Stones of Feeblnore in her hairs
She sips Strangeeks all the time, and drinks 'Mudwater till she's blind
She lost her immortality and she lost her Toní
Now she's lost her mind!

* Lyrics copyright Third Age by Vogonwë Brownbark and Muddy Music Records

The music box tune was well received by the audience. The audience, that is, of the two crickets in the rafters who chirped their approval. The rest of the room was dead silent.

Kuruharan just stood there rather awkwardly for a minute. Then he turned bright red. The king scratched, Grimy looked lustfully at Merisuwyniel, and the audience started a growl of displeasure.

Seeing that things were going a bit pear-shaped, Chrysophylax jumped on the stage to exert his recently acquired star power to quiet the crowd. Alas, the stage was of rather shoddy construction, and even at the best of times Chrysophylax might have been too much dragon for any stage to sustain the blow.

*CREEEEEEK-BOOOOOM!!!!*

"BOOOOOOOO!!!!!" howled the crowd.

Things were starting to look grim for the Gallowship when who should come galloping to the rescue but Falafel, with a kazoo. Falafel burst into the hall, saw the desperate situation that the Questers were in, and started playing on the kazoo a peppy little tune guaranteed to lift the spirits of even the ugliest crowd. It was from the ancient lore of Monteé Pi-thon. Being versed in this archaic lore Kuruharan, Chrysophylax, and Vogonwë started dancing a happy jig that went with the tune.

When they finally got their dance steps in sync (no easy task because Chrysophylax kept stepping on everyone’s toes) they all burst forth into song.

We’re Questers in an Entish Fable,
We dance where ere we’re able!
We do routines and chorus scenes,
And footwork impeccable!
And though we tend to destroy a lot,
We eat tons of bacon and Spam a lot!!!

As the happy tune continued, the three revelers then leapt from the ruins of the stage and started prancing about the hall, bonking the guards on their helmets in time to the music.

"Now’s our chance," hissed Earnur. With that he and the Gateskeeper ran forward to the Thighs. The Gateskeeper pulled out a pair of hack-saws from…somewhere. Each of them took one and they began to saw on the bolts holding down one of the Thighs for all they were worth, in time to the music, of course.

Merisuwyniel realized that the time of greatest danger had come. She had to do something to get the rest of the crowd going to the music. Just as she was about to jump forward to join in conking everyone in the vicinity on the noggin she was grabbed by Grimy.

"Beautiful lady," oozed Grimy, with somewhat less charm than a rabid snake, "now we are alone at last."

"Uuuk," groaned Merisuwyniel, shuddering violently. "You should really do something about that oozing! Here’s a tissue."

Grimy tossed the hanky aside and grabbed Merisuwyniel’s hand. Merisuwyniel tried to escape but only succeeded in dragging Grimy across the floor.

Hámanchese saw what was going on and bellowed the traditional mating cry of the Mike.

"SPAM!!!"

We’re Questers in an Entish Fable,
Someday we may be on cable.

"Oh darling, OUCH!!" he intoned as he was dragged into a table leg. "I observe that your companions are familiar with the great lore of Monteé Pi-thon. Allow me to sing you one of their most touching love songs."

"Let go of me you little fungus!!!" screamed Merisuwyniel, beginning a series of savage kicks in the general direction of the clingy Grimy.

"SPAM!!!" shouted some of the Sorethighhim.

"OW!" said Grimy. "We always *OOF* hurt the ones we *HOICK* love," he sighed philosophically under the rain of blows.

The massive thud of the first Thigh falling to the ground was missed in the general confusion.

"SPAM!!! SPAM!!!" cried the Sorethighhim.

We’ll burn down towns, and loot your grounds,
And treasures if ere were able!

...crooned Chrysophylax, Kuruharan, and Vogonwë still prancing about like there was no tomorrow (and tomorrow wasn’t looking good).

Having just survived being trampled by a dancing Chrysophylax, Grimy launched into his own song from his vast store of Monteé Pi-thon knowledge.

Sit on my face,
And tell me that you love me!

"AAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!" screeched Merisuwyniel.

"SPAM!!!!!" bawled the Sorethighhim.

*BOP* went Vogonwë right on the head of Théboleggen King.

*PLOP* went Théboleggen King to the floor.

"GASP!!!" went the crowd.

"SPAM!!" shouted Hámanchese.

"I love to hear you moralize Yee-OUCH…" faltered Grimy as Merisuwyniel’s kick found his shoulder as silence mercifully fell on the hall.

Everyone stared at Théboleggen King.

Earnur and the Gateskeeper stopped in mid-stroke and tried to look like they were not engaged in a bizarre act of grand larceny.

"Uhhhhh…" said Vogonwë. He looked desperately in Falafel’s direction.

Falafel understood and began the tune again. Vogonwë nervously sang,

We’re Questers in an Entish Fable,
The King is now under the table!!!

Nobody moved, except Théboleggen King, who started to shake slightly to the music.

Everyone stared in disbelief. Orogarn Two’s crystal started jumping about in a rather odd fashion. He ignored it for a minute.

Suddenly, wonder of wonders, Théboleggen King sprang to his feet and started dancing about like a deranged marionette and walloping Grimy on the head, in time to the music (naturally).

"Cured!!" cried the Gallowship, as they joined him in bashing Grimy about the head and shoulders. "He’s CURED!!!"

"SPAM!!!!!" cried the Sorethighhim in joy.

"Free!!!" shouted Merisuwyniel as Grimy flopped limply on the floor. "I’m Free!!!"

"Done!!" shouted Earnur and the Gateskeeper as the other Thigh crashed to the ground. They seized it and started dragging it out the door.

"What is it?!!" snapped Orogarn Two at his crystal. He pulled out his "Crystal Translation Manual" to try to figure out the problem.

"SPAM!!!" cried the Sorethighhim for no particular reason.

"Let’s see here…" Orogarn began, as the rest of the Gallowship started battering everyone in the hall into unconsciousness. "Hmm…a diseased cow is about to drop her cud in my hoop-skirt?" The crystal leapt about in a distraught fashion. "No…ummm…Earnur is about to be impregnated by a blue elephant?" The crystal just sprang about all the more. "Uhhh…Kuruharan’s been sucking horseshoes when he thought that nobody was looking?" The crystal about jumped off Orogarn Two’s neck. "Oh, here it is, roof is about to fall on head!" The crystal came as close as it could to screaming "YES!" even though it did not have a mouth.

"RUM…darnit…I mean, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!" he yelled.

"SPAM!!!!" howled the surviving crowd in alarm.

The Gallowship grabbed the other Thigh and dragged it outside.

The Goldlamé Hall fell with a sound that is becoming rather stock in this chronicler’s particular series of postings, so we will spare you in the interest of easing off on the repetitiveness.

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

A cloud of dust arose from That-Which-Had-Been-Goldlamé-Hall-And-Now-Is-Rubble. The dustcloud formerly known as Goldlamé chased the Itship and Its woody burden down the hill. Accompanying the cloud in its puruit was a largish mob of Sorethighhim, led by a highly annoyed Érry. Burdened by the massive Thighs, it appeared that the Gallowship would soon be caught.

The Gateskeeper, arms windmilling wildly as he ran, pulled up next to Kuruharan and panted out a suggestion. "Firewall!" he cried. The Dwarf blinked and shouted to Chrysophylax who halted, spun and let forth a blast which halted the advancing mob in its tracks. "Great!" cried the Gateskeeper. "Now have the dragon pick up both of the Thighs and carry them off as we run!" The aforesaid dragon's eyes narrowed at these words and he pointed his snout at the bespectacled man and emitted a dark puff of smoke which, of course, in dragon language means "I am not amused."

"OK," said the Gateskeeper between coughs. "Bad idea. Have the dragon keep the Sorethighhim away while we think of something else." However, after the brilliant array of diversionary tactics which had been employed before Théboleggen King, the Itship was fresh out of ideas.

Suddenly, from high above them came a strident call which sounded like a cross between a foghorn and a trombone. Grrralph straightened at the sound and let loose a long and mournful wail in answer. His screech echoed until the air seemed to shake, and as it faded away a large shape plummeted from the sky and landed in their midst.

It was, of course, a Nazgul. A rather large, reddish-tinged Nazgul, complete with razor-sharp claws, dagger-like fangs and severe halitosis. "Grrruff!" cried Grrralph as he ran forward and, to the Itship's lasting shock, embraced the beast. "Good girl! You came!"

"Cooooo," answered Gruff, as she nuzzled Grrralph affectionately.

"Grrruff, sweety, could you help us carry one of these Thighs?" asked the wraith.

"Coooo!" answered Gruff. The Nazgul preened the leathery collar around its throat for a moment, then seized a Thigh in her claws and rose into the air.

"Dragon!" cried Grrralph. "Could you carry the other?" Chrysophylax rebuilt his firewall between the mob and the Gallowship, then turned and lifted the second Thigh and headed for the city limits.

Grrruff looked at the dragon rising into the air beside her, then batted her eyes and spread her leathery collar. "Cooooo?" she exclaimed as she followed Chrysophylax away from Improvas, perhaps a bit too closely.

"I've got a bad feeling about this..." grumbled Kuruharan as the Gallowship raced for the stables...

She had never felt this way before. Oh sure, there had been others. You don‘t work for an outfit like Moredough without meeting your share of fell beasts on the make, (and she would never forget her first time at the sack of Ozfestiath). But all those others meant nothing now. For the first time in her long career of rampaging and terrorizing, Grrruff the Nazgrrl was in love.

“I never knew such perfection could exist”, she thought. He had the pear-shaped body and short forelegs of a dancer, and the sun shining through his wing membranes outlined every vein and tendon. And he belched flame! Grrruff thought of all the ichor-dripping clods who had tongued her in the past, and then wondered what it would feel like to have her neck tickled with gentle blasts from that internal inferno. Suddenly she felt a glorious tingle in her scaly nethers, and softly cooed his name to herself, rolling it off her forked, spotted tongue: “Chrrrrrysssssophphphphphylaxxxxxxxxxx…”

A high-pitched shriek brought Grrruff back to the present, and she glanced down to see the log she had been carrying had slipped from her distracted claws, and was pin wheeling towards earth. It plummeted towards the heads of the strange band of frozen questers below, all the time screaming “falling….falling….I’M FALLIIIIIING!!!”

Rolling her eyes and heaving a sigh, she languidly swooped down to snatch the worthless log in midair, wondering why her partner, Grrralph, (a goblin had once referred to Grrralph as her “pet”. Once.) wanted to lug this particular piece of firewood along. She gave it an irritated shake in order to stop its whimpering, and flapped her wings to catch up with Chrysophylax, who was by now far ahead.

The great section of Entish body part gave a heart-rending groan, squeezed shut its knothole eyes, and blew chips - right on the heads of the straggling Petship.

Sauerkraut sat in his luxurious home-office on the top floor of the tower of Dorktank, watching the talented It-Ship perform on the stage of Improvas through his Net connection on his new 42-inch flat-plasma-screen cell-antir. "An amusing group," mused the old wizard, "I must see if that Grrrralph is available for our next U-Rock-High musical production." He had been trying to decide between You're a Good Orc, Grizhnakh Brown and Seven Beasts for Seven Nazgul, but now he considered perhaps Burglar on the Roof might be more appropriate for that impish dwarf and his dragon.

Things seemed to be going well. Mogul had no idea that his advertising campaign was already being broadcast to the population of Soreham. Let Mogul have his billboards, hah, Sauerkraut thought, my persuasive ads are going directly into the homes of the Sorethighhim, into their living rooms, into their minds. My mole, that Hasbeen, has turned out to be a useful idiot, setting up my cell-antir connections to the power of those Ent pieces right under their very noses. I will rule with none to...

Sauerkraut's overconfident reverie was interrupted when his newfangled cell-antir screen went suddenly to static, then to a "Technical Difficulties, Please Stand By" display. He arose from his obsidian throne (with the hand-crocheted seat cover for those cold winter mornings) and pounded on the cell-antir with his wrinkled but hale fists in frustration. "Badlûk!" he called to his minion-in-waiting, who scampered into the room like an over-steroidal orangutan. "Send out a 'repair' team to check our Soreham base station, double-quick!" Badlûk high-tailed it out of the room at top speed. He had no intention of having his tail used for a broom.

"Grimy is going to have a lot to answer for if those thighs are damaged..."

[And now, a word from our sponsor.]

[FADE UP]



FIRST DWARF: [grumbling loudly]

SECOND DWARF: Hi, Gloom, son of Glum. What'cha grumblin' about? Not that you need an excuse...

FIRST DWARF: Oh, it's you, Gleam son of Beam. [sighs] It's just these mine-working clothes. Ever since I started digging for the mithril I just can't seem to get the grey out. My whites look like they've been washed in a pipeweed ashcan.

SECOND DWARF: [looking over FIRST DWARF's shoulder] That's because you're using that homemade soap alone.

FIRST DWARF: But I've [i]always used it! How do you get your grimy work clothes so clean after a day in the mines?

