The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Rimbaud]

Hal shook himself, for the world seemed to turn, like a coin on a string. His head span.

He shook himself again. He was home. He thought of that in wonderment, for always it had been his father’s house, but now he thought of it as home. He felt indescribably warm inside.

“Halfemption!” cried his father, coming down the central staircase, sunbeams behind him from the great bay window of the first floor landing. “Great days are these, where the valiant Halfemption Gormlessar returns to his father’s house.”

“Greetings, sire,” said Halfemption, uncertainly. His father had never spoken to him thus, nor greeted him so warmly. If he had addressed him in the past, it had been by the name ‘Empty’, as a counter to his noble brother’s diminutive, Halfie.

“Why so subdued?” cried his father, approaching now, and clapping him on the shoulder. Halfemption nearly burst with pride. “Come, we must eat! Your exploits are the talk of all the land, but still I want the details! Come, come!” he boomed.

And so through to the great dining hall they went, and a feast was laid out in Halfemption’s honour, and servants were there, dressed in white. The Lords and Ladies of the surrounding estates, who were seated at the long table, rose as one to applaud the returning hero.

“Your coat?” lisped a curious voice at his elbow. Halfemption turned, and gasped. His brother, the grand, admittedly self-titled, Bravest Half-Elf in the World Ever, simpered at his side, hunched and with his eyes downcast. His bearing was slumped and not possessed of the same testosterone-fuelled arrogance of his true demeanour. His hair, once a thing of such beauty that there were more paintings of Halfullion in hairdresser’s shops across the land than any other living man, was lank and even straggly.

The strangest thing of all was that Halfemption felt no shame, next to his brother, he felt tall, broad-shouldered and strong compared to him. Moreover, in this strange world that seemed to have grown around him, Halfemption saw truly that his brother was not wise, and not truly noble, and that he was the better man. And his father believed this too, and he was loved.

“My lord!” said Halfemption, to the shadow of his brother. “What ails thee?”

His father pushed between them, a strong arm bringing Halfemption to the head of the table. “Don’t waste your time with Halfie, my boy! A waste of space and always has been. You know we caught him cutting the cook’s hair last week?”

Halfemption grinned despite himself. Although this didn’t seem right, it felt very good. He sat and looked down, and at the beaten silver platter, yet empty.

A face looked back at him. His face…yet, the eyes were bright, the hair was perfectly tousled and the teeth! The teeth were white and straight. He looked more like Halfullion than Halfullion did!

He frowned slightly. Over the shoulder of his reflection he saw something dark lurking, a cold figure of fear behind him. He turned, suddenly, but nothing was there.

Slowly, Hal returned to the feast, as his father passed an apple to him.

“Eat!” cried the huge man. “Eat, and be strong!”

Halfemption Gormlessar lifted the luscious red apple towards his mouth. It was so bright, and round and firm. Something did not smell quite right, but he closed his eyes and opened wide for the first bite…

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Reaperneep stood his ground in the face of the stranger before them, with sword drawn as his usual precaution when confronted with someone unknown to him.

“Why do you not draw your own sword, poltroon!” cheeped the Mouse. “Draw and fight like a Man!”

“Why should I fight against you, Little One?” a gentle Voice answered him.

“Do I understand,” said Reaperneep, withdrawing his sword for a moment and speaking very sternly, “that you do not intend to give me satisfaction?”

“Indeed not,” Mogûl replied, and it seemed to the Mouse that a light radiated from behind him. “I intend to show you the way to your greatest hope.”

“And just what do you think that is?” he queried sceptically.

“I can lead you to the eastern end of the world,” the Velour declared. “From East, across the sea, the great Blue Wizard ever comes to us. There you will find his own country.”

“So the end of the world is eastwards after all,” Reaperneep breathed ecstatically. “I knew it! Blue Wizard, you say? Isn’t a Wizard dangerous?”

“So am I, and you are dangerous as well, to your foes,” Mogûl answered. “Yet those who know how to speak with him will find wisdom in his words.”

The Mouse mused thoughtfully, “A wise woman of the woods, Silverberry was her name, once spoke this verse over me:

Where East and West met,
Where on waves dances flet,
Doubt not, Reaperneep;
To find all you seek,
Go unto the utter East.

“I do not know what it means. But the spell of it has been on me all my life.”

He turned his face eastwards, and it seemed to him that he saw from afar a wall that stood up between him and the sky, a greenish-grey, trembling, shimmering wall. Then up came the sun, and at its first rising he saw it through the wall and it turned into wonderful rainbow colours. Then he knew that the wall was really a long, tall wave – a wave endlessly fixed in one place as you may often see at the edge of a waterfall. Beyond the sun he saw a range of mountains, so high that he either never saw the top of it or forgot it. And those mountains must have been outside the world. Suddenly there came a breeze from the east, tossing the top of the wave into foamy shapes and ruffling the smooth water all round him.

Enchanted, he walked toward the Eastern light.

[Lush]

Leninia realized that something was wrong when she closed her eyes, opened them again, and realized she was standing in the middle of a desert. Predictably, the first thought that popped into her head was: "Did I take the wrong turn to Säks?"

Her confusion was doubled when she saw a figure on the horizon, a figure that eventually took the familiar shape of her late, great husband, John Lemmon.

"I hate to break this to you, John," she said irritably, "but you're dead."

"How do you know it's not the other way around?" He asked.

"Don't contradict me!" Leninia snarled as she used to during the good old days. The snarling, however, did not make the desired effect. John smiled.

"You're in quite the predicament, Linnie-poo," he said good-naturedly. "Your friends have abandoned you in the middle of the desert and you're going to shrivel up and die of dehydration."

"So?" Leninia sneered. "What do you care?"

"I'm here to offer you a way out," John smiled mysteriously.

"Since when do you have all the answers?" Leninia grumbled. The heat, however, was beginning to get to her; she sat down on the ground and tried to open up her back umbrella to get some shade. The umbrella was stuck, and the usually friendly poodle-head that adorned the handle let out a snarl.

"Great," Leninia snapped.

"It's your friends," John offered, with a look of tender concern in his eyes.

"What about them?"

"They broke your umbrella and left you here to die," he said, as sympathetically as possible.

"Did not."

"Did too."

A vulture landed a few feet away and let out an unpleasant sound. If vultures can ever be pleasant, that is. Leninia considered her options.

"Ok, John, what do you want?" She finally asked when she noticed the vulture eyeing her with a gleam with its eye that momentarily reminded her of Pimpi alone in a room with a large, juicy steak.

"It's not about what I want, dear, it's about what you want," he patted her arm gently. "And what you want is to turn those two rocks over there into a nice vat of Përriër and a huge tub of Esty Louder facial cream."

"I do?" Leninia asked.

"Well, how else are you going to survive out here without water and moisturizer? Prove to me that you are Leninia the Tiny and Terrible! The way you were before, before you launched on this ridiculous quest that is."

"What's the catch?"

"Oh, just a little bit of fine print my dear."

Leninia knew all about fine print. Fine print didn't scare her; she practically invented it, in her past life. But she was beginning to feel suspicious. Something wasn't right. And it wasn't just the fact that she was in the middle of a desert, talking to her dead husband, while a fat vulture eavesdropped.

"Like what?" She persisted.

"Oh you know...Prove that you are Leninia the Tiny and Terrible by using your dark arts to save yourself from this intolerable heat and, while you're at it, renounceyourfriendsandalltheirdeedsandneverseethem again," he finished off.

"You forgot that I have great ears, dear," Leninia snapped. "Please bugger off and stop telling me what to do. I'll find my own way out of this ugly, barren place (you'd think they'd hire a decorator)."

Leninia wandered through the desert, the vulture close behind. The vulture was rather obese, and she took comfort in knowing she was helping it aid those few extra pounds.

Finally, in the distance, she saw a diving board, poking out toward the cloudless climbs. A pool! She thought, with much excitement. Water! Maybe even a poolboy!. The idea of drinking chlorine didn't much bother her; it would do nicely mixed with the stuff she kept in her trusty hip flask.

The pool, however, proved to be quite empty and deserted. And kidney-shaped, SO unfashionable! Leninian thought in disdain.

She climbed up to the diving board, hoping to look out across the desert and spy civilization; a mall, or even a small boutique would do. Instead, she ran into John, rocking himself on the board with a grin on his face.

"This is beginning to creep me out," she snapped. "You keep appearing out of nowhere. Stay dead, please, you are much more agreeable that way."

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Linnie-poo," John said. "If you jump off this board, right now, you will land in deliciously cool, clean water, and a boy in a towel will be waiting for you at the edge, with a pitcher of lemonade and massage oil."

"If I jump off this board right now I'll smash my head!" Leninia screeched.

"No, Linnie, no. You have to believe. Believe in yourself, in us, and inthefactthatyourfriendsareabunchoflosersanywayand itwouldbeeasytoforgetthemandlivehappilyeverafter."