SECOND DWARF: You need the awesome whitening power of [Holds up bottle of] BALROX BLEACH!

FIRST DWARF: [quizzically] Balrox?

SECOND DWARF: [taking the cork from the bottle and pouring the contents librerally into the washtub] Sure!

ANNOUNCER: [voice over as FIRST DWARF begins scrubbing his clothes on a washboard in the washtub] Balrox Bleach is made from pure lake-water from the uttermost foundations of stone combined with only the finest demons of the ancient world! Guaranteed to make leech every bit of dirt (and color) from your clothes, leaving them their whitest!

FIRST DWARF: [holding up a gleaming white tunic] That's amazing!

ANNOUNCER: [voice over as THE TWO DWARVES admire the newly cleaned tunic] And Balrox is safe for sensitive hands, without leaving that disgusting "White-Hand" residue.

FIRST DWARF: [grinning, looking at his hands] And it leaves my hands soft and silky-smooth!

SECOND DWARF: Wow! Those look just like my wife's hands!

FIRST DWARF: [serious tone] I am your wife.

[A beat passes, then they both begin laughing]

ANNOUNCER: [voice over, close up picture of BALROX BLEACH bottle] Take it from Gandalf, Balrox whitens clothes clean. [DISCLAIMER, spoken very quickly] Balrox is a corrosive and should not be used for cleaning chainmail or leather products. Do not expose to sparks or open flames. Another fine product from Mogul Enterprises.]

[FADE OUT]

[And now, back to our quest]

After many miles of running, limping, flying and panting, interspersed with intervals of gumbling, panting, sweating and (manly) swearing, the Fello/Gallo/Non-specified/It-ship collapsed for the night, having left their pursuers far behind (and some of them lightly baked)....

[ September 30, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

Lord Earnur Etceteron, Laird of Dun Sóbrin, Master of the Dim Bar, Warden of the Oddly Shaped Disputed Bit and Knight of the Order of the Gilded Hedgehog, was engaged in vital affairs of state. At times such as this, with the soiled linen beneath his hands and the cold water of a virgin spring rippling over his manly laundry, he felt truly at one with nature, and free from the trammels of the habitually served.

In other words, Earnur was putting a brave face on the fact that, with his valet far off in the mists of distant Dun Sóbrin and quietly looting his wine cellar, he was having to clean Entish vomit from his own shirts. He had long ago ceased to feel his hands, and his spare outfit was becoming distinctly moist as he reflected on his good fortune in being born into a profligate and dissipated aristocracy; and just how little this high birth really meant to a man drenched in sap-soaked chippings in the middle of the picturesque Wild.

As he slapped a recalcitrant pair of britches one last time against a freezing block of granite, he sighed manfully, and not for the first time he longed for a warming draught of Strangereeks' Celebrated Pheasant, now proscribed for its tendency to make him impersonate Queen Badtüthiel and her Fabulous Flying Felines, whose brand of inept acrobatics had so dismally failed to enthral him as a boy. Perhaps, he reflected, this was not so great a trial as various dignitaries had suggested.

At this moment, as he was preparing to make a start on some stubborn resin stains to his doublet, he was roused from his reverie by a cheery voice, which fell upon his mood rather as an avian bowel movement falls on an unsuspecting bridal party.

'Morning, Squire. Luvly day fer it, if I may make so bold.'

The speaker was the sort of jovial peasant who is normally described as 'the salt of the earth', or in other words someone whose over-liberal presence ruins one's meals, and who is unconscionably bad for the heart. Earnur was preparing to greet him in kind when he noticed something interesting about the man's demeanour: he was leading by a halter a team of four horses, which were yoked to a conveniently large cart. The noble and manly Lord therefore changed tack very slightly.

'Good morrow, goodman Carter! And what brings you forth so early on this fine morning?'

If the haulier was at all surprised by this unwarranted good cheer he made no sign, although some might have noted that his eyebrows knit slightly from the healthy paranoia of the solid yeoman.

'Business, my Lord. A carter's work is never done, so they say.'

A look passed between the mighty steed Pinkjin and the carter's team that suggested otherwise, but it went unnoticed by their respective masters.

'Have you time to spare for some words and a little food? We are in need of news in our camp.'

The carter thought for a few moments, weighing the pressing business of overcharging farmers for his services against the obvious wealth and stupidity of his new acquaintance. The thought of a second breakfast swiftly won him over and he followed our noble hero back to the meadow in which the Neutership had made its weary camp on the previous evening.

Greeted fairly by the companions, and somehow persuaded against reason that Chrysophylax Dives, scourge of small businessmen, posed no immediate danger, the jolly countryman accepted a beaker full of the warm South (in the form of some 'rare herbal tea') and was soon conversing cheerfully about his love of games of chance. So it was that Kuruharan the Dwarf never finished brushing his beard, and that soon our valiant friends were under way once more, the mighty Thighs now lashed firmly to a sturdy wagon. Behind them, naked but for a shirt too filthy even to be sold as a herbal poultice, a simple country fellow sat and counted the jellyfish that sported between the roseate clouds of Dawn, lamenting the kindness of strangers in language only truly mastered by honest sons of the soil.

With constitutions as weak as ever the Thighs continued to emit clouds of sawdust and globs of resin, but in their cart-bound state these failed to bring about any further random acts of laundry. The company rode forth in triumph into a brave new Wold in a glorious dearth of epic verse.

[ October 03, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

The day was balmy and bright, and so also felt Vogonwë son of Geppettuil, third cousin of Throngduil, thrice removed, as he rode along on his stupid steed, Tweedledum the Twaddle-brained.

The half-elf paused to wonder if it would be more expeditious to announce himself as simply “Vogonwë Brownbark, third cousin of O Lando L’oréal Bloom thrice removed” (or was that “fourth” and “quadruple”?) for O Lando seemed to be considerably more popular and well known than his father. Saying “Throngduil” often got blank stares unless he remembered to tack on the “King of Workmud” bit, which felt rather tacky, because any King worth his lembas should need no clarification. On the other hand, everyone had heard of O Lando, and many females swooned at the very mention of the name. “I’m his cousin, you know,” was a most effective pickup line. And just so long as you never let your girlfriend actually meet the fellow in person, things could go smashingly from there.

Vogonwë pulled his mind from this aside and firmly returned it to the matter at hand—the day was nice. Sunny, a bit of a breeze blowing from the west, a few puffy white clouds drifting languidly across the jet stream. Somewhere off in the lush, distant lands they were headed for, a light midmorning spritz of life giving rain was pattering down. Vogonwë started to placidly hum an old Elvish ballad; “On th’ Ëroádà Gaín”, while brushing flies from the flanks of his horse with a whisk broom. If only, he mused, the animal could figure out how to flick its own tail.

Riding beside him, on Tweedledee the Twitty, Pimpi heaved a long, heavy, melodramatic sigh. After Vogonwë missed his cue (and continued to hum cheerfully) she took a deep, deep breath and expelled it so forcefully that his hairbow was swept off his head and trampled under the horses’ hooves.

“What did you do that for?” he inquired, glancing ruefully at the mangled gray accessory on the muddy ground. He thought about cartwheeling down to retrieve it, but seeing as how for the past few weeks he hadn’t been able to coax even the slightest hint of understanding from his horse, he was now struck with a sudden apathy for the so-called wonder of kevlar communication. Still, he was off-put by the pointed way Pimpi ignored his question. “I say, sweets, what’s the matter? Why did you blow my bow down?”

“Oh, I don’t expect you to understand,” Pimpi pouted.

Somewhere, a strangely metallic voice cried out ”Danger, Vogonwë Brownbark, Danger! but Vogonwë didn’t hear it, and he replied, “That’s ridiculous. I am half-elven, which makes me perceptive, wise, and uncannily understanding.”

Pinkjin, trotting along within hearing distance, uttered a soft snort which might have insulted Vogonwë if his hairbow had not been lying forlornly in a hoof print a few strides back.

“Then you don’t have to ask, do you?” Pimpi said, with a toss of her curls.

“Let’s say that I do, and blame it on my mother’s side of the gene pool.”

“That’s just it!” Pimpi exclaimed, “You’re always yammering on about your father, and your mother, and your gene pool, and your elvish side and your mannish side and your ancient elven heritage! Do we ever talk about my heritage?”

“Well, I do recall killing someone a while back and I think it had something to do with—”

“Don’t be a smart aleck with me! You know what I mean. And besides, you males always think that killing someone is all you have to do to be supportive.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. I’ll tell you why I’m feeling down today, Vogonwë—”

“Hey, that rhymed.”

She flashed him a “speak and die” look, and continued “—All that time we spent in my father’s homeland, the land where I spent the first few years of my life, I could not feel the slightest bit at home. I’ve forgotten how to speak and understand their dialect, and to be honest, they all looked the same to me. Tall, big boned, flowing blond hair, blue eyes… you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. And I could not find any close relatives. Yes, while you were getting drunk and slapping men on their hindquarters (don’t think I didn’t notice that) I was trying to get in touch with my family. But alas, no one seemed to have ever heard of Éohorse son of Needahorse. Can you believe that? I mean, you’d think they’d remember a man who brought a hobbit home as his wife, but nooooo. Could I find even one old aunt? Or any cousins, even ten times removed? Noooo! I have passed through Soreham, my homeland, and I feel more acutely than ever, that I am a foundling waif; my only heritage buried in a forgotten corner of the Elven Farm!”

“Oh. That’s too bad,” Vogonwë observed. “You’re a very pretty foundling waif, though.”

“And not only that, do you realize that all this time we’ve been questing, I have gotten to do any real sheildmaidening? Oh sure, there were the trolls, and that food fight, but I wanted to do something heroic, what’s so heroic about a food fight?”

“That whole thing was about defending your honor, you know.”

“Hmph. I think you just enjoyed it,” Pimpi begged to differ (though, really, there was nothing pleading about her tone whatsoever).

“It felt heroic at the time.”

“Well, I thought we were going to be doing big, important things on this Quest. So far we’ve done nothing but burn a city and steal a couple roof supports. And where are the legions of evil? Trolls are just, well, dull and stupid creatures. Where are the hosts of darkness with which to do glorious battle?”

“Darling, it’s a beautiful day, can we sing a travelling song or something?”

“No. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Look, sweetie-pie, I’ll admit that so far there hasn’t been much to write an epic poem about, but hasn’t it been the least bit fun? I think it’s been good for a few sonnets, at least. Well, limericks anyway. Bawdy doggerel. Something.”

“That’s right, it’s all about your ‘poetry’, in the end,” Pimpi rolled her eyes.

“I’m just trying to be positive.”

“And I don’t want to be positive. I want to slay hordes of Orcs and rescue people from dungeons, like last time.”

“I think both times last time the prisoner in question escaped before we had the chance to—”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” Pimpi cried, and urged Tweedledee on ahead. “I’m going to talk to Merisu, at least see listens to me! Hmph!” She and her horse trotted away, her curls bouncing and its tail flicking. Vogonwë watched them for a moment, then sulkily threw his whisk broom into the mud.

“Flick your own flies,” he muttered to Tweedledum, who of course did not understand him.

“Ah,” mused Etceteron, who had been eavesdropping along with Pinkjin the entire time. “Young love. Well I remember those days, bickering about various petty issues long into the night.” He paused, smiling at the memories of his and the fair Vinagrettial’s legendary differences of opinions over the dread sword Wylkynsion. “Those were the days….”

“Excuse me, Lord Etceteron, but I am not young. I am quite a bit older than you, at any rate, whatever age you are.”

“Well, yes, in years,” Earnur nodded. “But, since Elves mature at a slower rather than humans, if we want to talk about emotional maturity—”

“I don’t want to talk about emotional maturity!” Vogonwë snapped, and kicked his horse forward. “I’ve had enough talking, I’m going to go sulk.” And this he did for the better part of an hour, with all the diligence and passion of his elven nature. After a while, though, he fell to ruminating on which horse was stupider, Tweedledum or Tweedledee, and he composed short poem about it:

Tweedledum is dumb, we see,
What is that to Tweedledee?
Tweedledee can flicks its tail,
And at that Tweedledum does fail.
But yesterday Tweedledee ate a nail,
And Tweedledum didn’t.

Falafel and Tweedledee cantered in companionable silence - unfortunately, for Falafel was feeling rather lonely and wishing for a companionable conversation, a wish that remained unfulfilled, since Tweedledee was a mere rent-a-mare and not an heroic steed with the gift of speech. Their riders made up for the silence – well, mostly Pimpiowyn did, talking animatedly to Merisuwyniel without noticing that her sympathetic responses sounded somewhat mechanical. The Elven maiden was much too polite to just ignore the Half-Halfling’s words and too good-natured to show her dejected feelings, but a more observant listener might have noticed a wistfulness in her eyes when she thought no one was watching her.