"That trick doesn't work on me, John!" Leninia snapped.

"Ok, fine, Linnie," John sighed. "But why won't you look out?" He pointed towards the horizon. Leninia felt a rush of happiness; a great, gleaming city towered in the distance.

"Imagine, Linnie, all of that could be ours. You can do society lunches, have your hair done by Freederick Fekkie, ride a great metallic beast called a Bëntley and it will come in all of your favourite colours too...Justgiveupthisstupidquestandyourstupidbuddie sandcomewithme!!!"

"Not for all the silicôn in Californium," Leninia sighed. "And anyway. I figured out what's wrong with this picture. You're not my husband. My husband would never let me pick the colour of the Bëntley. We may have had a dysfunctional marriage, but I always let him pick his favourite colour; because...because...I was not as horrible of a wife that the tabloids made me out to be," she finished, her scarlet lips trembling.

John Lemmon went *poof* Or rather, he went *pooooof* as he got more transparent by the moment, until all that was left of him were the fingers of his right hand, flashing the peace sign. The vulture marveled at the peace sign, but Leninia just shrugged her tiny shoulders and climbed down. The vulture followed.

Leninia tried to kick it, it was beginning to get on her already damaged nerves. But as she attempted this, her feet slid out from underneath her, and she came crashing down hard onto her pretty head, her last thought being:

Did I break my heel?

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper bravely stood in the back of the If-You-Can-Be-Bought-At-Any-Price-You-Will-Be-Ship, but could no longer avoid the eyes of the Dread Developer.

"Ah," rasped the true voice of Mogul inside his head, "dear Gatessssey. Long time no ssssseeee. You've been bussssy haven't you? But you haven't been reporting assss ordered. Helping the Shhhieldmaiden. Think what you could have had working for me." And as he watched the surrounding carnage of fragmented Oliphaunts and dead/resurrected orcs faded away, and he was...

...back on the shores of the Pea Sea, sitting at a simple table under a pavillion fashioned after the crest of his mighty armies, the multicolored four-panel window. He was enjoying a fine cigar as the petulant leader of the Eunuchs, his longtime enemies, sat opposite him signing terms of surrender. At his side, hanging from an onately-jeweled strap was the Entish bow, who had become his confidante and close friend in the battles that conlcuded the war. Now it was saying things like, "I knew you would win in the end, mighty Gateskeeper. Who needs that miserable shieldmaiden anyway?"

"Peace, my bow," replied the Gateskeeper, "you are speaking of my wife." His thoughts returned to his beautiful suburban home near Dorktank, and to his new wife, the gloriously beautiful Merisuwyiniel. She would be waiting patiently for him to return from the battlefront so she could fawn over him and serve him. He knew that she missed him terribly, and occasionally whe he was on long journeys such as this, her normally perfect composure would crack just a little, and she would begin to cry softly for her husband and lover. Just thinking of that flawless porcelain heaving bosom...

He shook his head in the vision and was transported to his vast office suite on the top floor of Dorktank, where he was now Chairman, CEO, and chief programmer for the International Brotherhood of Magicians. Between ordering his minions to add meaningless revisions and unused bells and whistles to his soft wares, he was reviewing the latest reports tell him how far his O-mails were reaching, the vast percentage of Muddled-Mirth households into which his influence had penetrated, and how much his bank accounts overflowed. Let those dwarvish fools keep their casinos, and the elves their dairylands. They still had to run their operations using his software, and paying him for the khopy-wight to use them. He was well on his way to having them bound to his monopoly, and then the prices would only go up. Pretty soon even Mogul and his followers would be bound up with the onerous costs of using his works. And his own Loyers would draw the contract noose around Mogul's neck until...

"Tssssk tsssk tsssk. Sssuch delusionsss. You've been a naughty, naughty wizzzzard," came the interruption that was about as welcome as a case of athlete's foot. "Ssssso disssappointing. Ssstill, it will be fun for awhile, watching my bessst Korprat-Loyers have their way with you." And while the rest stood around still glassy-eyed with visions of their own private versions of heaven, the bespectacled Maia was well and truly in hell.

For now he was transported to the fell Dungeons of Default in Moredough. Cold iron manacles chained hand and foot to the slimy stone walls. Gateskeeper faced no less than a half-dozen immense dark forms from the darkest nightmares of the most depraved. They pelted him with vile injunctions, stabbed him with disgusting writs of habeus corpus, and shoved restraining orders under his fingernails with insane glee. In addition, they wove the foulest, most torturous spells with their chanting, words of ill-omen passed down even unto this day,


Leo Dicaprio,
Brittany Spears,
Jessica Simpson,
Watch them for years!

Visiting Mom-in-law,
Internal Revenue,
Washington politics,
Cleaning the loo!

Rush-hour traffic,
Nuclear strife,
Michael Moore flicks,
A nagging wife!

Country Music
Killing sprees
Gangsta Rap
and MTV!

Such was Gateskeeper's torment in his vision that he fell to his knees with a bloodcurdlng shriek of sheer terror mixed in equal measure with excruciating pain, with just a pinch of salt, a teaspoon of tabasco sauce, and baked at 350 degrees until crispy. Gathering all his strength (from where it lay in pieces all over the dungeon floor) he threw himself at his tormentors. The manacle holding his right wrist sliced deeply through skin and bone, there was a moment of blinding pain in his arm...

<the soundtrack rises to a crescendo, the picture goes to a brilliant white for a moment>

...and then he was free -- free of the torture, free of the vision, free of the Cloz'd Dheal mark on his hand. Indeed, he was free of his marked hand altogether, which lay on the ground in a small pool of blood. His arm ended in a badly-cauterized stump. But the throbbing pain of the mark was gone (replaced by the only slightly less intense pain of an amateur amputation job). Mogul had made the vision too real and, as is normal for overreaching evil dictators and overconfident dark lords, the instrument of his power became the vehicle of his intended victim's freedom. It was the deus ex machina he had been waiting for ever since post 141 (which we now visit in flashback form via the miracle of the 3-second cross-dissolve)

While sitting in the food courts of the GAP of Soreham, he began to wish that he had not made that deal with Mogul, but even as the thought crossed his mind the burn mark of the Cloz'd Dheal throbbed under his one glove. Then he remembered the one thing that might turn the trick for him. In lore ancient beyond all reckoning there was a whisper of something more powerful yet than Mogul, something yet more powerful than even the beauty of Merisuwyniel herself, as improbable as that might be. The power of the deus ex machina, called by some the Plôt Twĩŝt. But invoking that power would involve suffering in the extreme.

The day had finally come, and the battle which had raged within him finally ended: goodness had triumphed over the evil in his soul, and the alternate personality fell into the void with a mournful wail of "precious!" and was gone. Light flooded Gateskeeper's entire being. Virtue emboldened him, righteousness strengthened him, courage drove him. Leveling a gaze at Mogul that would melt the very rocks he strode forward, staff wielded in his unmaimed hand, filled with the confidence of the just.

Mogul dismissed his advance with a casual wave of his hand. But it did ever-so-slightly weaken his grasp on the others for a moment.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel stood her ground, both repulsed by and strangely attracted to the handsome face she saw before her. Yet she was still aware enough of her own self to realize that this so seductive person was not bringing out the best in her. While she fought to regain her normally cool, poised demeanour, she heard a voice echoing in her mind.

“He looks fair and feels foul,” it said. It was the familiar voice of the Entish Bow, now fighting to save its own life after so valiantly defending hers. “All that is rhinestone does not glitter, not all those who disco are king,” it continued. “Remember the Alamo, remember your mother, remember Gravlox, remember anything else, but forget about him!”

At those words another face appeared before her mind’s eye, a face that looked foul, but felt inexpressively fair to her. She gasped; so real did it seem that she reached out to caress the cheeks, strangely more cleanly shaven than she remembered them. Those eyes, so tenderly loving their gaze… That gorgeous hair, softly waving in the breeze… Those manly hands, now well-manicured, so adept to touch her in more ways than she had time to recall now… And a soft, smooth voice spoke to her of everlasting love, never-ending passion, and the advantages of joint tax returns.

The two voices strove within her. For a moment, perfectly balanced between their piercing sounds, she writhed, tormented. Suddenly she was aware of herself again. Merisuwyniel, neither the wooden voice nor the smooth-talking one: free to choose, and with one remaining instant in which to do so.

The musical voice was not that of her deceased beloved. Flattering as its tones were, they jarred with the voice indelibly etched into her memory, and the spell was broken. She raised her lovely golden head, her beautiful eyes gazed with great clarity and strength into Môgul’s, and her melodious voice called out, “The words of this Velour stand on their heads! In the language of Môgul, help means ruin, and saving means slaying, that is plain. Do not offer what is not yours to give, Bildur! If Emu wills, I may see my beloved again someday. If not, still I will not forsake the Quest that has been entrusted to me. Begone, foul Dwimmerlaik! Go now and never come back!”

[The Saucepan Man]

At Merisuwyniel’s words, a wistful expression passed across Môgul’s stunningly handsome features and his face fleetingly took on a noble, even kindly, aspect. In that moment, the onlookers saw him as he once had been: Melvin Bluenote, mightiest and firstborn of the Velour and damn fine guitarist. But the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived and the Dread Developer stood before them once more in all his villainy. Then he threw back his head and laughed. And his laughter was terrible, laden with malice, dripping with scorn and garnished with spite.

“How misguided of you to put your faith in Him,” he said. “For I am His firstborn and know His mind better than any here. You think that you will be saved by His will? He cares less for your pitiful lives than my sist/breth-ren. No, you will find no succour in Him.”

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade,” declaimed Merisu. “And when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it?” chuckled Môgul. “You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

He paused, staring intently at the Defiant-ship. His baleful gaze fell on each one of them, and they felt it pierce their very souls. Their resolve once more began to falter. Even Merisu’s heart fell on hearing that Yawanna’s aid now seemed lost.

“But your defiance is touching,” Môgul continued. “And shall be rewarded. You shall have your wish, Merisuwyniel.”

And with that, he promptly dissolved into a black cloud, which drifted lazily back towards the vast army still arrayed before the What-happens-next-ship.

“So that was Môgul Bildûr,” Orogarn Two commented to Kuruharan. “I always thought that he was just a red nostril.”

“The nostril is symbolic,” sighed the Dwarf wearily.

The Cornered-ship steeled themselves again for their final stand. But then the massed ranks began to part once more and from within came an embassy of Môgul.

At its head rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a sleek black Warg. The rider was suited all in black, with pinstripes of white, and red with blue polka-dots was his natty tie. The Solicitor-General of the Dark Tower Block of Barát-Höm he was, and his name was Greedhog. With him came only a small company of Korprat Loyery, and a single banner, black but bearing on it in red the Nasty Nostril. Now halting a few paces before the Questors of the West he looked them up and down and laughed.

“Isss there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me?” he asked. “Or indeed with wit to undersstand my tortuoussly archaic phraseology? Not thou at leassst!” he mocked, turning to Orogarn Two with scorn. “It needss more to make a King than a ssseriously underused magical crystal, or a full head of feathered hair. Why, any sspandex clad rocker can show as good a follicling.”

Orogarn said naught in answer, but made to pick up his great sword which lay still on the ground where he had dropped it only moments before. Greedhog laughed once more.

“I am a herald and ambassssador and may not be assssailed,” he hissed. “And moreover,” he added as a reminder of a previously laid plotline. “No Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, may hinder me.”

“Then tell us of your errand,“ spoke up Merisuwyniel. “Yet I fear that you have troubled yourself in vain, for we shall never yield the Entish parts unless they be prised from our cold lifeless hands.”

“Speak for yourself dear,” whispered Leninia out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, steady on old girl,” added Orogarn Two. “This fellow seems to be offering us a way out of this predicament.”

“Quite,” observed Kuruharan. “Never say never when a deal’s on the table.”

“Ouch,” commented the Gateskeeper, attempting to stem the flow of blood from the startlingly real wound occasioned by his decidedly unreal vision.

“Ssso!” sneered Greedhog, addressing Merisu. “Then thou art the sspokesman - er - perssson for this rabble. Have we not heard of thee at whilesss, and of thy Quesssting, ever bringing chaoss and misssery to all who crossss thy path? I have a token that I was bidden to show thee - to thee in essspecial, if thou shouldsst care to look.”

He signed to two of the Loyers, and they came forward dragging behind them a figure, tethered and shrouded in black.

“I am telling you,” countered Merisu adamantly. “There is nothing that you could possibly offer me that could persuade me to offer up the Ent that was broken.”

The Loyers pulled the shroud off the figure with a flourish, revealing an Elf chained and manacled. His blonde locks flowed gloriously over his shoulders and his aquiline nose and delicate cheek-bones shone in the light of the Messéd Realm. And yet, there was something not entirely Elvish about him. Something subtly, yet perceptibly, Orcish.

“Then again …” said Merisu, gaping in astonishment.

“Who’s that?” enquired Soregum.

“That’s Gravlox, little one,” answered Orogarn Two. Then, taking a deep breath, he continued, “Merisu’s lost love who was a Captain of the Uruk-Hai in the service of Lord Sourone, but who turned out to be good in the end - something to do with his father - and who fought valiantly for us, but who died in the final battle at Minus Moreghoul, and who we all thought was dead, but who quite obviously is not, yet who now seems to have turned almost entirely into an Elf, and who …”. He stopped, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Well, it looks like we shall be going home now then, after all,” piped up Pimpi, secretly rather relieved.

“Ai! Just my luck!” wailed Vogonwë, recalling his central role in the demise of Harvey the rabbit.

Merisu’s magnificent eyes welled up with tears, flashing gorgeously but momentarily blurring her vision of her true love. And in that moment her head was filled with pain and fear and doubt and confusion.

“Gravlox …!” she blurted out, her voice a shrill mournful cry.

“Merisu, don‘t …!” cried Gravlox.

But it was too late.

“I thank thee, Mistressss Elf,” gloated Greedhog triumphantly. “It isss plain from your reaction that thiss traitorousss oaf meanss sssomething to you, and it would be vain for you to deny it now.”

“I do not wish to deny it,” said Merisuwyniel, her composure recovered. “I know him and I love him. Truly, madly, deeply. I know true love, and despite your scorn, foul Advocate of Môgul, you cannot say as much.”

Merisu’s brave words hit home and Greedhog was quite clearly stung. The only love that the old Loyer had known had been back in Slangbad, many aeons ago. She had been a bit of a Dragon, but he hadn’t been choosy. But she had left to pursue a lucrative career in treasure hoarding and he had never seen her again …

“Enough of thisss banter,” he said suddenly, shaking his monstrous head clear of such thoughts. “You would be advised to take sswift counsssel with what little wit is left to you. For Lord Môgul does not take kindly to traitorsss, and what his fate sshall be dependss now on your choice. Hand over the fragmentsss of Rent Ent or sssay thine farewells to this primped up pssseudo-Elf.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A blackness came before Merisuwyniel’s eyes, and it seemed to her in a moment of silence that the world stood still, time stood still, her heart was dead and her last hope gone. No matter which choice she made, she was doomed to lose. She answered him not, but Greedhog saw her face grey with fear and the horror in her eyes, and he laughed. “Now he shall endure the slow torment of years,” he taunted, “as long and slow as our legal arts department in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed beyond recognition and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done.”

Merisu faltered. Her comrades saw the anguish in her face; now she seemed crushed, defeated at the last. She stretched out her hands to touch her beloved, and so powerful was the love and sorrow mirrored in her face that Greedhog and his minions dared not restrain her. The lovers clasped each others’ hands and said not a word, yet Gravlox had used his time in Mantoes’ halls wisely, learning the art of O-sanity. The two did not move or speak with mouth, looking from mind to mind; and only their eyes, shining with love and unshed tears, stirred and kindled as their thoughts went to and fro.

“Do not give in to the wicked ones,” Gravlox said to her. “For it is your task to complete the Quest entrusted to you. If you do not find a way, no one will. You might have chosen otherwise, but you have forsaken neither the Entish Parts nor your companions. Your faithful love, which moved the heart of Mantoes on my behalf, shall be rewarded someday.

“Weep not, my beloved,” he continued, “for ‘tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Rubbish,” she answered with unwonted directness. “Memory is not what my heart desires; that is only a mirror - cold and flat. I have taken my worst wound in this renewed parting. Such is the way of it: to find and lose. May there be a final finding some day. Fare thee well, my love!” Reluctantly and in slow motion, she released his hands.

“You demand that I be faithless to my Sacred Quest for the release of this noble servant?” she called out, standing tall and straight.

Greedhog nodded eagerly. “That’s the general idea,” he gloated.

“What surety have I that Mogûl the Base Bildur of Treachery will keep his part?” she asked.

“Do not bandy words in your insolence with the Loyer of Mogûl,” he cried, enraged. “Surety you crave! Mogûl gives none. If you sue for his clemency, you must first do his bidding.”

“Dark is the Shadow,” she declaimed dramatically, “and yet my heart rejoices; for he, Gravlox, shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it. Alas! I cannot foresee it, and how it may come to pass is hidden from me. Yet with his hope I will hope. And the Shadow I utterly reject. Begone!”