Her mind wandered back to the Goldlamé Hall. She was, of course, much too modest to wish for the fame of stardom, and yet… The taste of stage performance that she had experienced was just enough to whet her appetite. She did not wish for the cheap publicity of a show like the ‘Sorethighhim Idol’; her taste was nobler, higher, perhaps too much so for the common people? But she could educate the masses to a higher cultural level, perhaps. Even the terror of her previous dreams and the unpleasant experience of Grimy Hasbeen’s amorous advances could not quench the tiny flame that grew steadily within her breast. (Translator’s note: Which breast is not specified in the manuscript.)

However, as the wise and observant leader of the Whatevership, she gradually took notice of the debate going on amongst the males of their company. They had lagged behind, ostensibly making sure that the heavy burden of the Entish Thighs was not too much for the cart. She had a suspicion that they wished to recreate the bonds of male companionship which they had experienced in Soreham, and listened to their conversation, tuning one Elven ear to its masculine tones while still listening to Pimpi’s tirade with the other. (Her eyes, by the way, were busy taking in the impressions of the massive advertising campaign on the newly erected billboards and trying to find something good in them – after all, the cheery colours – well, no, they were just garish… But the interesting messages? She sighed; sometimes being positive was so strenuous! …as was multi-tasking… )

“I should very much like to see the site of so many heroic manly deeds,” said Etceteron.

“Indeed, the Sorethighhim were ever courageous allies of the Grundorians, and their fortress, the Hornyburg, could not be taken while manned,” Orogarn (Two, of course) exclaimed.

“What wonderful lays must have been penned of their deeds,” mused Vogonwë. “Perhaps I could write an ode in memory…”

Kuruharan hastened to interrupt him. “Do you remember the Glitzy Caverns of Ham Steep, Chrysophylax?” he asked the dragon. “Such wonderful strobes and mirrorballs – there was an endless pilgrimage of hip people who came to dance there. Your Workmud parties, Vogonwë, are but provincial picnics compared with its vast discos – immeasurable dancefloors, filled with never-ending music played by the coolest disc-jockeys of Muddled-Mirth.”

Grrralph’s interest perked up noticeably at the mention of music; however, he remained silent as usual, waiting to see what the others would say and do.

The Gateskeeper agreed enthusiastically – he had his own reasons for wanting to visit the fortifications. Perhaps he could get away from the others just long enough to use his portable Cell-antír and call Mogûl with the news of the Entish Thighs. He will be pleased at my clever handling of the situation, he thought.

Oh no, Merisuwyniel groaned inwardly. More Sorethighhim men means there will be more drinking and rear-slapping male shenanigans – I must appear to grant their request, yet keep the Fe-Maleship together.

“I too desire to see this impressive union of strength and beauty,” she proclaimed. “It will scarcely take us out of our way, and perhaps it will inspire us to heroic deeds of our own,” she added, smiling at Pimpiowyn. “Take care that the wagon with the Entish Thighs is kept under control – the ascent is steep indeed.”

Chrysophylax flew ahead, the lovelorn Nazgrrl close behind him. Soon the rest of them saw the walls of ancient stone, within them a lofty tower. A mighty fortress indeed - indestructible, imperishable, incorruptible, inexterminable, inextinguishable, immutable, unalterable, unchangeable, perpetual, durable, enduring, lasting, permanent, unquenchable… (OK, I guess you get the idea.)

By rounding a bend, cresting a rise, jumping a gorge, crossing a plain, fording a river, pausing for lunch, taking a nap, and spinning around three times the Gallowship came to of the great fortress of the Hornyburg. It was situated at the entrance of a gorge. One massive tower stood tall and strong on one side, and a great wall blocked the rest of the gorge. The gate was gained by means of a rising causeway. This proved to be a spot of bother because the cart they had "acquired" seemed to have a knack for finding every bump and crevice in the road and every jolt sent the Thighs flying out the back and rolling back down the ramp.

"$*#%!" shouted the Gateskeeper, falling into the uncouth language of Soreham, as the Thighs rolled down the hill for the fifteenth time. "This will take all day!"

"And probably most of the night," moaned Orogarn Two.

"We do have two dragons, or one dragon and one sort of dragon," muttered Vogonwë, "why don’t they do something to help us out?!"

This remark went completely unheeded by the great beasts in question. Grrruff was busy wafting her wings in Chrysophylax’s general direction and wondering if sometime next April would be good.

Chrysophylax, on the other hand, was thoroughly flustered. It had been a very long time and he was not sure what he was supposed to do. He decided to follow the worst of his options and stare off in the other direction with a goofy expression on his face. Grrruff inched a little closer and emit a hideous stench, which no dragon in his right mind could resist. Chrysophylax, in a spectacular fit of emotional constipation, made himself very busy staring at the ground. As a matter of fact, the ground was fascinating. There were two spiders down there expressing their deep and abiding love for each other. That made him feel even more uncomfortable (especially when he saw what happened to the male as soon as they were done). Left feeling a little woozy, Chrysophylax flopped down on the ground and tried to forget what he had just seen and all the other things that could possibly go wrong.

He sat there so long that he failed to notice when the Gallowship had reloaded the cart and started up the causeway.

It hardly mattered because ten minutes later there came a *THUMP* *BUMP* and both Thighs were down beside him again.

"$*#%!" shouted the Gateskeeper.

"That’s it!!!" shouted Orogarn Two. "Make the creatures carry them up!"

Grrruff flew down and picked up one of the Thighs, gently brushing Chrysophylax’s scaly side with one of her wings, and then flew up toward the gate. Chrysophylax just shuddered, trying to contain who knows what, had remained still.

Kuruharan ran up.

"What’s come over you, you horny old varmint?!!!!!" (The dwarf had no idea!) "I have some business to attend to inside Ham Steep!!" The dwarf kicked Chrysophylax in the side. "Now hurry up!!"

The kick steadied Chrysophylax somewhat. He picked up a Thigh and carried it up to the gate. Grrruff was waiting for him. Chrysophylax landed on the edge of the cliff, as far from Grrruff as possible. Grrruff inched nearer to him. Chrysophylax stared down the cliff and briefly wondered if it would hurt. The pause that ensued while the two of them waited for the rest of the Gallowship was anything but pregnant (or impregnating).

When the rest of the Gallowship reached the Gate, Merisuwyniel went forward and knocked on the door.

A little old man, mikestand in hand, stuck his head out.

"Go AWAY!!!" he screeched. "The line is full!"

"Are you sure?" asked Merisuwyniel, leaning forward.

Unfortunately, the little old man was too old to fall for that.

"What?!" he bawled. "Speak up!! I can’t hear you!! That’s the trouble with you young whipper-snappers these days!!! Always mumblin’ and mutterin’!!"

"Never mind," said Earnur. He strode forward and drew Griper. "Prepare to be diced and sliced!"

"Oh-no!" whimpered the blade.

Suddenly, the Gate flew open and it swarmed with a mass of Sorethighhim, all armed to the teeth with mikestands and fiddlesticks. Even the Gallowship might be daunted by the numbers now facing them. The Gallowship was about to give it a go anyway when Kuruharan stepped forward. He handed a card to the warden.

The warden gazed at it myopically for a moment.

"Oh!" he said. "Terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t see you." He waved his mikestand and a passage opened up in the ranks of the Sorethighhim. "Lord Dimli will be most pleased to see you!" He escorted Kuruharan through the ranks of the Sorethighhim, fawning over the dwarf pathetically. He was saying something about "putting in a good word with the boss."

As the Gallowship started to follow after the ranks closed and the Sorethighhim held their weapons at the ready. "That does not include you!" growled one of the guards.

The rest of the Gallowship, being now summarily abandoned to fend for themselves (and Chrysophylax feeling more flummoxed than ever without his master), Kuruharan went down into the fortress of Hornyburg and down toward the Glitzy Caverns of Ham Steep. As they went the warden told him how things were going down there.

"Lord Dimli has expanded the dance floors and the casinos. He has also added 200 rooms to the hotel. This has increased the profits of Ham Steep by 150%!" As they drew nearer the entrance to the Caverns, Kuruharan noticed that there was a large crowd outside the door. It was made of two distinctly different types of people. One group, the one that was heading into Ham Steep, was well dressed in the latest and trendiest of fashions (much of it conveniently provided by the clothing boutique that bore the name "Lord Dimli’s Haberdashery"). The line to enter the Caverns was blocked at the doors by burly, heavily-armed dwarves. The other group of people was coming out of a side entrance and their appearance was different in every way. Instead of being dressed in their best they were all wearing cheap barrels and many showed signs of having received a severe beating. This group was being shoved out of the Caverns by another group of armed dwarves, who seemed to be primarily concerned that the first group should not see the second.

Kuruharan was impressed. "I see that business has really picked up!" he said. "King Gain Lotso’moola was quite right when he said that there were big bucks to be made in exploiting the human’s addiction to fast living! This is going even better than he thought! There are a bunch of Elves from Topfloorien here! Apparently Lord Dimli has started importing some better brands of booze!"

"He has indeed," said the warden. They walked up to the bouncers at the door. "This is a special visitor for Lord Dimli," he announced. "He must be admitted at once!"

"Of course," said one of the dwarves. "This way please."

Kuruharan followed the bouncer into a lobby that was too posh for words. He could hear the sounds of raucous music coming from the dance halls, and even happier to his ears, the sound of fools being parted from their money in the casinos. He could barely suppress a giggle of delight.

Kuruharan followed the bouncer down an elegant staircase into the hotel area. Down a few more passages and they passed a sign that said "None but Dwarves Beyond this Point!" and thus entered the Executive Suites.

The bouncer led Kuruharan to one of the larger suites.

"Milord Dimli will be with you shortly," said the bouncer before he departed.

Kuruharan took a few minutes to explore the cavernous suite. He found it to be quite up to snuff.

After sitting down on a sofa that was ridiculously oversized for any dwarf, Kuruharan decided that it was high time to catch forty winks.

Seventy winks later, the door opened. Another dwarf, even more regally dressed than Kuruharan (if that were possible) entered. It was Lord Dimli, Director of the Glitzy Caverns Resort & Casino.

"Ahh, Milord Dimli," said Kuruharan, struggling to get up off the couch. "It is a *ooof* pleasure to see *hoik* you!" he stammered as he failed to rise and fell down among the cushions.

"Quite so," intoned Lord Dimli. "Come to pick up your share of the profits?" he inquired amiably.

"I thought (help me out here!) that I might," said Kuruharan, getting hopelessly tangled in one of the pillows. "How go *oy* things here?"

"Oh, well enough," sighed Lord Dimli. "Mogûl tried to run us out of here six months ago. Fortunately, he has no entertainment establishments that can compete with us and most of his troops come here on their leave. It nearly caused a mutiny in his own ranks. All that was required on our part was a few strong-armed tactics on a few of his business agents and some selective fire-bombings of certain choice properties and he backed down. It has been rather quiet of late."

"*AACCKKK*" croaked Kuruharan has he fell over the back of the sofa. "There, finally!" he sputtered. "Funny you should mention Mogûl, but there are some of his people standing outside the gates right now!" He told Lord Dimli all about the Quest of the Entish Bow.

"Don’t worry," said Lord Dimli. "By the time they get out of here none of them will have a dime to their names! And they certainly won’t have any pieces of a certain Ent that was Broken! Those will be much safer here with me!"

What do these two conniving swindlers have in store for our innocent and lovable heroes (well, maybe not so innocent)?! Will the Gallowship really leave Ham Steep without a dime to their names?! Will Kuruharan go weeping all the way to the bank?! What does Lord Dimli want to do with the Ent that was Broken?!!

Find out in our next exciting episode!!! Same bat time, same bat channel!!!

[ October 11, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

As the Dwarf entered the Hornyburg, Grrralph inspected the garish posters advertising the shows currently running in the Glitzy Caverns. Cabed-en-aras-aret he had already seen several times and he had commited its songs to memory long ago ("What good is sitting, alone on your throne?"). He also had little desire to see the animal show...something about the wild were-worms of the south and an animal tamer named Roy the Throatless. Even more threatening was the fine print on the bottom of the posters which read "three drink minimum". He shuddered at the thought, an action which made his mail jingle like a purse full of loose change.

He mounted his mighty steed and began to back away from the gate. Merisu noticed the wraith was preparing to depart and moved over to him. "Aren't you coming inside with us once the line gets smaller?" she asked as she removed her backpack and swung the Bow from her shoulder. Grrralph's glowing red eyes followed the Bow like a cat might follow a catnip mouse.

"Bow," he answered. "I mean, no! I think that I shall take a ride and enjoy the fresh air."

Merisu cocked her head prettily to one side and swung the bow back and forth in her hands. Watching Grrralph's head follow the motion of the bow, a Dwarf craftsman standing on the wall was suddenly inspired and ran to his workshop. One year later, Bali's Bobbleheads was a multi-million dollar a year business.

"Are you sure?" asked Merisu. "There'll be shows and singing."

Grrralph took a deep, ragged breath and shook his head. "No, Merisu," he responded. "I think that I need some time alone right now." The Elf nodded and turned away. No one else noticed as Grrralph rode off towards the east. Nor did anyone notice the dark speck flying high above which followed Grrralph as he went.

An hour later, Grrralph dismounted in the midst of a dusty prairie that had seen too little rain for too long. He waited silently next to a billboard advertising something called Mogûlball. He did not have to wait for long. A Nazgul dropped from the sky to land next to him and its rider dismounted. "Hey, Grrralph!" the wraith called.

"Hi Geeeorge," answered Grrralph.

"Mogûl's been following the progress of you and your friends with some interest," said Geeeeorge. "He has a real interest in the wood that your buddies have been carrying around. The Thighs and the Bow? He's very interested if you know what I mean."

"Very interested," repeated Grrralph vacantly.

"If you help him get the wood, there'll be a reward," commented the wraith as he examined the billboard.

"A reward? What kind of reward?" asked Grrralph.

"First, he'll make you vice-president of subsidiary operations. That's a plum position. You'll have your hands in all sorts of stuff and a corner office. Second... well, he wanted you to know that he bought up all of old Sourone's spells... including the Thingwraith spell."

"Does he know how to remove the spell?" demanded Grrralph, his interest piqued.

"Not yet," answered Geeeorge. "I'm as interested in that as you are. I used to be somebody. I could have been a contender. Instead of a wraith, which is what I am now. He'll work on it once his takeover bid is finished and I'll bet that he can figure out how to remove the spell."

"What does he want from me?" asked Grrralph.

"Just stay with the Itship or the Gallowship or whatever ship they call it," replied Geeeorge. "When the time comes and he moves on the wood, just step aside and let it happen. Or better yet, help out. I'll bet you'd love to lop the head of of one of those hoighty-toity Men, wouldn't you?"

Grrralph did not answer, but he thought back to when Orogarn (Two) had called him stupid, and when Earnur had called him stupid, and when Kuruharan had called him stupid, and...never mind. Though he could not recall Merisu ever calling him...

"Think about it," said Geeeorge as he mounted his Nazgul. "We don't need an answer now. Just think about it." The beast leapt into the air with its leathery wings outstretched and sped off towards the East.

Grrralph stood for a moment as dust billowed around him. Then he mounted his horse, Puff, and rode off towards the Hornyburg.

Grrruff the Nazgrrl sat on the bottom step of the Glitzy Caverns, feeling both unimportant and unsatisfied. "Why did I come here? I am not wanted." she thought to herself gloomily. While she sat she played with the Entish Thigh that she had been carrying for what seemed like forever, idly dragging it back and forth up and down the steps while it muttered "Please, I wish you wouldn't do...OW!...now really, you could try to be a bit more careful...ooooph! I'm scratched!"

Grrralph had seemed so happy to see her! And yet, here he was ambling off on that miserable, misshapen equine, Puff. "Why didn't he want to fly? He used to love my flying!" She banged the Thigh hard on the steps, cracking the marble and causing the wood to give a most un-Ent-like squeal. Grrruff seriously considered eating Puff whenever Grrralph returned from whatever mysterious errand he was on, but knew that pony would just go straight to her hips.

"As if HE'D even notice." she sighed again. As if things were not bad enough, Chrysophylax was still directing his attention in every direction except her own. At this moment he had snaked his head through the casino door and was studiously watching a pair of Halfling croupiers happily fleece a down-on-his-luck Half-Elven at endless games of "Eleventy-One".

"What'swrong with me?" she whimpered to herself, wringing the sentient log in her claws. Green tears threatened to splash from her slitted eyes, which the Entish Thigh knew would leave a ring on his highly polished grain. He desperately tried to think of some way to stem the sticky flow.

"Perhaps you need to take a different approach with that one, young...uh...beastress?" he stammered.

"Coooooo?" Grrruff whimpered

"Well, find out what his interests are. What does he do for a living? Why does he hang out with a Dwarf? Does he like music? Why not write him a nice note telling him how glad you are to be sharing this adventure." - "And you might also ask why this motley collection of half-wits chose to remove me from The Goldlamé Hall in the first place" the log muttered under its breath.

Grrruff stared blankly at the Thigh for a moment, as if it suggested she take up rose gardening. Then, dropping the lumber, she bounded down the steps to the luggage still bundled on the Gallowship's cart. Flinging clothes, toiletries, and magic jewelry carelessly about, she dug through the backpacks until she found a piece of parchment, quill and ink. Then clambering back up the stairs, she laid these down in front of the Entish Thigh and impatiently tapped him with her claw, leaving a gouge.

"What, you want me to write the letter? But my dear young beastress, I have no hands". Grrruff immediately whirled and dashed off down the steps again.

Just as the Ent-part was congratulating himself on getting out of what he was sure would have been an uncomfortable and distasteful assignment, Grrruff came galumphing back with one of the Halfling croupiers clutched in her teeth. She dropped him on the steps and pinned him there with a talon, while gazing at the Log with pleading eyes.

The Entish Thigh heaved a martyred sigh. "You may as well give up struggling and pick up the quill, old chap," he said to the struggling hobbit, who was futilely swinging his fists at the towering fell beast. "You and I are about to compose a billet-doux".

[ October 13, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

After hours of waiting and wishing, the Togethership at last reached the head of the line and was allowed to pass between the pearly gates of the heavenly entrance to the Glitzy Caverns. Beautiful statues of various creatures, including angels, devils, and bearded lady dwarves, lined the long and brightly lit foyer that stretched for nearly the length of a REB-I Etceteron bar receipt and was traversed via a leisurely ride on a Topfloorien “People Mover” Sliding Sidewalk. Between each statue was a tall mirror in which each adventurer admired himself, herself, or itself as they sidled toward a growing barrage of peculiar sounds. Orogarn Two looked up from his handsome reflection just in time to avoid stumbling at the end of the trip.

“Slots!” he shouted, and rushed forward to push a little old Sorethighem lady away from the machine she had momentarily neglected. He looked back to the group. “Anyone have a coin?”

Everyone quickly coughed a lame excuse for not proffering any money and took off in different directions, leaving the smiling Grundorian standing alone with the disgruntled blue-haired horse lady.

“I’ll have my machine back, you big brute!” she shouted, and made to swing her hefty purse at him.

“Not today, madam,” replied Orogarn Two with a quick kick to her walker that sent her stumbling into another machine. He fished deeply into his front right pocket and produced a rusty copper Grundorian kabob. “I believe this game is mine!”

Ignoring the fallen gambler (who could not get up), he turned back to his machine triumphantly and slid the coin into its hungry maw.

---- Horse Head ---- Horse Head ---- Hunk of Rock ----

“Argh!” he cried and kicked the machine. “Am I ever cursed to suffer such misfortune?”

“Yes!” growled the old lady, finally hauling herself upward. “Now go suffer somewhere else!”

Not having another kabob and seeing no better alternative, Orogarn Two gave her the one fingered “good luck” sign and walked in the direction of an Automatic Moolah Machine he had spotted near the far end of the slot hall. Before he reached the machine he heard a loud siren go off behind him and he turned to see the old woman and her walker dancing in circles (very slow circles) under a great shining “$1,000,000” sign. She was shouting and singing, and when she noticed him she returned his good luck sign with both hands.

Sighing, he turned to the machine and slid his Citibank card into the reader.

For Instruction in Grundorian Press 1
Buz Gluzngub ne Moredough Grek 2

1

Please input your PIN and hit Enter.

Orogarn Two looked around carefully and shielded the keypad with his jacket to hide his actions from a nosy dwarf who had gotten in line behind him. He slyly punched his code number with four quick jabs of his good luck finger.

* * * *

ENTER

1 Quick-kabobs
2 Withdrawal
3 Deposit
4 Balance

2

How much do you wish to withdrawal?

GK 1,000

He waited while the machine steadily whirred and buzzed, finally spitting out 1,000 kabobs in crisp 50 kabob bills. He took the receipt and his card and walked away from the machine quickly, hoping the dwarf hadn’t seen how much he had withdrawn. With any luck, he’d be a rich man by morning.*

* For clarity’s sake, Orogarn Two and the entire family of the Steward are already stinking rich, but even the well-to-do love to win at gambling.

[ October 14, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

Gateskeeper did not like waiting in long lines, even though he refused to hire more help to assist the long lines of people returning or needing assistance with his soft wares back at his headquarters on the shores of the Pea Sea. The fact that Kuruharan got in so quickly without having to wait with the rest of them was suspicious indeed. The covetous capitalist-dwarf was too wily to spend the required coin to bribe the guards, so why did they treat him with such deference? Once he saw the avaristic munchkin disappear past the guards, he retained the presence of mind to furtively toss a "trace" spell at the rapidly receeding backside of the dwarf so that he could listen in on the dwarf's activities. Within 15 minutes he had logged everything he needed to know.

At long last Gateskeeper and the others were admitted to the great Casinos and Dancefloors of Ham Steep, and even his jaded eyes were amazed at the facade of posh splendor, the gold-painted crown molding, the zircon-encrusted chandeliers, the long-bearded serving-wenches. But he did not head first to the dice games or the disc-jockeys, but to a secluded corner where he fired up his pocket cell-antir and entered the secret combination of symbols that would direct his image to the land of Moredough, and the topmost floor of the great Tower Block of Barát-Höm.

Môgul's cat, "Heslob" slept on his desk atop his private satel-antir, while he himself stretched his nebulous form out in his luxurious desk chair, smoky feet propped beside the cat, for a bit of entertainment and downtime. Môgul derived much pleasure from watching his favorite show, El Amon Lhaw, true stories of the Korprat-Loyers taken from the Journal of the Muddled-Mirth Bar Association (or was it Korprat-Loyers drinking at the Bar of the Muddled-Mirth Journal Association), and seldom allowed anything to interrupt. Nevertheless, when the jangling satel-antir sent the cat screetching and scampering from the room, he dutifully activated the device.

"Gatesssy."

"How did you know it was me, O Victorious Viceroy of Vileness?" Gateskeeper said in a clandestine whisper, remembering to string together alliterative titles and hoping none of the rest of the Whatevership was close enough to hear.

"Caller-ID. You have something to report? Make it fast, the Korprat-Loyers on El Amon Lhaw are just about to crush this poor widow out of her tumbledown shanty, and I want to see her weeping on the stand, and my video tape machine is broken."

"As you wish, O Excrable Evil Excellency. You are aware that we found a couple more pieces of the Ent-that-was-broken, are you not?"

"Yes, nice work on that by the way. You're at Ham Steep?"

"Yes, O Most Malfeascent Monstrosity. The Lord Dimli seems to be doing quite well here. Are the Loyers having trouble with the hostile takeovers?"

"How did you...never mind!" said Môgul in an annoyed huff. "What have you to report?"

Gateskeeper played his card. "One of our Nondescriptship is a partner with Dimli. For some extra...'consideration'... I could open a channel for you here..."

Môgul mused on this for a moment with a smoky hiss, followed by a hacking chuckle. "You never cease to amaze me, Gatesy. First Improvas, and now Ham Steep. You know what to do. I'll make sure you have your choice of office here at the Tower Block when this is all over. And the Entish Bow."

"Indeed, O Beastly Behemoth of Brutality," Gateskeeper said, trying to hear over the thumping disco inferno in the next room, "I'll begin right away."

The Dark and Somewhat Insubstantial Lord deactivated his satel-antir and sat back. El Amon Lhaw could be entertaining, but not as entertaining as the look he imagined on Sauerkraut's face when he would be told that Gatesey would replace him.

Back in Ham Steep, Gateskeeper tucked away his cell-antir into his robe, pulled his black glove a bit tighter over his marked hand, and walked lazily to a hotel balcony overlooking the grand casino area. There he could see the flying cards of the pœkhãř area, a table where he’d recognized Jack, a Black Noodleorean, dealing games of “twenty-one”, and evern a bleary-eyed Orogarn Two frustratedly dropping Grundorian coin into the cheap slots over on the side. Then he spied his game of choice. He ordered a Tipsy Balrog from the barkeeper and meandered over to the tables of rûë-léţ with its spiked spinning wheels, a game he’d learned from watching Sauerkraut on Casino Night back at the Annual Dorktank Office Party. And he’d learned well.

Seating himself at the table with his drink, he witnessed an interchange between a slightly-inebriated dwarf-waiter, sporting a natty tag that said “Hello, My Name is Sam!”, and one of the other patrons who was complaining about the dish which had been set before him.

“This is a Quiche Lorraine! I specifically ordered a bacon pie!

You lush, remember this!
A quiche is still a quiche,
A pie is still a pie!
The culinary terms apply
As time goes by!

Now bring it again, Sam!”

Gateskeeper smirked and turned to the numbered wheel and the board that matched the numbers. Fishing out a pocketful of gold coin, he tossed a handful to the dwarf behind the wheel, who dutifully bit each one before exchanging them for the gambling chips. He observed the board carefully, then placed a 3-inch stack of large-denomination chips on the double-zero square. There were some awed oohs and ahhs (and not a few knowing chuckles) from the crowd at this maneuver, but the dwarf merely said, “Very good, sir!” before setting the wheel in motion in one direction, while sending a small ball travelling around the rim of the wheel in the opposite direction. It was at that moment that Gateskeeper whispered over the table the words he’d heard Sauerkraut use that night at Dorktank so long ago – “www.cheatcode.com”.