Then the Messenger of Mogûl laughed no more. His face was twisted with amazement and anger to the likeness of some wild beast that, as it crouches on its prey, is smitten on the muzzle with a stinging rod. Rage filled him and his mouth slavered, and shapeless sounds of fury came strangling from his throat. He looked at the fell faces of the United-We-Stand-Ship and their deadly eyes, and fear overcame his wrath. He gave a great cry, and turned, leaped upon his Warg, and with his company colleagues galloped madly back to wherever it was that Mogûl had gone.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Meanwhile, back in the Great Hall, the Velour sat, still stunned into immobility by the events of the past moments and hours. Not that immobility was unusual for them, unless they were pursuing recreational activities…

“So what do we do now?” Manuël asked. “Everything is so confusing – Yawanna allying herself with Melvin, that bunch of newcomers leaving an audience without so much as a “by your leave”, and Melvin’s demand for the firewood that they are towing with them. There’s an army out there to enforce his message – should we do something about them?”

“I say we fight,” shouted Tulk Hogan. “We haven’t had a good battle in ages. Let’s get ready to rumble!”

“But fighting is so messy,” Prada objected.

“Yes, so hard on the nail polish,” Chanessa agreed.

“Besides, I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear to a battle,” Vairsacë complained.

“Did you see what that Elven dudette was wearing?” Estë-Lynn asked. “It looked feminine yet practical – I wonder if that’s the style this age in Muddled-Mirth?”

“We haven’t had any new styles here for such a long age,” Nír-Vana sighed. “It would have been fun to, like, ask her who makes her clothes.”

“Why did all this have to happen now, just when the waves are perfect?” TM Ulmo grumbled.

“But a battle would finally get some action into our lives, dudes,” Mantoes protested. “Since the Loyers took so many of my clients, it’s boring at my place.”

And so they sat in the Great Hall, talking without acting, a veritable Committee for Matters of Muddled-Mirth; and the AllOnOurOwnShip stood at the front alone.

[Thenamir]

Kneeling upon the grassy knoll Gateskeeper watched the defiance of Merisu and the gloating of Mogul and his minions. Pimpiowyn, putting her recent shieldmaiden training to use, tended to his wounded arm as best she could. When he was sure no one was looking Gateskeeper leaned in closer to Pimpi (too close for Vogonwe, had he been looking) and whispered, "Shhhh...don't attract attention to yourself...keep working on my arm but listen carefully, we may only have one chance to get this right." Pimpi started, looking up at the face of Gateskeeper, but then obeyed, pretending to be intent on stopping the flow of wizardly lifeblood from the handless arm while actually trying very hard not to be sick. That is until she thought what a waste of food that would be, which settled her stomach immediately.

Gateskeeper continued in a voice strained both by blood loss and dramatic emphasis, "my staff...must restart..." Pimpi nodded surrpetitiously, wondering privately if perhaps Gatesey had been taking lessons in diction from Kirkdan. "take it...and speak...words of the Great Rheeboot...after me." Pimpi feigned looking in her pack for a wound-salve or balm, simultaneously grasping the staff with her other hand. Slowly she repeated the words whispered to her by the bespectacled wizard, "klaatu barada nikto, kontrole alt deleet!" (Of course, everyone knows how hard it is to kontrole alt deleet with only one hand.) Immediately, Pimpi's staff hand began to tingle as the staff was restored to power.

"Now," he went on, "place...staff in my hand...and keep your head down." Pimpi did as she was asked and bent over the severed wrist intent on completing her work. Gateskeeper began manipulating the staff in his one hand, calling up the sound-khaard insert he'd used back at Marrow-Bones. Good, he thought to himself, the recording is still intact. With all the speed he could muster, he began composing an O-mail message.

Dear Yawanna,

Mogul is leading you on. Please listen to the attached em-pethree. And please accept my sincere apologies for that incident at the last Velour Annual Charity Auction and Bazaar. I do hope your hair grew back out OK.

"Andy" Andotiruves

cc: Emu the Flightless

Gateskeeper then edited the recording down to the relevant parts:

"If Emu wills, I may see my beloved again someday. If not, still I will not forsake the Quest that has been entrusted to me. Begone, foul Dwimmerlaik! Go now and never come back!"

“How misguided of you to put your faith in Him, for I am His firstborn and know His mind better than any here. You think that you will be saved by His will? He cares less for your pitiful lives than my sist/breth-ren. No, you will find no succour in Him.”

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade, and when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it? You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

He attached the recording to the O-mail message, withdrew his injured arm from Pimpi and whispered to her the words of omen, "duck and cover." He rose shakily to his feet, summoned up all his wizardly power, and bellowed a single word-of-command, "SEND!!". There was a blinding flash of light and a wave of power blasted out in all directions from the center which was the Gateskeeper. All who stood nearby were knocked to the ground. There followed a moment of terrible silence, broken only when Gateskeeper fell, unconscious. Followed shortly by the sound of Pimpi asking help to get out from under him.

[Mithadan]

A phalynx of Orcs surrounded Gravlox and bore him away from the Itship and carried him to a nearby hill where they bound the partially reformed Uruk to a tree. Three Loyers stood nearby and leered at him as they sharpened their pencils. But the Itship could draw no nearer to Gravlox, for an army stood between them and the hill. There were Orcs, Uruks, Wargs, Hill Trolls, Valley Trolls, Mountain Trolls, Rock Trolls and many others besides. All had their weapons drawn and stood ready to assail the Itship.

Merisu led her companions to a hillock which was just marginally more defensible than the plain on which they had encountered Mogûl. They stood ready to meet the onslaught of Mogûl's many minions. "Mincemeat!" cried Reaperneep. "We'll make mincemeat of 'em!"

But things did look grim indeed. Kuruharan tested the edge of his axe and pondered their dilemma. "Could we," he said. "Just maybe, have considered negotiating? I mean, it's only a pile of wood after all..."

The Bow twisted and spun in Merisu's hands and, with a whistling rush, smacked the Dwarf upside his pointy head. "I'll remember that!" the bow hummed. The other Entish fragments growled in agreement. Kuruharan took a step back and rubbed his head with his gnarled hand. "Just a thought," he replied. "Ow! I bet I'll have a nasty welt in the morning."

"If you live that long," intoned Orogarn mournfully.

At that moment, a shadow obscured the sun, and the Itship shivered as if they had eaten a pint of rocky road too quickly. They looked up... in the sky... it was a bird... a plane (whatever that is)... no! It's....

"Mogûl!" growled Merisu.

High above flew the Dark Lord himself, perched upon a great black Aerophaunt. The great army cried out and stamped upon the ground until the earth seemed to shake. Then they grew silent. Mogûl swept down over the Itship and his Aerophaunt, Heffalump, trumpeted loudly. He raised a hand and shouted, "Kill them! Kill them all and bring me the fragments of the Ent! Bwah ha ha!"

But at that second, a new voice rang out and it was nearly as loud as Mogûl's. "Wait a minute Bildur!"

Mogûl paused and broght Heffalump to a hover. He looked down, then laughed. "Grrralph?" he snickered. "What are you going to do? Sing at me?"

Grrralph stepped forward. His black robes were ripped and tattered. As he stepped up on the hillock there was a gleam, too quick for certainty, a quick glint of grey, as if some garment shrouded by the black rags had been for an instant revealed. "Well met!" he said. "And what may you be doing in these parts? No doubt there is a tale worth hearing behind it all. Such things are not often seen here."

"And how would the likes of you know what is or is not seen here, Thingwraith?" hissed Mogûl. And with these words, he raised a great black spear and flung it at Grrralph. It flew straight and true. But the Wraith was too quick for him. He sprang away and leaped up onto a large rock. There he stood, grown suddenly tall, or at least taller, towering above the Itship. His hood and his black rags were flung away. His grey three piece suit shone.

Mogûl squinted down at the bright figure. "Do I know you?" he asked.

In response, Grrralph straightened the spectacles on the bridge of his aquiline nose, for indeed, he now had a face! Then he raised a tablet of yellow lined paper and gestured at Mogûl. A bolt of light flew from the paper and struck Mogûl in the chest before it coalesced into a tall stack of paper which wrapped itself around the Dark Lord. "A Summons?" cried Mogûl. "A lawsuit? You're suing me?"

Grrralph nodded. "For injunctive relief and replevin, to compel you to surrender the ELF named Gravlox to the custody of Merisuwyniel, and prohibiting you from attacking the Itship until Gravlox's rights are declared by Mantoes!"

"I do know you," growled Mogûl. "You're Sueim. You were In-house Counsel for the Velour."

"Until you paid off a jury to find you not guilty of anti-trust claims early in the First Page," replied Grrralph... or Sueim. "That got me fired by the Velour and traded to Sourone."

"Very well," growled Mogûl as he attempted unsuccessfully to wiggle out of the clutches of the legal papers. "I'll kill you later. After Greedhog litigates you into the dirt." With that, Heffalump flew off unsteadily. The great army of Orcs groaned and wandered off as Greed hog approached with his team of Loyers.