As the wheel and the ball slowed, the ball fell from the rim onto one of the numbered slots on the wheel…double zero. There was an immediate burst of applause from the spectators (and a collective gasp from the chucklers), as the dwarf running the game pushed 4 massive stacks of chips towards Gateskeeper for his winnings. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he pushed them back, saying “let it ride.” There was an even greater gasp of awe as the dwarf nodded and sent the wheel and ball into motion again, the nervous tension growing as the rolling and whirling continued seemingly forever until the ball lost enough momentum to trip off the rim…and back into the double-zero slot.

As the gathering crowd looked on in stunned silence, Gateskeeper thought to himself, “I’ll own this entire complex inside of an hour…”

[ October 15, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

Vogonwë and Pimpi strolled along the glamorous walkways of the Glizty Caverns, taking in the sights and sounds of cold, hard cash (and the lack thereof). Any quibbling quarrels they’d had earlier in day were forgotten, as both parties were given to mood swings and emotional amnesia. Besides, a Casino/Arcade/Carnival/Amusement Park is no place to be at odds with one’s honey.

Pimpi’s blue eyes were wide as saucers as she surveyed the many wonders of Dwarven entertainment swirling around them. She cocked her head innocently at the bright lights, sales pitches, greedy drooling and subsequent rending of clothing and sprinkling of ashes as races from all over Muddled-Mirth were cajoled, fleeced, hustled, cheated, and shanghaied out of their money. Vogonwë walked with one hand holding his love’s, and the other holding onto his purse. (Yes, purse. A little leather pouch containing his livelihood in gold coins. What, you thought it was a handbag with powder and lipstick?)

“What should we do, Voggy?” Pimpi asked, her head fairly swirling with the glitz and glam calling out to her. Fortunately, this did not extend to the literal sense, otherwise she may have been forced to cough up the peas she’d eaten for afternoon snack.

“Strolling’s nice,” Vogonwë said, with a gulp as he witnessed a naked Elf being shaven by a pair of Dwarves running a kabob pawn stand (after V & P passed by, the Elf cashed in his hair to buy more kabobs. He lost them all within ten minutes, and the Dwarves began to debate what to cut off of him next).

“What, you mean we’re not going to do anything?” Pimpi pouted.

“We’re doing something, we’re window shopping.”

She sighed. Vogonwë realized that it would be in his best interests, perhaps, to find something to do. Something moderately safe, expenditure-wise, that is, something not guaranteed to suck his purse dry within ten minutes. Something that would restore the light in Pimpi’s eyes and not force him to go through another “you-are-boring-and-you-don’t-understand-me” conversation. Something he could win at, by Emu!

After a few more minutes of strolling along silently, observing the antics of the monetarily challenged and the desperation of the losing endowed, fortune smiled upon the Half-Elf and Half-Halfing. They came upon a game called “Spin the Dart-Board”, where contestant after contestant failed miserably at the task of throwing darts at designated spots on a circular spinning board. The aim was not so easy as getting a bull’s-eye, nay, for a bull’s-eye remains in the same spot not matter what the torque on the rest of the board. Instead (the observers learned) the impossible goal was to hit all eighteen of the little glowing diamond-like icons ringing round the rosy bulls’s-eye.

The Dwarf running the game, one Fungus by name, we reeling in the dough from hapless wretch after hapless wretch drawn in by the hypnotically spinning wheel. “This looks like fun,” Vogonwë said, stepping up to the back of the nearly catatonic line. “Start picking out the prize you want, Pimps.”

“Oooh,” Pimpi mused, looking at the full shelves of Dwarven trinkets—jewelry and silverware and candlesnuffers and other cheap imitation odds and ends. “There’s so much of choose from, how will I ever…?”

“Well, you’d better,” Vogonwë preened, “because I could win this contest with my eyes half-shut. Maybe I will….”

“Oh Voggy,” she hung on his arm in a cloying yet gratifying display of affection, “knock ‘em dead!”

When they reached the head of the line, several minutes and many more broken banks later, Vogonwë flung a coin into the grubby hands of the Dwarf, then gathered up a handful of darts with a jaunty air. Winking at Pimpi, he threw them lazily in the general direction of the whirling board.

*FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP*

Eighteen arrows hit eighteen icons in quick succession. One Dwarf jaw hit one pair of Dwarf feet.

“I’ll take the purple palantír plush toy!” Pimpi proclaimed.

“B-b-b-b-b-b-u-t—” the Dwarf stammered.

“You heard her, Master Longbeard,” Vogonwë said, relishing Fungus’s expression. “One triple P for my Lady.”

“Who are you?” the Dwarf picked up his jaw and reinserted it in his skull.

“Vogonwë Brownbark, Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud One Hundred Years Running,” Vogonwë puffed out his chest.

“Hmmm…” Fungus reluctantly picked up the plush purple palantír and handed it over to the eager young girl with the golden curls.

On the shelf behind where the palantír had been, sat a dusty and forlorn looking breadbox. Vogonwë and Pimpi began to turn away, with visions of other unsuspecting Dwarves and their seemingly un-winnable games dancing in their heads. But then they heard a strangely wooden voice say, “Oh pick me, pick me, oh pick me!”

They halted, and turned around. Fungus began to whistle and then broke out into a chorus of,

”Oh pick me, oh pick me,
Pick me pick me pick me,
A picka picka picka meeee!”

“Vogonwë, try another round, I’ve suddenly remembered that I’m in dire need of a breadbox,” Pimpi said.

“Whoops, sorry, we’re closed,” Fungus said, whipping out a “closed” sign.

“I really need that breadbox,” Pimpi whined.

“Yeah, you should see how stale our bread is,” Vogonwë agreed. “We really need that breadbox. I almost chipped a tooth last time I had a sandwich.”

“Hellllooo, Mister Tossing Champion of Workmud—”

“Arrow Throwing.”

“Whatever. I said, we’re closed,” the Dwarf crossed his stubby arms.

“Are you schizophrenic?” Pimpi inquired.

“What?”

“Never mind. Pleeease just let us go for the breadbox?”

“No! No breadboxes today! We’re CLOSED!” the Dwarf shrieked, snatching the breadbox from the shelf and tucking it under his arm.

“Oy vey, ever heard of bathing?” the wooden voice muttered.

“Listen, if you won’t let us earn it honestly,” Vogonwë offered, “just hand over the box now and no one will get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?” Fungus asked, eyes narrowing as he swept the darts off the countertop.

Vogonwë and Pimpi smiled in unison, looking as genial and innocent as they could manage (Pimpi did a smashing good job). Fungus found this extremely disconcerting, and began to back away. Suddenly, Vogonwë jumped over the counter and attempted to snatch the Entish Breadbox from the smelly pit of the Dwarf.

Fungus surprised the would-be thief by lowering his head and ramming it into said half-elf’s abdominal area. “Oooof,” Vogonwë gasped, and kicked Fungus in the shoulder. Unfortunately, he found that most of his karaté moves were useless against the Dwarf because of the difficult angle caused by his shortness. Fungus began to punch Vogonwë repeatedly in the knee-cap.

“Ow ow ow ow!” Vogonwë screamed, then swore rather unpoetically in Simian and Quixotic as he boxed the Dwarf’s ears.

“Do you need help, sweetheart?” Pimpi asked hopefully.

“Argghhh!” Vogonwë replied, as Fungus tripped him up. Dwarf and Half-Elf fell to the floor, kicking and biting and punching. Fungus clung tenaciously to the Entish Breadbox, which gasped, “Ooooh! They’re fighting over me!!!!”

Pimpi climbed on top of the counter awkwardly, lying on her stomach as she tried to swing her legs over the side. “Oof,” she grumbled, falling over the edge on top of the brawling males. “Aha!” she exclaimed, grabbing Fungus by the beard with one hand and fumbling to get Hush out of its sheath with the other. “Aha!” she repeated, pointing the hilt at the Dwarf. “Oops,” she turned the dagger around and held the point close to where she supposed his throat to be. “There. Aha! Say hello to Hush!”

“Hello, Hush,” Fungus gulped.

“Now ask Hush how Hush’s day was.”

“How was your day, Hush?”

“Not bad,” Pimpi said in falsetto, “you?”

“Uh, Pimpi…” Vogonwë interrupted from where he lay pinned underneath the Dwarf.

“Right. Hand over the breadbox or I’ll make you better acquainted with Hush!” Pimpi threatened, jabbing Hush at the Dwarf menacingly.

“Never!!!” Fungus declared with a fey look in his eyes. Vogonwë pushed the Dwarf up toward the point of the blade, and Fungus rethought his position. “All right! All right!” he thrust the breadbox at Pimpi, “here, take it, black hearted thieves!”

“Thank you,” Pimpi chirped, hopping off of him, breadbox in hand.

“Police! POLICE!” Fungus began to scream at the top of his lungs as soon as the blade was far away from his jugular vein.

“Shut up!” Vogonwë yelled, but Pimpi took a more drastic course of action, and bopped Fungus over the head with the breadbox.

“Uck,” the Dwarf passed out.

“Ouch!” the box protested, “why didn’t you just stab him?”

Vogonwë rolled the inert Dwarf off to the side and stood up, brushing his hair from his eyes. Ever since Pimpi had done away with his hairbow, snarls and the in-the-way factor had increased dramatically. “Wasn’t that fun,” he observed, pilfering an el ástick band from the trophy shelf.

“Are we really black hearted thieves?” Pimpi asked, knitting her brow in a fetching fashion.

“We,” Vogonwë said solemnly, “are liberators.”

“Oh,” Pimpi was relieved. “All right then.”

Vogonwë chivalrously lifted his love over the counter, then did a backflip over it, himself. As they left the scene of the liberation (dartboard still twirling away without a care in the world) Vogonwë began to sing,

”Won’t Merisu be so glad with us,
We’re bringing her an Entish Breadbox,
Yes.”

[ October 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

The children sat expectantly, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Although it was dark outside and there was no apparent source of light within, their faces shone with an inner radiance that lit the hall as brightly as any lamp.

The door opened, and a man stepped in. Although he was youthful in appearance, his deep blue eyes belied a profound wisdom well beyond his apparent years, indeed beyond time itself. His kindly face beamed brightly as he paused for a moment by the door and surveyed the children, his children, sitting cross-legged before him. The chattering stopped and all eyes turned to the man in excited anticipation. An indulgent smile briefly played upon his lips before he walked slowly to the front of the hall and addressed the assembly.

“Now, my children,” he began. “The time for practice is over. I have instructed you as best as I can. You must now breathe life into the theme that I have laid out for you. Sing now, my children. Sing as you have never sung before.”

And, upon his cue, the children began to sing. The sound of their voices filled the hall, great and wondrous in its beauty, full of splendour and glory, magnificent and yet somehow haunting.

“All things droll and comical,
All sub-plots great and small,
All things fun and farcical,
In Muddled-Mirth shall rule.

Each play on words and pay-off
Each little jape and jest,
We like the quick one-liners,
But running gags are best.”

But, as the children’s song unfolded, a low hum could be heard, almost imperceptible at first, but insistent and gradually growing in intensity. A look of displeasure crossed the man’s face as he brought the song to a halt.

“Who’s making that dreadful racket?” he asked, surveying the radiant faces before him. His gaze alighted on a boy sitting at the back of the hall, bigger than the rest with dark, tousled hair and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Ah, Melvin. I should have guessed. Would you please stop that nonsense right now?”

“Oohhh!” groaned Melvin, obviously reluctant to give up his little game. Then, as the man’s eyes shot him a piercing glance, he grudgingly gave way. “Yes Dad,” he said sheepishly, his eyes staring fixedly at the floor.

The song started up again.

“All things hale and humorous,
All satire well-observed,
All things light and ludicrous,
The blithe and the absurd ...”

“Ow!” exclaimed a girl with pigtails and flowers in her hair. She promptly burst into tears and, with each drop that fell to the earthen floor, a delicate green shoot sprang up.

“Dad, Melvin just pulled Yawanna’s pigtails,” said one of the boys, almost identical to Melvin in looks but smaller in build and fairer of face. Melvin shot him a withering glance.

“Yes, Manuel. I saw him,” replied the man. “Melvin! Will you please stop playing up? You’re spoiling the song for everyone else. I won’t tell you again.”

“Hmmph!” snorted Melvin before nodding unconvincingly. “Yes Dad,” he muttered once again.

“And you can stop sniggering too, Colin,” he said, directing his gaze towards one of the younger boys, a pasty, bespectacled fellow. As Colin nodded his head vigorously, the song resumed once again.

“The carefully crafted pastiche,
The witty repartee,
The slapstick and the horseplay
And fine tomfoolery.

All things …”

“NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA!” shouted Melvin, his fingers stuck firmly in his ears.

“Right, that’s it young man!” exclaimed his father, striding over to Melvin, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and propelling him towards the door. “If you can’t behave yourself, we shall have to carry on without you. Now, out you go!”

Môgul Bildûr’s eyes snapped open.

Father!

A pang of grief stabbed momentarily at his black heart. For a few brief seconds he longed once again to be that child, sitting attentively among his breth/sist-ren, bathing in the radiant glow of his father’s bounteous smile. He yearned then to run headlong into those welcoming arms, to feel the tenderness of his father’s touch, and to beg for his forgiveness. But the moment was fleeting and the pain and regret that he had felt turned quickly to bitterness, resentment and anger.

He never loved me! Not like he loved the others. What does he care of Muddled-Mirth? He abandoned it long ago and so did they. It is mine now. Mine to do with it as I please. My preciousss.

A knock on the door of his office suite roused him from his dark brooding and an Orc dressed in a blue short-sleeved shirt and blue shorts stepped warily into the room dragging a bulky post-bag behind him. It was his first day on the job and his colleagues had cruelly volunteered him for top-floor duty. This was an intimidating task at the best of times, but the hapless fellow today had the misfortune to encounter Môgul while in the process of reasserting his habitual malevolence after an uncharacteristically warm moment. With hardly an acknowledgement of the Orc’s presence, the Dark Developer grabbed the wretched creature by the throat and flung him across the room. The luckless Orc, together with his post-bag, hit the wall at speed and collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor. A flurry of letters, internal memos and invoices hung in the air for a brief moment before slowly fluttering to the floor beside his prone body.

“That’s better,” Môgul thought to himself, his mood brightening.

And there was much for him to be in a good mood about. The Gateskeeper was excelling himself. So much so, in fact, that Môgul was seriously considering offering him Lordship over the Dell of Hardwairaith as reward for his endeavours. And now it looked like another member of the Equal Opportunities-ship was coming over to his way of thinking. He would have to send a memo to the Master of Dungeon #379 requesting him to step up his “gentle persuasion” of that Topfloorien dissenter, Celedimbore, to “encourage” him in his efforts to crack the Thingwraith spell. After all, Môgul was sure that the Elf would rather not end up (literally) fronting his latest poster campaign.

The news from the dread Loyers was good too. One by one, through a series of leveraged buy-outs, refinancing deals, leaseback offers, hostile (excessively hostile, in fact) take-overs and occasional incidents of good old fashioned bribery and corruption, the realms of Muddled-Mirth were coming under the control of Môgul Enterprises LLC. The media campaign had been a resounding success. For the most part, the formerly free peoples of Muddled-Mirth had been content to accept evil dominion in return for a constant supply of consumer goods and services which, although shoddy and sub-standard, were generally less shoddy and sub-standard than those that they had become accustomed to. And evil was so less threatening when accompanied by reassuring words and happy faces.

Of course there were isolated outbreaks of resistance, but most of them had been brought under control. The servants of the Dark Tower Block were most adept at uncovering skeletons in cupboards and, with the help of well-placed articles and smear campaigns in the Daily Maul (proprietor: one Môgul Bildûr Esq), the ringleaders had largely been weeded out. And where that was to no avail, brute force always offered a most satisfying alternative.

Soreham remained a problem, though. Môgul bristled at the audacity of Lord Dimli’s resistance (although he did of course admire the Dwarf’s methods). And then there was Sauerkraut’s treachery. Môgul still thought of him as Colin, the geeky kid with glasses that everyone had picked on, although he had to admit that the nerdy kid had come a long way since then. But treason such as this had to be dealt with in the severest manner, not least because the Dread Developer greatly desired to learn the secret of Sauerkraut’s mass media coverage. If only he had a few more troops at his disposal, he would have little difficulty in acquainting both the impertinent Dwarven Lord and the conniving Wizard with their (un)just desserts. But Orcs and their ilk were in such short supply at the moment, what with the need to suppress his newly-acquired subjects while maintaining a suitably impressive force to man/orc/troll the Land of Shadowy Deals. And the Beasterlings and Poltroons were far too busy squabbling amongst themselves over the lands to the south and east of Moredough to be of any use.

Môgul grimaced as he stared ruefully at the twitching body of the unfortunate Orcish postal clerk. Absent-mindedly, he picked up one or two of the scattered letters and memos. He experienced a moment of mild irritation as he was duly informed that a fire drill was due to take place that afternoon and mentally noted his assembly point at the foot of Mount Odouruin. Then his gaze was drawn to an official-looking notice bearing a seal that he recognised only too well: the Seal of the Velour. He scanned the solemn missive with renewed interest.

“Of course!” he exclaimed aloud. “The Orcish Conundrum Concordat!”

Meanwhile, back in Improvas…

Sauerkraut’s “cable repairmen” had picked their way thru the detritus of the Goldlame Debris in vain. Not only were the Great Thighs missing, but King Theboleggen had unceremoniously thrown them down what was left of the staircase leading up to the old hall site, straight into the bone-crushing arms of Érry, son of Tait the Terrible.

“Yo think yall can jus’ waltz in here like nuthin’s wrong and jus’ take ova tha King? And overcharge him for yo stupid Net? You just logged on to Érry’s Painsite, G, c’mon an’ browse!!” Érry’s wrath was terrible indeed, and would have destroyed them then and there, had not some dark and furtive characters suggested that too much blood had been spilled already. They were, however, escorted to the city gates and sent on their way.

They had not gone far when those same dark-and-furtive types blocked the road ahead, beat them heartily, and sent them back to Sauerkraut with a message…

…when Sauerkraut woke up the next morning, lying there beside him in his palatial bed was the old sign from the Horse Head Inn…

[ October 15, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

Meanwhile, Kuruharan was in a bit of a bad mood. At that moment, he was exiting the casino by a side door. The words of Lord Dimli still rang in his head.

"I’m sorry Kuruharan, old chum, but I can’t afford to give you your share of the take right now," the mocking voice intoned. "I have many expenses. Besides, you brought a very unseemly group into my little establishment and some of them have been causing problems. I fear that the Board might have to bring your status under review."

"Status under review my foot!" (The actual word used here is genuine Khuzdul and the translation is uncertain. We decided to place the word "foot" because it tends to convey the general meaning of the sentence.) Kuruharan muttered furiously to himself as he stalked down the slope.

As luck and the plot would have it, the enormous river that appeared on no map that Orogarn Two had fallen in happened to pass nearby.

Looking up at the enormous dam that provided power to the Ham Steep Resort & Casino, Kuruharan smiled and started leisurely trotting in its general direction.

Merisuwyniel watched the Disco-Ship disperse in various directions when they entered the Glitzy Caverns. Though Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë had smiled at her encouragingly, she chose not to join them in their activities. Seeing them so obviously happy together made her feel quite despondent. There were times when she almost regretted her faithful Elven heart and would have liked to find romance and companionship anew, but still she hoped, however faint that hope might be, that one day Gravlox would come back from the Halls of Mantoes to be with her again. As so often when she thought of him, her left hand wandered to a secret pocket hidden within the folds of her divided skirt. There she kept the one tangible reminder that she had of her true love, the Entish Foot. No one remembered that piece of the Ent-That-Was-Hewn, she mused – they had all forgotten him who had aided them in their search for revenge and had fallen so valiantly. It was just as well, she reflected; she preferred to treasure her memories silently.

Her steps had taken her through the hallways, seeing what passed for entertainment without desiring to take part in it. She watched Orogarn losing coin after coin with not a chance of winning, then observed the Gateskeeper making rûë-léţ look like it wasn’t a game of chance. She gazed at the florid decorations in gaudy colours, deciding that the remodelling team of HGTV (Hole and Grotto Teleri-Vision) could have a heyday doing a makeover. Almost blinded by the garish lights and sparkling signs, she suddenly realized that the Entish Bow was vibrating noticeably on her back, trying to get her attention.

Go back, it told her urgently.

Why, and where? she asked, puzzled.

Go! was its only reply. She turned her steps back, breaking into a run as both the Bow and the Foot showed considerable excitement. When she raced around a corner, she almost collided with Pimpiowyn, closely followed by Vogonwë.

“Merisu!” the Half-Halfling exclaimed, “We’ve been looking for you! The most wonderful thing has happened!” Triumphantly, she produced a wooden bread-box from the folds of her skirt, which she had made after the same pattern that her role-model used. (No, unfortunately, this pattern has not been discovered nor can it be reproduced – a garment that would enable wooden feet or breadboxes to be hidden without impeding the movement, even the gracefulness of their wearers, would most certainly be very practical and feminine too!) “Guess what? It can talk!! Do you think it’s a piece of the Ent?” Pimpi added breathlessly.

The Elven maiden held the box carefully; she did not need to hear its voice to know the truth - the confirming vibrations of the Entish pieces she already carried had made it clear that here indeed was one of the missing parts. She could feel waves of communication passing through her hands and limbs, though her knowledge of Entish was too rudimentary to be able to follow the conversation. After some time, the Bow began to tremble – not the usual humming vibration of its thoughts, but tremors that seemed almost fearful! Merisu’s face grew graver as she concentrated, then she turned to her friends and said, “There is danger here – the Entish Breadbox has heard rumours of an unknown evil that has arisen.”

“What is it?” Vogonwë asked.

“Well, since it’s unknown, we don’t know,” the Elf answered patiently, with only a tiny inward sigh.

“Deep they delved, low they built, gaudy they wrought – would that they were gone!” a wooden voice chanted.

The three companions stared at the Breadbox. “Now what does that mean?” Pimpiowyn wondered.

[In the light of other historical accounts, written later than this one but translated earlier, these rather cryptic words can be explained to the readers. While searching the Grundorian National Archives for the ultimate chocolate lembas recipe, a hopeful loremistress found the following document. Its origin is obviously Elvish, though the author is not named.

‘In their greed to earn ever more and more profit, the Dwarves dug ever deeper, building ever more discos with ever greater amplifiers and larger bass boosters, so that the sound of the pounding music reverberated throughout the caverns, down, down to the depths, where it woke one who had slept for unknown times past and would better have been left sleeping…’]

The line to enter the casino was very long and moved very slowly. Grrralph stood patiently in his place sandwiched between a very regal looking Elf maiden and a rather rustic looking chap from Soreham. Nearly four hours had passed since he had taken his place in the queue. At last the gates were in sight.

The Elf stood in front of him, pointedly ignoring the wraith. She wore red sequin encrusted high heel shoes, a royal blue silk skirt cut fashionably above the knee, and a stole made of some handsome but unfortunately deceased fuzzy creature. On the few occasions that Grrralph attempted to engage her in conversation, she peered at him frostily over an elevated nose, examined him quickly from head to toe, and, apparently finding what she saw to be somewhat wanting, sniffed and turned away without responding.

The Sorethighhim behind him was clearly what some euphemistically call 'a man of the earth'. Indeed, there seemed to be quite a bit of earth on him, to the point where it was not entirely clear where the grime ended and his grey stained clothes began. Upon arriving in line behind Grrralph, he had enthusiastically introduced himself as "Arry Ar-flizzlephlegm". Upon receiving blank, or frankly astonsihed, looks from those around him, Arry translated his name into the Simple Tongue as "Lord of the Herders of Pigs". Most of those near him in line could have guessed his profession, either from the cloud of flies which surrounded him or the manly aroma of a man of the earth (and pigs) which he exuded. On the few occasions that Arry attempted to engage Grrralph in conversation, he peered at him frostily over an elevated...blackness , examined him quickly from head to toe, and, apparently finding what he saw to be somewhat wanting, sniffed and turned away without responding.

It was another hour until Grrralph, at last, neared the gates. The Dwarf who vetted the prospective clientele looked over the Elf with a scowl on his face. "Aredhel Ar-Whiniel, isn't it?" he asked, tapping a clipboard with a pen. She blushed bright red, and nodded reluctantly. "It seems," he continued, "that you have an unpaid barbill of 767 silver pennies from your last visit. I assume that you have returned to settle up?"

Ar-Whiniel smiled and took him by the sleeve, drawing him a bit away from the rabble, though not quite out of earshot. "There must be some misunderstanding," she purred. "Perhaps an accounting error?" The Dwarf frowned and shook his head. Instantly, four large Sorethighhim appeared and stood beside her with hands on their swords. The Dwarf rummaged through his filofax and produced a lengthy strip of paper which he handed to the Elf.

"Oh, THAT barbill," she said with a not-so-convincing smile. "I intended to pay it. I must have forgotten." One of the Sorethighhim growled menacingly. "Can you take a check? No? Well, there must be some accomodation which we could reach; some way I can make everyone happy."

The Dwarf peered at her frostily over an elevated nose, examined her quickly from head to toe, and, apparently finding what he saw to be adequate, sniffed and turned away. "Around back, third door from the trash heap. You'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement."

As the Elf was escorted firmly away, Grrralph stepped forward. Before either he or the Dwarf could speak, the members of the Itship exited the casino hurriedly, looking warily behind, around, and above themselves. As they went throught the door they broke into a run towards the stables. Grrralph looked at their receding backs for a moment and the wheels of what passed for his mind turned slowly. Then, a flash of insight, or perhaps a premonition of severe bodily harm, struck him and he ran after his comrades.