Orogarn approached the grey-suited figure in wonder. "Grrralph?' he asked.

After a moment's thought, there came the reply. "Grrralph? Yes. I remember now. I was Grrralph."

"Can we call you Grrralph?" asked Pimpiowyn.

"No." replied Sueim as he began passing out his business cards. Then he sat and collected his thoughts. Mantoes would be here soon to oversee the trial...

[The Saucepan Man]

And so Greedhog once more stepped forth from the vast army of Moredough. And lo! His pin-striped suit was cloaked in a gown of black. No longer did he sport a natty polka-dot tie, but a collar of yellowish-white, and a ludicrous grey wig culled from the hide of an ancient Warg sat atop his bald head. As he stood in silent contemplation, studying in detail the labyrinthine Writ that Sueim had conjured forth, numerous minions, the Clerks of his Châmbers, busied themselves arranging immense stacks of paper and vast dusty tomes around him.

Nearby stood Greedhog’s apprentice, Rûmpöll the Scaly, second only in his advocacy skills to the great Senior Loyer himself. And lurking in the shadows sat the Înstrùktïng Sólícïtôrrs, those whose job it was to feed Greedhog with the facts and figures (suitably loyered) to fuel his presentation of his case. Foremost amongst these were Klïffòrd Shànnse the Global, and Slôrrtern Maï, the Butcher of Burnhill. Each of them had played a decisive role in building up the vast and profitable empire of their dread client, and now they were present to take their part in his fate.

As the two parties sat on their opposing hillsides, each preparing their case, a plethora of dusty and bewigged Elven clerks, appointed by the Velour for just such an occasion, readied the clearing that lay between for the forthcoming trial. Which took somewhat longer than either side would have liked since it had been many Pages since a trial had last been convened in Valleyum, and the officials were rather out of practice.

The Trial-ship eyed the preparations that were underway on the hill opposite, fearful that their chamipon, Sueim the Disbarrèd, would be no match for the legal team that had been assembled on behalf of Môgul. Soregum looked plaintively at the Gateskeeper as he helped Pimpiowyn to tend to the Wizard’s arm (much to Vogonwë‘s annoyance).

“Tell me,” he said. “Is there any hope? For this quest - trial - thing, I mean?”

“There never was much hope,” replied the Gateskeeper. “Just a fool’s hope.”

“And it is a fool indeed that puts his fate in the hands of a Loyer,” snorted Kuriharan disdainfully.

“Aye,” chipped in Orogarn Two. “And ’tis grim for us when the only Loyer that we have to plead our case before the Velour is the one Loyer who was banished from Valleyum.”

“Pish and twaddle,” snapped Merisu irritably. “Grrralph - er - Sueim has proved faithful to the Quest. And I, for one, trust in him to see that justice will prevail.”

At that moment, one of the Elven clerks raised his voice so that all present heard his cry.

“Silence in court!”

“And so it begins,” whispered Merisu to her companions, “The great argument of our time.”

As all stood, the Velour entered the clearing with Mantoes at their head. Solemnly, they took the wooden seats appointed for them to one side of the clearing.

“Like, what’s with the upholstery,” complained Prada. “You’d think that they could have done something plush in leather.”

“Hey, get with it dudes,” intoned Mantoes. “This court is, like, in session, man.”

[Mithadan]

Grrralph... er. Sueim rose and walked to the counsel's table which had appeared before the august panel of Velour. On it, he placed his legal pad and quill. Then he motioned lazily with his left hand and a tall stack of scrolls appeared upon the table. Rising to his full (and considerable) height, he addressed the Court.

"My Lord Mantoes," he intoned. "and distinguished Velour. I am here before you today to plead on behalf of Gravlox Uruk and Merisuwyniel the Fair who have had their deep and loving relationship shattered by Môgul Bildûr, formerly known to all here as Melvin Bluenote, who has wrongfully and without right seized and retained in his possession the aforesaid Gravlox..."

"What about his cousins, bagels, capers and cream cheese?" whispered a nearby Elf before he was seized, roundly beaten and dragged off by several bailiffs.

"As I was saying," continued Sueim. "This is a case about love interrupted by the dark and evil deeds of Môgul Bildûr..."

"Sob!" sobbed Howlie. "That's beautiful. Môgul's guilty! Let me execute his sentence!" He raised his hammer and hurled against the nearby mountain from which the reincarnated Orcs had been issuing. The mountain shattered with a flash of light. Moments later, a dull rumble was heard, even as Howlie's hammer spun back to him.

"Duuude," cried Mantoes. "It's not cool to, like, prejudge someone. Keep an open mind. Roll on, Sueim!"

"A case like this arises rarely," said Sueim. "Once a Page, perhaps do events of such great moment arise. And, sadly, I am but recently arisen from the stupor of my curse and am less than fully prepared, through no fault of my own. Therefore, I respectfully request a continuance so that I may adequately present my case. A short adjournment of, say, a decade?"

Greedhog rose to object, but before he could speak, a great clamor arose. A battalion of Orcs marched by singing Louie, Louie at the top of their lungs. Prada winced and conferred quickly with Mantoes who then spoke. "Dude, I feel your pain, but there is, like, no way that we are going to let all these Orcs and Trolls and whatever wander around here for a decade. We've gotta get this gig done so that we can get back to hanging out. Motion denied."

Greedhog snickered none too quietly, but Sueim was undaunted. "Then, I request just five minutes to speak with Gravlox and would like to designate some of these fine people who I quested with to act as my clerks?"

"Whatever," answered Mantoes. "Pick three of them to help you."

Sueim turned to the Itship and considered each in turn.

"He will pick me," thought Merisu. "For I am wise and strong and led this quest for all this time."

"He will pick me," thought Gateskeeper with a grin. "For I am smarter than all the others combined."

"He will pick me," mused Kuruharan. "For I am savvy and a great salesman, and what is a court case if not a sales pitch?"

"I wonder when dinner is?" thought Orogarn.

A ghost of a grin passed over Sueim's face, then he turned back to face the court. "Thank you my Lord Mantoes," he said. "I choose Pimpiowyn, Vogonwë and Leninia."

The audience of Elves that had gathered gasped, then laughed. They pointed and whispered as the three newly designated clerks stepped forward and huddled with the Loyer. After several minutes, including one loud exclamation of "You want me to WHAT?" Sueim nodded and walked towards the hill where Gravlox was bound. Pimpi and Vogonwë accompanied him reluctantly through the ranks of drooling and jeering Orcs. Leninia did not, however, join them. She walked off to the west with a determined look on her face.

Soon, Sueim returned and faced the court. "Where are your clerks?" asked Mantoes.

"They are off doing research, no doubt," answered Sueim.

"Very well," said the chief jurist. "Like, present your case."

"The Orcish Conundrum Concordat clearly and unambiguously provides as follows," said Sueim. "'In order to ease the overcrowding of the Mantoes reclamation facility and to ensure the orderly recirculation of resources, the Velour hereby agree that, upon application by Môgul Bildûr, in writing and upon reasonable advance notice, the Velour will release into his custody all previously slain or otherwise killed, departed, or passed on Orcs from Mantoes, save only that this clause may be invoked only once a Page.' Thus, by the way, Lord Howlie's action in destroying the recirculation portals was quite proper Môgul Bildûr has used his one option for this Page."

He strode over before the panel of Velour and gestured dramatically. "ORCS!" he cried. "This provision applies only to Orcs! Not Trolls, not Dwarves, not wraiths, not wargs, not bunny rabbits, not zerls and, especially NOT Elves! And Gravlox is now an Elf! He is no longer an Orc! He has been redeemed."

Gravlox nodded his head as best he could against his bonds. This was difficult as he remained tied to a stake on the nearby hill. But even as Sueim finished his sentence, a breeze blew, causing Gravlox's golden hair to wave and gleam in the sun. His grey eyes twinkled and shone and his aquiline nose was in stark contrast to the snouts and related bodily accoutrements that his Orcish guards possessed.

"Does an Orc sip tea?" asked Sueim. "With scones, yet? Does an Orc floss his fangs? Does an Orc say please and thank you? My Lord Mantoes, does an Orc use conditioner, pre-shave, post-shave, hair mousse, exfoliating cleansers and astringents? For this ELF does, as this court well knows. But if the court wishes proof, I have the statements, taken by Osanwë, of 100 Orcs from the division Môgul Bildûr assigned Gravlox to, all attesting to these uncontested facts." A large volume of paper appeared suddenly before Mantoes and landed with a THUD upon his table. A number of Elves in the Gallery applauded appreciatively as Sueim swept back dramatically to his table and sat down in his chair.

"He has done it!" thought Merisu with wonder. "He has surely won and Gravlox will be released to me!"

But if so, then why was Greedhog smiling....?