The Dwarf shrugged, then turned to the next person in line. "Arry", he cried as he bowed deeply three times. "So good of you to stop by our establishment. You'll be wanting the Valleyum Suite I assume. And we'll arrange for some company for you. We have a new...entertainer, a very pretty Elf..."

Earlier, as Kuruharan was slinking off and Vogonwë and Pimpi were "liberating" pieces of the Entish Bow, Chrysophylax was huddled in the Creature's Lounge feeling monumentally stupid and sorry for himself.

He tried to ignore the nearby Phoenix spontaneously combusting for the third time in the last half hour. That suddenly reminded him, he ordered his fortieth "Petrol-and-Tonic." After finishing that off he finally noticed that he had fallen out of his chair some time ago.

With the wonderful view of the exquisite ceiling to inspire him, marvelously executed with mating hell-beasts I might add, Chrysophylax let his mind wander over the last time profound and all-consuming lust had burned in his dragonish heart.

Boy, had that turned out badly! One minute she was flirting with him like there was no tomorrow, the next minute she was saying that she had to go to the other side of the continent to arrange transport for the dowry, the minute after that she was promising to send him love-letters by hell-bat every time she thought of him, the minute after that she flapped off into the distance, and for the next two weeks Chrysophylax had stood there looking pathetically up at the sky waiting for that first letter to be delivered.

Some rather unpleasant events followed afterward. "All consuming" are good words for Dragon Love because when it goes wrong large numbers of innocent villagers are apt to suffer mightily for it. But I digress.

Soon afterwards Chrysophylax met up with Kuruharan and...

Editor's note: The text mysteriously breaks off at this point. The original manuscript was shredded by large claws. The story resumes with the next legible fragment.

...an arrangement that was not dissimilar from joining the Grundorian Foreign Legion.

Ahh, memories. Chrysophylax's mind drifted further back. The awful consequences of failing to properly explain to one ex-girlfriend why he had another dragon's Cell-antir number. The scars from that encounter were still visible on his side.

More booze to drown that particular memory.

Further back in time. The awful humiliation of finally screwing up the courage to ask out a beautiful dragon-girl and having her laugh in his face saying something to the effect of "Eeeecckkk!!! You're soooo weird!!!" Tears started to pour down Chrysophylax's cheeks.

Another miserable memory, spending twenty agonizing years in the company of a mysterious chimeric beauty, but never having the courage to talk to her.

More booze.

Then the anger came. Anger over being constantly harassed by pathetic little lizards that he just couldn't think about without shuddering. Then there was the frustration about not realizing that the neighbor dragonette had been in love with him until she was killed by an itinerant hero. Then to top it all off, there was the everlasting fury of...

...his bottle being empty.

He hoisted himself to his feet and tried to figure out the way to the bar. After four wrong guesses he finally staggered into it.

"I think you've had enough," said the bartender.

"Whishted! Ouinvus euinbmbnx ytnsgnc!" snarled Chrysophylax.

"I'm sorry," said the bartender, "I didn't quite get that."

"Qoungou," moaned Chrysophylax, "toungs vmbxin regixmbod!" Having relieved himself of that particular observation, Chrysophylax hung his head and delivered a great platitude for the ages, "Womenshes, cansh livers ith umses, cansh livers ithouth umses!!!"

"Riiiight," said the dwarf.

"That shettllesh if!" cried Chrysophylax, slamming his claw down on the bar. "I'llsh beshpeeketh to herumses of myth abidering lovers orth I'llth killers meshelf trying!"

With that determination firmly resolved in his heart, Chrysophylax fell forward on the bar and passed out.

He did not revive until a great crashing resounded through the Ham Steep Resort & Casino.

[ October 23, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

Gateskeeper sat on the velvet couch in the Lord Dimli's posh office smoking Dimli's finest pipeweed from the lebethrond-wood humidor on Dimli's massive office desk. Dimli himself sat behind the desk, shaking in his dwarf-boots, grinning foolishly and acting as conciliatory as a dwarf can when his back is to the wall. Gateskeeper had broken the bank at the Glitzy Caverns and was now trying to cash in.

The most incredible streak of "luck" had kept that ball falling on the double-zero slot for the better part of an hour. Even when the dwarf running the game nailed a board over that particular spot, the ball had managed to find the only knothole in the wood and fell in anyway. Most of the crowd on that half of the casino had gathered around the table to see the monsterous pile of chips growing exponentially. Especially two large, dark figures who hovered near Gateskeeper's elbows.

Those two massive beings now stood one on either side of Gateskeeper, arms folded, scowling at the Lord Dimli from behind pinstripe hoods that could not obscure the
smouldering rubescent glow of their eyes. They were Korprat-Loyers, the demon barristers of the ancient world, their wing-tip shoes spread from one wall of the cavernous office to the other. (Translators note: it is a matter of great debate amongst Muddled-Mirth scholars as to whether Korprat-Loyers actually wore wing-tips, or whether it was a metaphorical description of their imposing presence.)

"So," said Gateskeeper in a cheery voice, "I believe you owe me...let's see...how much was it again, Golfboll?"

Golfboll, on Gateskeeper's left chafed at having to attend this upstart wizard-boy. He had once been one of Mogul's chief lieutenants. He was charged with the real-estate contracts and shopping centers of Minus Mallcool until he missed a clause at the Fall of Mandolin. Golfboll nevertheless glared at Dimli and said, "Four billion, two-hundred twenty-seven million, eighty-nine thousand, four-hundred sixty-one kabobs, boss. And two calzones."

"Ah, yes, that was it," said Gateskeeper, oozing all the geniality and smoothness of Martha Stewart selling snake oil. (One of Kuruharan's largest competitors for that lucrative market.) "And I'd like to be paid now. In cash." he said, relighting his pipe. He took a long draw and blew several smoke-rings that fashioned themselves into the form of handcuffs, chains, and hangman's-nooses that drifted lazily around Dimli's face.

"M-m-mister G-g-gateskeeper, sir," gulped Dimli, his mouth suddenly very dry and his brow suddenly very wet, "w-w-we...don't have that much money in our bank. It's m-m-more than this entire complex is worth."

"Oh," said Gateskeeper, his tone changing to one of mild commiseration and regret, "that is too bad. However, I've taken the liberty of having Golfboll here draw up a contract deeding over the entire operation to me. Just sign the papers. Then leave."

Dimli would have bristled at this request except for the towering Golfboll hovering over him, exuding that black breath that threatened to eat away the finish on his desk. Dimli had not been this scared since that insufferable elf, Lackalass, kept trying to pull him into dark corners while he was giving the grand tour.

The trembling dwarf knew he had no choice if he wanted to save his miserable hide. He took his quill in his shaking hand, scrawled a signature, and pushed the papers back across the desk. Golfball snatched them up from the desk and carried them to the waiting Gateskeeper, who examined them briefly before looking up at Dimli. "I believe you're in my chair," he said with no trace of emotion. He snapped his fingers. The other Loyer, Dirtbag, strode to the desk, lifted Dimli from his chair, and set him down on the floor near the office door.

With a smug grin of satisfaction Gateskeeper walked around to the chair and sat down. It was then that he discovered that the chair was built for dwarf-kind, and he was now firmly stuck between the armrests. He still retained enough dignity to say, "That's all, ex-lord Dimli. Show him out, Dirtbag." The Loyer moved to obey, but all in the room froze when a loud rumble grew to a deafening roar...

[ October 23, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

“What in the name of Míc’rôsöftar is this new devilry?” exclaimed the Gateskeeper from his rather awkward and mighty uncomfortable position. But the roar echoing in the room being deafening his words went naturally unheard by the Loyers as well as the recently disentitled Dimli. Luckily the Gateskeeper’s perplexity didn’t last for long and he soon remembered that being an all-powerful wizard in the field of wizardry meant he had all the needed powers to solve this burning (yes, he could sense the heat) issue on his own. So without further ado - and completely ignoring Dimli and his attempt to peddle earplugs (‘Plugs-sale: only one Casino!’ read the Dwarf’s hastily scribbled sign.) – the Gateskeeper straightened in his chair and, with greatest effort he had thus far had to make during the quest, sent out an undefined number of o-mails To: whom it may concern.

For a moment there was a dead silence - or would have been had not the ear-splitting din drowned it. The Gateskeeper stared from over his spectacles into the distance, his knitted brows reflecting depth of concentration. Another similar moment passed - and the Gateskeeper’s eyes began to water. The third fleeting moment that lingered by was finally too much for the wizard: there was a jerk in the corner of his eye and then --- he blinked. *zap* Undelivered o-mail returned to sender. “Damnit! Now I have to go out to find out what’s going on…” quoth Gatesy and rolled out of the door in his office chair.

* * * * * * *

In the meanwhile, somewhere deep in the depths of the Glitzy Caverns, the source of the tremor and clamor - that caused the Entish artefacts to tremble and the Sex-Mix-Ship to flee (in what surely resembled but obviously couldn’t be panic) – was having one quite ordinary day. But now, to finally remove the veil of secrecy that has shrouded the identity of Him even from the Gateskeeper and his army of all-intruding o-mails… Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lasses - and those in-between: it’s time for a flashback!

They raced through the passageway, and there it was – the mighty Escalator of Ka-Boom! Out of breath, they stepped onto the mechanical transportation device that took them upwards. At the top, far away, they saw a faint flickering light that came ever nearer. Something huge and fiery was approaching them, coming downwards on the opposite side of the escalator.

“Ai!” wailed Vogonwë. “Ai! A Balfrog is come!” Pimpi didn’t know what he was talking about, but grasped his hand instinctively.

Kuruharan’s Pain! the Dwarf thought.

“Jolly good opportunity for a battle!”
Etceteron exclaimed, but Wylkynsion, who was more learned in lore than his master, cowered silently in his sheath.

Halfullion blanched. Too well did he know this foe and recognize its danger.

Orogarn Two held up his crystal, but it had gone dark and dull.

Merisuwyniel could feel the Bow trembling at her back and shuddered to think of the potentially destructive effect of fire upon it.

Only Chrysophylax was undaunted. After all, he knew a bit about fighting fire with fire. He pushed the others aside and strode up the moving stairway to reach the oncoming threat faster.

From below, the company heard drums, drums in the deep. Merisuwyniel saw graffiti scrawled on the wall: They are coming!

“Dratted buskers!” muttered Halfullion.
Then their doom was upon them. Chrysophylax breathed a mighty flame at the Balfrog, but the foe replied by lashing at him with his long, fiery tongue. The dragon was pulled onto the downward escalator and about to disappear from their sight when Kuruharan shouted, “Fly, you fool!”

And fly he did! For the dragon indeed had wings, and he could use them as well. The Balfrog fell into the deep, whether alive or dead, this story does not tell.

But luckily (for the readers at least; the Gallowships opinion on the matter is debatable) this story tells what the previous failed to reveal… Reunification of the Entish Bow proudly presents: Mordaenárur the Balfrog and his loyal companion the Broom!

The This-and-That-Ship escaped the Subway and left the wretched Balfrog to fall to its doom and destruction. And long was the fall he took (so long indeed that had there been a wizard or such clinging to its fiery figure the two would have had plenty of time to play out an impressive battle scene before hitting the bottom of the void which then, of course, would have turned out to be the top of the highest mountain in the neighborhood… But now I digress.) – before remembering his last hope.

“Fly you broom!” the severely shadowy creature exclaimed (conveniently in westosterone so that those unfamiliar with the fell language of the fallen Máyôrs are able to follow the script) and lo! A faint shiver went through The Broom - which hereby steps into the story without any explanations whatsoever – with a squeak and then a squeal:

“My goodness, Master; this is terrible, Master!”

“More flying and less whimpering!” demanded Mordaenárur the Fiery-yet-Wingless (or de-winged?; this will be a matter of further debate), clutching the Broom tight. The Broom snapped shut its knothole and silently and smoothly, like MôgulAirs special Wraithflight, it stopped the fall, then hung in midair for a moment before taking off to a wobbling flight back towards the Escalator.

How Mord and the Broom eventually passed from the Subway to Soreham and Ham Steep is undoubtedly a story worth telling. But alas! that has to wait for a more fitting time and place (we’ll move forward only with the mention that 1) if you’re planning a trip to the Fancorn Forest we suggest you forget about it and that 2) nomen est omen, at least when it comes to the newly named parts of Soreham such as Woid or West-Ermnot.). Now - to take us back to where we ought to have been the whole time but from where we have managed to stay away through the better three quarters of this rambling review… - let’s delve deep to the roots of the Wight Mountains…or maybe we’ll rather stay tuned and see what happens later…

[ October 25, 2003: Message edited by: Annunfuiniel ]

*CRASH-BANG*

"Huh-wha...?" Chrysophylax moaned as he awoke with a start. His dragon instincts told him that something was seriously wrong.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww," he groaned, clutching his head with his claws. He determined that the something seriously wrong was this massive hangover of Etceteronian proportions.

*CRASH-BANG*

"Keep it down," he gasped weakly. He put his head down on the bar. That proved to be a mistake because...