[Kuruharan]

“With the court’s indulgence,” said Greedhog. He walked (not flew, walked) over to the nearby hill where Gravlox was tied up. The Loyer seized the stake and ripped it out of the ground. Then he carried the stake and Gravlox back before the bench…row of stools or whatever it was.

“May it please the court,” Greedhog proclaimed grandly. He thrust the stake into the ground again where everyone in the courtroom…meadow…field…whatever could see Gravlox’s face.

“Open your mouth,” commanded Greedhog.

“Mmm-mmm,” said Gravlox pinching his lips as tightly shut as possible.

“I said open it,” commanded Greedhog.

“Mmm-MMMMM,” said Gravlox turning his head in the other direction.

Greedhog reached forward with his mighty hand…paw…claw…whatever and wrenched Gravlox’s head around. With his other appendage he gripped Gravlox’s jaw and squeezed. Gravlox’s mouth popped open with an unappealing cloud of slobber revealing a hideous mouth of some of the jaggedest most vicious looking orc-fangs you ever saw. (They were, however, immaculately flossed.)

“Redeemed is he,” sneered Greedhog. “Looks to me like somebody skipped out from the program before completion. As the court knows, in order for an elf to be considered redeemed, the spirit must complete the creation of a new Hawaarrrrkk.” Greedhog pointed to Gravlox in some distaste. “This creature clearly has not done so.”

The panel of Velour made vague noises of assent and understanding, or it may have been just them settling down to a more comfortable position to take a nap.

“Your honors,” piped up Kuruharan, “if I may…”

“Shaddup!!” hissed Merisuwyniel.

Kuruharan paid his usual amount of attention to her wishes.

“We have reason to believe that the victim in this case was rippéd untimely from the Halls of Mantoes. Said victim was not given the chance to complete his orals. However, as the court knows, if the spirit is pure, then the flesh can be so too. All it needs is a little help.”

“ZZzzzzZZ…wha…” pontificated Mantoes.

“Exactly,” agreed Kuruharan. “Now, if the court will permit me…” The dwarf strode forward and handed over a card.

Mantoes examined the card and read aloud what it said. “Kuruharan the Longbeard, D.D.S., D.V.M., B.B.C., C.B.S., A.B.C., N.B.C., M.S.N.B.C., F.O.X., C.N.N., N.K.V.D., G.P.U., C.I.A., M.I.5, F.B.I., K.G.B., A.S.A.P., R.S.V.P, D.M.Z., I.I.R.C., L.O.L., I.M.H.O., and B.Y.O.B.”

“Duuuude…” said Manuël.

“I offer my services to the court to test the hypothesis,” said Kuruharan.

“Wha…” said Mantoes.

“Objection!!!” roared Greedhog. “He’s not offered his certification!!”

Kuruharan pulled a rolled scroll out of his sleeve and handed it over.

“The ink’s still wet,” said Mantoes.

“A miracle!” said Kuruharan. “May I begin?”

“Ob…” began Greedhog again when an antennae wrapped itself around his neck and choked him off.

“Council,” hissed the voice of his master, “I think this might be fun to watch.”

And so, Kuruharan was allowed to proceed.

“Nurse,” he called. Chrysophylax thumped down next to Gravlox and set down the most awful lookin’ gas-powered dentist’s drill you never wanted to clap eyes on.

Kuruharan pulled on some rubber gloves with a snap. “Anesthetic!”

Chrysophylax turned around and whalloped Gravlox with his tail. Gravlox slumped over like a boned fish.

*RUM-pa-pa-pa-pa* *RUM-pa-pa-pa-pa* *RUM-pa-pa-pa-pa* went the drill as Kuruharan enthusiastically yanked on the cord trying to start the contraption.

*RUM-RUM-WHIRRRRRRRRRR* went the drill as it spun to life.

“Hold his mouth open,” commanded Kuruharan as he gripped the drill and pulled it toward Gravlox’s mouth.

Who now will save Gravlox from a Dentistry worse than Death?

Mithadan's Post

Sueim stood up so quickly that his chair fell over behind him with a loud crash. The sudden noise fortunately distracted Kuruharan, who was about to begin an excavation of Gravlox's upper frontal... err, fang. Members of the audience alternately sighed with relief or groaned with disappointment depending upon their respective world views. "Before we begin tampering with evidence," interjected Sueim. "May I suggest an more appropriate solution to this issue?"

He adjusted his vest, smoothed his tie and stepped forward. "Counsel's argument presumes that the condition of Gravlox's teeth, other than his tendency toward oral hygeine, is relevant here. I would respectfully contend that it is not. Could we excuse the witness, Lord Mantoes?"

Mantoes, who had been observing the proceedings with a combination of disgust and boredom, nodded. A contingent of Orcs carried Gravlox back to the nearby hill and lashed him to the pole once again. Kuruharan hastily wrote out an invoice for services almost rendered and handed it to the Bailiff before retreating.

"I call to the stand..." cried Sueim dramatically. "SOREGUM!"

Soregum straightened as if a Troll had begun an in-depth exploration of his innards with a knife, then trotted nervously up to the witness stand. Sueim approached the witness with a sly smile.

"Soregum, you are of what race?" he asked.

"I'm a Hobbit, sir," mumbled Soregum.

"A Hobbit?" repeated Sueim. "Are you sure?"

"Uh, yes?" answered the witness.

"You have just seen Greedhog suggest that the nature of Gravlox's teeth may tend to show that he is an Orc," said the Loyer. "What did you think?"

"Pretty nasty, I guess," mumbled Soregum.

"Nasty," repeated Sueim. "Does the nastiness of his teeth establish him to be an Orc?"

"I dunno," answered Soregum nervously, with a quick glance towards Merisu.

"Open your mouth!" instructed Sueim.

Now Soregum looked over to Kuruharan, who had paused in his efforts to repack his dentistry equipment and was now observing the questioning with keen interest, with open terror. But Mantoes leaned forward and nudged the witness. "Come on, little dude," he ordered. "Let's see your choppers."

Soregum reluctantly opened his mouth and displayed his teeth in all their glory... all six of them... the green ones... the brown ones... the black one and the spotted one. A nearby Orc screamed with horror and loped away. Prada lifted a dainty kerchief to her mouth and averted her eyes. Even Greedhog appeared uncomfortable.

"Oh, man," cried Mantoes. "Like, gross. Totally!"

Sueim smiled at Greedhog happily. Then he spoke. "I believe my point is made. The witness is excused."

[Diamond18]

Suddenly, without warning, a burning rock came screaming from the sky and exploded into a million pieces, each one slamming into the ground with collasal force! Death! Destruction! The whole world was engulfed in flames and molten space rock -- people's large and small intestines fried like sausage and their bones disentegrated like tissue paper that's been held over a votive candle too long. Men, orcs, elves and Velour alike, dead, all dead! All dead! O, the carnage! Death to all Hatchlings of Emu Ilovetar!

Dear Gentle Reader,

Wait a gosh darn moment. This is all too final. Some other dues ex machina must be used.

If you find courtroom scenes boring, no matter how farcical the characters or outrageous the events, I apologize, for it is only going to get worse. For let us now turn our attention back to the true events of that fateful day in Valleyum, which cannot be rescued by great balls of fire or blood and destruction.

Well, great balls of fire, anyway.

We are now zooming back down to submerse ourselves in the ofttimes hard to suspend disbelief -- wow, that’s mixing metaphors, is it not, Gentle Reader? It doesn’t even make any sense. However, it is what we are doing. Zooming back down we see where Vogonwë Brownbark and his young love Pimpi are preparing to carry out a mission entrusted to them by the Loyer Formerly Known as Grrralph. But heck, we’re still going to call him Grrralph, Gentle Reader, because we’re just that way.

Hark, action is taking place....

“I don't believe what I'm hearing... Meri-Sue was right. You've changed!”

“I don't want to hear any more about Meri-Sue. The Velour turned against me. Don't you turn against me.”

“I don't know you anymore. Vogonwë, you're breaking my heart. I'll never stop loving you, but you are going down a path I can't follow.”

“Because of Meri-Sue?”

“Because of what you've done... what you plan to do. Stop, stop now. Come back! I love you!”

“Liar!”

Oops, heh heh, sorry, Gentle Reader -- wrong parody. Let me adjust the controls on my Parody-O-Matic here -- indispensable machine but it can be terribly glitchy -- and see if we cannot find the proper tone, this time. Ah yes, here we go:

“I’m hungry.”

“Not now, Pimpi, I’m composing,” Vogonwë replied with a hint of irritation. In fact, he was quite nervous, more nervous than he had been since that incident with the Giant Mutant Neanderthalic Black Skwerlz of Workmud when in the midst of battle he had run out of arrows and been reduced to throwing hair pins. His anxiety put him on edge and thus Pimpi’s tummy rumblings were not a welcome distraction from the task at hand.

Pimpi should have been more nervous than she was, considering what Grrralph had asked of her, but at the moment her task seemed a long time away and the hollowness inside was much more pressing. She looked over Vogonwë’s shoulder with half interest, reading the words he wrote upon paper and thinking that the Diabolical Workmudian Sleep-Well Spell he was crafting didn’t seem all that much different from one of his sonnets.

“You’d better hurry up,” she said languidly, “we have to do this before the trial is over.”

Vogonwë took a breath before replying, “I am hurrying -- and unless you can remember what the fourth line of the third stanza is supposed to be, it would be most helpful if you would refrain from speaking to me.”

“Oooookay,” Pimpi backed away. “Excuse me, your Poet-Laureatness.”

Vogonwë went on muttering snatches of poetry under his breath, scratching out the words on the paper and replacing them countless times, till the paper was a mess of unreadable scratches and half-baked rhymes. “Oh it’s no use, I can’t remember the Spell,” he moaned. “I should have paid more attention in school....”

“All hope is not lost,” Pimpi said bravely, swatting him on the shoulder. “I have faith in you, Vogy -- if you can’t remember the spell thingy, just improvise.”

“Improvise?” he looked at her cross-eyed.

“Yes! Ad lib! Write your own Diabolical Brownbarkian Sleep-Well Spell.”

“But I am a poet, not a spell weaver.”

“Whatever,” Pimpi fluttered one hand dismissively. “Same diff.”

“I protest, there is much--”

“Listen, I’m getting seriously bored out of my mind here, okay?” Pimpi snatched the paper and pen away from him. “Time is of the essence, now get over there and recite something.”

Vogonwë grumbled, and turned reluctantly to where Gravlox was chained to a pole, heavily guarded by minions of the Dark Lord -- who were, at the moment, eyeing Kuruharan intensely, but were sure to come down hard on anyone else who attempted to remove Gravlox from his spot. He cleared his throat and coughed nervously, then stood up and walked hesitantly over to where the Orc/Elf was awaiting his fate.

“Excuse me, tally ho,” Vogonwë said, waving at Orc guards. They snapped their attention away from the trial and menaced their weapons towards him, growling and snarling and saying “get lost” among other, less publishable things.

Vogonwë held his hands up innocently, “I’m so sorry to disturb you gents. But if you have a moment to lend me your incredibly large, misshapen, hairy ears, I have a favor to ask.”

The guards burst out into laughter at the idea of doing a favor, and told Vogonwë again to get lost or feel the wrath of their swords, clubs, and assorted switchblades.

“Okay,” Vogonwë broke out into a sweat -- very unbecoming in even a half-elf -- and tried to smile. He did a quick head count of the Orcs and ruled out the possibility of taking them out with his arrows -- his proximity to them and their number meant that he could hope to skewer only about half a dozen of them before the other dozen made him feel the wrath of their assorted switchblades. And no doubt the clamor would attract the attention of more unsavory types, not to mention the in session court down the hill. No, he had no choice but to go at this in the manner Grrralph had requested.

He took a deep breath. “Section 108 paragraph 5 line 9 in the Valleyum Unsavory Visitors Act states quite clearly that all prisoners being held on the shores of Valleyum by any and all Unsavory Visitors, such as yourselves, are entitled to three things --

1. The presence of an officiary of the religion of his or her choice
2. A root beer flavored lollypop
3. The recitation of a poem by a professional, licensed Poet.”

The Orcs looked at him blankly, wondering if the strange Elf before them was really All There.

“Now,” Vogonwë continued, “I see none of these things, though I do see a prisoner, and this is Valleyum, and you are all unsavory. Therefore you are in serious, er... well you’re all in a lot of trouble because this represents an unlawful something or other. However, this is also your lucky day because it just so happens that I am a licensed Poet and a Priest of the Order of White Rabbits, which is the religion of this Elf/Orc’s choice. Also I have in my possession one root beer lollypop, slightly sticky with a coating of pocket lint.”

The Orcs exchanged befuddled glances. Then one took a menacing step forward. “Look, chump--”

“The name is Brownbark. Vogonwë Brownbark.”

“Whatever, Chump. We don’t want any of your pansy Elf poetry around here, you got me?”

Vogonwë nodded understandingly, then said, “I thrill at the trilling hill of daffodils.”

The Orcs recoiled, expressions of pain contorting their already contorted features.

“Hey, I said none of that now!”

“Little Mincy-Mee of Shmee danced the Tootlefree in the land of Hannalee.”

“Argh!” The Orcs tried to charge Vogonwë, but were brought to their knees by --

“I went to the fair
I went to the fair,
I went to the fair
To see a bear,
And the bear was there,
At the fair.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” gasped one Orc.

Vogonwë smiled with a hint of sadistic pleasure and replied,

“The drooping fronds of pond leaves left scars
Day is night and night is day
Morning shadows drift down the wet dog nose of love
Rolling in the sand is a pinecone.
Of desire.”

No reply came from the Orcs this time -- they had all fallen face down and were lying motionless on the hill.

Pimpi came creeping up behind Vogonwë and asked, “Are they sleeping? Why have you stopped reciting?”

“I think they’re dead,” Vogonwë said, nudging one prostrate Orc with his foot. “I was experimenting to see what would happen if you mixed two napping spells with a traditional drinking song of Chippendale. And that last one was just something I was working on for social occasions. The effect has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations, the guards are out of commission permanently, which makes your task much easier.”

“I’m going to go untie him.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t mention it. No really, it was nothing...” Vogonwë said dryly, but his complaint was completely lost on Pimpi, who advanced upon the tethered Elf/Orc, and said, “Gravlox? Hello? D’you remember me?”

Gravlox mumbled something around his gag, and Pimpi reached to remove it.

“Be careful, he might bite,” said Vogonwë, hanging back.

Once the gag was free, Gravlox said irritably, “I do not bite and yes, I remember the both of you, to my regret. What have you come to do to me now? Is it not enough that you killed me, you must now come to gloat over me in my hour of subjugation?”

“No, we’ve come to rescue you!” Pimpi said earnestly, tearing away at the knots securing the ropes around his nicely manicured hands. “We’re going to take you away and hide you! Come along now, before anyone notices!”

Gravlox looked between Pimpi and Vogonwë suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trap?”

“Yes,” Vogonwë replied, “we’re going to chop you up and eat you with a side of lembas, that’s why we’ve gone to all this trouble to rescue you from certain death at the hands of Mogul.”

“You’ve become very sarcastic since I last knew you,” Gravlox observed.

“We don’t have time for this, come!” Pimpi urged, and the three of them hastened away, darting glances over their shoulders at the trial which proceeded merrily along, oblivious to the absence of its subject.

[The Saucepan Man]

Greedhog had watched the oral examinations of Gravlox and Soregum with the patronising and supercilious expression that only a truly seasoned Loyer could affect. When they were finally over, and Sueim had sat down, he rose once more and addressed Mantoes.

“My Lord, may I continue?” he asked.

“Whatever, dude,” came the mighty judge’s reply.

“My learned friend,” Greedhog intoned, spitting the words out contemptuously as if they were flies that had somehow become ensnared within his pallid jowls, but nevertheless bound by the code of courtroom etiquette to use them, “has put in contention the issue of whether the subject of this trial, one Gravlox Uruk, is or is not at the present time an Orc. I might point to his very name as evidence of his Orcentricity, under the doctrine of res ipsa loquitur. But I would submit that this question is wholly irrelevant, and therefore one which need not trouble your Lordship.”

“Sweet,” said Mantoes, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. As far as he was concerned, the less he had to decide, and the quicker this tedious trial was over with, the better.

“For it is undeniably the case,” Greedhog continued, “that, while he may be seeking redemption, the aforementioned Gravlox is most certainly not yet fully redeemed. And thus it was when Lord Mögul exercised his option under the Orcish Conundrum Concordat in respect of, inter alia, the said Gravlox. Indeed, at that time the subject was undoubtedly more Orcish than Elvish. I can testify to that myself, having - er - questioned him at length.”

“And your point is…?” asked the judge.

“My point is, My Lord, that the whole purpose of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat, its raison d’être if you like, was to avoid a situation whereby you would be required to admit a former Orc into your hallowed Halls by reason of such Orc having sought, and successfully obtained, redemption. My Lord, I am sure that you of all people need no reminding of this, but, should proof of this proposition be required, then I would refer the court to page 3, post #119 (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=174743&postcount=119) of the trial papers prepared by my Înstrùktïng Sólícïtôrrs.”

Klïffòrd Shànnse and Slôrrtern Maï glowered in smug satisfaction and the mention of their handiwork, while Mantoes eyed the enormous stack of papers before him with some reluctance.

“No need, dude,” he declared. “I know the score. No way we wanted those gross Orcish dudes messing up the place and bringing everyone down, redemption or no redemption. Seriously bad vibes, man.”