*CRASH-BANG*

...and the bar shook and bashed Chrysophylax in the jaw.

"AI!" shouted Chrysophylax. He reared up and looked around him. The room seemed to be spinning. He did not trouble to wonder if that was caused by the crashing or his sorry state, such reckoning was currently beyond him. It did not matter anyway. He knew what he had to do. It was the only thing that mattered.

He had to find something to drink!!!

Then he had to find Grrufff and tell her of his undying love for her, before the world fell in on them or his head split open, whichever happened to come first.

Orogarn Two sat in the furthest corner of the bar watching Crysophylax drown himself in potent potables and wondering where that infernal racket was coming from. What had started as a quiet noise barely heard over the dragonly sobs had soon grown to a deafening howl that threatened to shatter his eardrums. He desperately tore a soggy cocktail napkin into shreds and twisted them into thin wads, which he shoved forcefully into his ears. This helped to dull the clamor, but it did nothing to abate the emptiness in is heart or his pockets. Why’d they have to have slots?

For two solid hours he had dutifully shoved one kabob after another into the greedy maw of nearly every machine in the casino. If his calculations were correct, out of the 1000 individual kabobs he had slid into the greedy coin slots he had won exactly 8. Considering that most gambling establishments offered a fun and entertaining 90-95% return on their slots, Orogarn Two could not help but be flabbergasted by the unconcealed avarice of the Dwarf proprietors of the Glitzy Caverns and their unbelievably low return of less than 1%. He had looked around him in amazement as other casino visitors had cheerfully given up their money for absolutely nothing in return except the thrill of pulling a metal arm and watching those shiny wheels spin. Gullible peasants.

Kabobless, he had returned to the only place that made any sense – the Automatic Moolah Machine. All he needed was another KB 1000 and he was sure he was going to hit the big one. With a little luck and a lottta dough, he was going to take these dirty dwarves for all they were worth and then some. But his plan had backfired.

When he had slid his card into the AMM, instead of the normal instruction set he had been presented with two completely unexpected choices:

(1) Avoid a lecture from your dad and get only KB 10 so at least you won’t starve
(2) Get KB 1000 and quite a shouting at from your father who’s about tired of shelling out money for your addictions!

He had stood there for several minutes mulling over which button to push. Denimthor’s lectures were laboriously loud and likely to last loads longer than Orogarn Two could possibly stomach. Still, 1000 kabobs would really hit the spot, and he just knew that the Mighty Mount Pantaloon machine at the far end of the hall was ready to pay off big-time in not more than 100 pulls. He had reached to push 2, but just them the an upset Chrysophylax had wandered by and swiped him (accidently on purpose, I’m sure) with his gigantic tail, bruising his shoulder and sending his finger into the 1 instead. With a cry of dismay and a look of rage at the departing dragon, Orogarn Two had taken his ten kabobs and the AMM receipt and set of in pursuit of the clumsy beast, intent on revenge but unsure of how to go about it against such a large adversary.

And now he sat with ears stuffed with Kabloohah-soaked paper watching the dragon crash to the floor in a drunken stupor. He had followed the dragon to the bar thinking to tape a “Kick Me” sign to his back, but instead he had ended up sitting in a dark booth reading the receipt he had gotten from the machine. He had escaped a harangue from his father, but the Proctor had still sent him a message through the Automatic Moolah Machine, which, of course, was connected directly to the Citibank. What he had read had sent shivers down his spine.
Dear OT2,

Hoping this finds you well, for things are certainly not well here in the city of Minus Teeth (yes, the Denturians have repaired our fair home!). Though our great enamel towers again stand tall, I fear they may not stand much longer in our name. Since the great calamity, the Porcelain Throne has been assailed by wave after wave of law suits holding the Stewards responsible for everything from the damages caused by the fires to the rising costs of dental floss. Long have I sat high in the Tower of the Citibank communicating on the ancient cell-antir which only you and I know about (and now all of our readers), and I can see that our cause is quickly becoming hopeless. There is no way we can fight off so many attackers at once. I am afraid I may have to start selling off stock (yours, of course,) to pay for our rising legal costs. You’ll understand if I have to suddenly cut off your AMM access.

In recognition of our trouble times, I have written a new motto, effective immediately.

You can bank on the Proctor: Better to be Minus Teeth than minus kabobs!

Sincerely,
Denimthor

Orogarn Two sipped his drink and wondered what could possibly go wrong next....

It seemed to Mordaenárur that it had been only a very brief time since he had found a safe refuge deep under the fortress of Ham Steep. He had fled after his ignominious defeat in the Great Subway, nursing his wounds and his hatred against the foe that had toppled him there. When he discovered a long-abandoned wine-cellar in the depths of the caverns, complete with packaging materials that made a good sleeping place, he turned around several times to make himself comfortable and dropped off into a healing hibernation.

The Broom, bored in the dark (and just a little bit afraid, though he wouldn’t have admitted it), whistled a happy tune to the rhythm of the Balfrog’s snoring, then gave in to an uneasy rest with dreams in which he could no longer distinguish between waking and sleeping. It was he who first noticed that a noise louder than Mord’s snores became ever more audible. He tried to hum a lullaby, for he feared the consequences should the Balfrog awake an age or so earlier than necessary. His flammable temper could be disastrous for wooden objects!

To no avail – the pain of yet unhealed wounds added to the innate wrath of the creature, and with a roar of such dimensions that it sounded throughout the whole of the Glitzy Caverns, he awoke. Flames and smoke surrounded him, and the Entish Broom cowered in a corner behind a jutting of rock, trusting that it would protect him from the all-consuming burning.

So great was the Balfrog’s rage that he completely forgot his flying companion, much to the Broom’s relief, and stomped out of the cellar, his footsteps pounding and echoing with a might that chilled all hearts in the Dwarven entertainment retreat, though they knew not as yet what caused the clamour. His Entish companion followed at a safe distance, hoping to escape notice from both fiery friend and unknown foes.

Fortunately for the furnishings and decoration of the gambling complex, to say nothing of the customers and personnel, a turn of the hallway tunnel brought Mord to a backdoor opening. He emerged on the hillside overlooking the entrance and leading to Sethamir’s Livery Stables and Pawn Shop. Unfortunately for the valiant Co-Ed-Ship, the first glimpse he had was of their fleeing figures.

Due to their experience in Heroic Questing and the forewarning the Entish Pieces had given them, the companions were the only ones in the whole fortress who were not completely immobilized by sheer terror. Merisuwyniel, well-versed in ancient Elven wisdom, had recalled the lines of an old Lay and quickly taught the most important ones to the others.

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run. *

(Orogarn Two, in whose veins some Noodleorian blood yet flowed, must have known this Lay, but had conveniently – or inconveniently – forgotten it.)

“This is a foe beyond any of us,” she said, “it is definitely time to run. Let’s go!”

As they headed for the stables, Merisu whistled for Falafel, a long tremolo, low at first, then higher. And Falafel, being an intelligent steed, freed not only herself but also the other horses from their boxes. The lovelorn Grrruff, whom she had been comforting, dashed for the door with them. They raced toward the Fellow/Galship at full speed, turning toward the drawbridge to leave the Fortress when the flaming Creature burst into sight. Down the mountain it came, streaming with fire.

“Over the bridge!” the Elven maiden shouted to her companions. They ran, then turned to face the danger bravely, yet with little hope. Where was Chrysophylax when they needed him? The Dragon was the one who had saved them at their last encounter with the Balfrog.

It reached the bridge, opening its mouth to show its fiery, lashing tongue. Suddenly a voice spoke: “You cannot pass! This is a one-lane highway bridge! I am the Wielder of the Ticket of Moredough. Your speed will not avail you – you cannot pass!”

Astonished, the heads of the Itship turned toward the speaker. It was the Nazgrrl! She had spread her wings to their full width; they cast vast shadows behind her. The Balfrog stopped in his tracks.

Mordaenárur had never before seen such a creature. Instinctively, he knew her for a female, but unlike other females that he had approached in the past, she showed no fear of him. A feeling yet unknown encompassed him, and the flames withdrew from his surface to kindle a new fire in his heart. Unbidden, poetry began to form in his mind: Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? (He did not know it, but the answer to that question was surprisingly affirmative, though unlike the story of another female with a similar function, the ships that launched upon seeing the face of the Nazgrrl launched not for love… )

Puzzled by what was happening – or perhaps, what was not happening – the Hero-Ship stood still, looking from the Balfrog to the Nazgrrl and wondering what to expect next.


° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

*(Note: Merisu would have liked to sing them the whole song, but had little time due to the urgency of their situation. Here it is, for those scholars of Elven poetry who wish to know it in its entirety:

On a warm summer's evenin' on a quest bound for nowhere,
I met up with the Hero; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin' at the stars up in the darkness
'Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.

He said, "Elf, I've made an age out of readin' people's faces,
And knowin' what their fate was by the way they held their eyes.
So if you don't mind my sayin', I can see you're out of maces.
For a taste of your miruvor I'll give you some advice."

So I handed him my flask and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a lembas and asked me for a bite.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, Elf, ya gotta learn to play it right.

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the questin's done.

Now ev'ry Hero knows that the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
'Cause ev'ry quest's a winner and ev'ry quest's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep."

So when he'd finished speakin', he turned to the horizon,
Brushed away the lembas crumbs and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the Hero found his treasure.
But in his final words I found advice that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the questin's done.)

The Itship stood on one side of the bridge and the Balfrog stood at the other. Between them was Grrruff, with wings outstretched, talons extended, fangs bared and collar spread. The Balfrog took a remarkably hesitant step forward, onto the bridge.

"Grrralph," asked Vogonwë. "What does your...thing think she is doing out there?"

"Beats me," answered the Wraith. "I didn't even know that she could talk."

"How could you not notice that she talked?" asked Felafel indignantly. In the commotion, this comment was overlooked by the members of the Gallowship and, upon later reflection, was attributed to hallucination brought on by excess adrenaline.

"She cannot stand alone!" cried Grrralph. He drew his sword from its scabbard and pulled his morngstar from beneath his cloak. Then he stepped forward onto the bridge.

"Wait!" cried Merisu. Grrralph paused and looked over his shoulder at the shieldmaiden. "Technically speaking, Grrruff isn't standing," the Elf continued. "Actually, she's sort of hovering."

"That's right," added Earnur as he tugged nervously on the Wraith's cloak. Vogonwë nodded. "Definitely not standing," he confirmed as he edged farther away from the bridge.

"You don't want me to risk my life in battle with the Balfrog?" asked Grrralph.

"Well, you might make him even more angry," said Pimpionwë reasonably. "I wouldn't like him to be more angry," added Vogonwë. "Nothing personal. Please feel free to take...er...risk your life at any other time."

Grrralph considered their words, then lowered his sword. "Very well," said Grrralph with a voice that quavered a bit. "I will stay with you all."

"You don't have to stay," muttered Earnur. "Just don't tick off the Balfrog." But by this time Grrralph's attention had returned to the bridge. No one noticed that steam rose from his eyes...

-------------------

A completely unrelated event was taking place at almost precisely the same time elsewhere. Far away, deep in the bowels of a massive edifice built of black marble, a third level clerk opened an envelope. The clerk read the missive inside and his eyebrows flew up. He directed the envelope and its contents to his superior, who passed it on to his superior, who passed it on the the head honcho himself.

Putting on a pair of reading glasses, he read the letter. "Hmmm," he muttered. "He's never done that before. Still, it's all done proper and as required and the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat are very clear in this regard." He consulted a very large ledger, then turned to his assistant. "Bring up number 3624368 and get him ready to go." A sly smile appeared on his face and he halted his assistant before he could depart. "...and go down to the Düng-Hép and empty it. Let's send him those too and take them off our hands..."

[ November 05, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

Suddenly a voice spoke: “You cannot pass! This is a one-lane highway bridge! I am the Wielder of the Ticket of Moredough. Your speed will not avail you – you cannot pass!”

"Grrralph," asked Vogonwë. "What does your...thing think she is doing out there?"
"Beats me," answered the Wraith. "I didn't even know that she could talk."

And had it not been for the fact that Grrralph was catching his first sight of a genuine Balfrog, (who, unexpectedly, was wingless, and also smaller than he had pictured), he would have remembered that his faithful, lovelorn, impossibly aerodynamic steed could, in fact, NOT talk.

So who had spoken? Who had stepped forward and in ringing tones commanded this very spawn of Môgul to cease and desist his vicious pursuit of our Whatsitship?

Well, you had to look close, since he was standing in between two of the largest creatures of evil on Muddled Mirth, and there was a lot of smoke and flame. It was Norni Thistlebuck, the Dwarfling, the unfortunate disdained love-child of the Halfling croupier and a petty-dwarf cigarette girl. Norni was such an embarrassment to denizens of the Glitzy Caverns that he had been exiled to this lonely outpost of the caves, where he was assigned the job of toll gate keeper, and told - for Emu’s Sake - to keep out of sight.

Norni was perfectly happy with his life, having inherited his father’s happy-go-slothly hobbity ways, a