“Ergo, My Lord, it follows that the aforesaid Concordat could only validly be invoked in circumstances where the Orc in question was seeking redemption, yet was not fully redeemed. Which is precisely the state that Gravlox Uruk was in when he was offered to, and accepted by, my client, Lord Mögul, under the terms of said Concordat.”

“Er, right,” said Mantoes.

“It follows that the subject has validly come into my client‘s possession by the proper operation of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat. Moreover, as I am sure that all present are aware, section XXXIX, clause 658, sub-clause 658.12, paragraph 3, sub-paragraph (d), sub-sub-paragraph (ixx) of the Valleyum civil code states that possession is nine tenths of the law. Accordingly, given that the said Gravlox is currently within my client’s possession and validly so, my client is legally and indisputably entitled to retain ownership of precisely nine tenths of him."

Greedhog paused for effect, an evil grin spreading across his grotesque features, before continuing.

"As to the remaining one tenth, my client is of course perfectly willing to deliver this up to my learned friend, should he so wish”

His submissions over, Greedhog sat down with a flourish and glared smugly at Sueim.

“He’s good,” whispered Kuruharan, clearly impressed. “Darn good. I wonder how much he charges for this sort of thing?”

“Aye. Ever had I heard that the dread loyers of Moredough were well practised in their dark arts,” added the Gateskeeper. “And now the evidence of mine own eyes testifies that the legends did not speak falsely.”

And so, as Merisuwyniel fought to hold back the rising tide of despair that threatened to engulf her, all eyes turned back to Sueim, upon whom the hopes of the Court-ship, and the success of their Quest, now depended.

[Lush]

"You know, the West is just another ideological construct used to perpetuate stereotypes and dictate the nature of diplomatic relationships," a tiny voice sang sweetly to Leninia as she walked down a long, dark corridor toward her destination.

"Uh huh." Leninia brushed it off. She was concentrating on her task so hard that she didn't even resort to telling the voice to shut up. "Wait a minute, who is this?"

"The voice in your head, of course," the voice replied.

Leninia remembered the vulture from her previous dream, vision, quest...thing. and decided that she'd had enough weirdness for today.

"Could you go away, please?" She implored the voice in an uncharacteristically polite and only slightly irritated tone.

"Sure. Please don't think that my entire existence revolves around you. Yet before you throw me out so rudely, perhaps you should know that I have something say about the task that lies ahead of you."

"You do?"

"Yes."

A long silence followed, interrupted only by the sound of Leninia's high heels clicking on the polished marble floor.

"What was that again?"

"I said, yes. Oh, and almost forgot, FREE POLITICAL PRISONERS IN THE NAME OF DEMYSTIFICATION OF ALL SOCIAL CONSTRUCTS AND REPRESSIVE MEASURES THAT PERPETUATE THEM!"

The voice did not come back.

"Hello?" Leninia ventured. "Hey. Loser. Moron. Weirdo. Emotionally constipated freakoid who still lives in his mother's basement and wears the same socks for a week at a time! Ok. It really is gone. Great."

And at this, Leninia reached the door at the end of the hall. It was rather unremarkable and shabby, bearing graffitti along the lines of "Abandon all dope at the door, plz." Leninia prepared herself, tossed her hair about for extra confidence, and knocked.

Another long silence followed. Then a toilet flushed. Then a dull and disinterested voice yelled "it's open!" and Leninia stepped through into what appeared to be a particularly low-end office, with garish lighting from cheap novelty floor-lamps shaped like trees and stacks of dusty folders rising like towers and getting lost somewhere in the great heights of the ceiling.

A young man sat at a shabby desk and quietly yet deliberately thumped his head on it. Another young man, in suspenders and a not-so-crisp shirt, was eyeing Leninia suspiciously.

"The hair salon is down the hall in the opposite direction," he finally said.

"You think my hair needs a sa..." Leninia bristled, then quickly regained her composure. "I mean, I wasn't looking for the hair salon, I was looking...well. For you."

"For me?" Young Man #2 raised an eyebrow. Young Man #1 meanwhile continued thumping.

"Excuse me," Leninia smiled a glittering, toothy smile. "But is there anything wrong with your, um, colleague over there? Does he need help? Maybe we could give him a pillow?"

"Oh, no, that's qute alright, actually," Young Man #2 grinned. "He can't concentrate on his job otherwise."

"Must be a pretty tough job."

"Tell me about it," Young Man #2 groaned. "We keep getting our budget cut in half. It's supposed to be one of the most important jobs in this entire sorry establishment, assisting Our Beloved Foorer Mantoes himself. But guess what? This place has its priorities so screwed up that I'm beginning to think of transferring, before I go insane and get pushed into early retirement. All they care about is their defense fund!"

"Maybe I can help?" Leninia fluttered her eyelashes so much it seemed for a moment as if she might take off and sail straight up and away. "I'm sure we could get the budget improved drastically for the coming fiscal year. I have connections."

"What's the catch?" Young Man #2 eyed her cautiously and hungrily at the same time, like a bird eyeing a particularly bright-colored spider on The Yearning Channel documentary.

"Oh just a little bit of fine print, dear."

"Very fine?"

"Excrutiatingly fine, darling."

"Extremely fine?"

"Gloriously, divinely fine, pumpkin."

"As fine as you are?"

"Hmm. Why not?" And all the while Leninia's eyes continued to blink and glitter and radiate like miniature nuclear power plants. Young Man #2 began swaying from side to side, drooling, smiling, and muttering utter nonsense:

"And then we're going to have a...yes, barbeques on the back porch...the first one we can name, hmmm, something fashionable, like Arden...Maybe the second one will be Dior...Pink pram...Of course, you can keep your job...Cocktails in the den...Summer holiday at St. Tropessea...Pretty trinkets on your birthday...Yes, the lace one.." And so on.

This was enough to rouse even Young Man #1 from his head-banging stupor.

"What have you done?" He roared at Leninia. "We get off at five and we still have work to do? You want to get us fired?"

"No, sugar," Leninia smiled sweetly. "I want to help you."

"Listen lady, your tricks ain't gonna work on me..." Young Man #1 began.

"I know," Leninia interruped gently, remembering the voice's advice. "That's why I had to get your colleague here out of the way. Now listen to me very carefully: Rule number one, you do not talk about what happened here today. Rule number two, you do not talk about what happened here today. Rule number three, this so-called office decor really has to go. Rule number four, helpmefreeyourpoliticalprisonersandallyourfinancia lproblemsaregoingtodisappear."

"Whoa, lady, that's a whole lot of fine print."

"Well, put your glasses on," Leninia snapped.

"...And then we can install a pool...My mother can babysit the kids...You in your nightgown, brushing your long gorgeous hair...And the pink ribbons...Yes, of course, we can...A sale at the Gap of Rohan, you can get anything you want..." Young Man #2 was still going strong.

"And why should we listen to you?" Young Man #1 persisted.

"Because I know how this whole business was. I used to be slightly evil, you see, Leninia Tiny and Terrible, you may have heard of me. But then I met some people, entered a 12-step program..." Leninia trailed off, smiling, for Young Man #2 had come out of his stupor and was staring at her like a rabbit at a cobra on The Yearning Channel.

"Come, gentle revised budget, come, loving, green-coloured revised budget,
Give me my sanity; and, when I shall retire,
Take my stock options and cut them out in huge financial benefits,
So that all the world will be oyster, and pay no worship to my garish looks.
Oh, I will buy a mansion..." He whispered.

"Shut up!" Young Man #1 yelled. "Tell me instead if there are any political prisoners in our jurisdiction whose case may be up for review."

"We only have one. One lousy one." Young Man #2 ruffled a paper-stack, then another. On his twelth paper stack, as Leninia yawned, he finally came upon what he was looking for.

'Last name LaBamba. First name....eh...what is this? Too-thin? Since when can somebody be too thin? Or too r..."

"Ok, I get it man, you're obsessed with your retirement fund, I get it!" Young Man #1 roared.

"So, can we do something about this LaBamba gentleman?" Leninia coughed charmingly and politely.

"Wait, hold on, there is also something here about an...Hmm. An army dispatched here by Mogul? All classified under, er, enemy 'combustants'? Held without trial? Tortured with watching mid-level sitcoms and uh, other stuff...Hmmm. Seems like a huge violation of basic hu...I mean *cough wheeze* Maybe they were all mis-filed? An entire army mis-filed?"

'I'm telling you, we can turn this organization around," Leninia said. "Make it stand for something glorious again. Let it never mis-file another being, human or otherwise, ever again. Mis-filing. That word should have new meaning for us today. We can't be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will not go quietly to early retirement or otherwise! We will not vanish without a fight! We're going to move on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our...eh...What date is it today?"

"No clue."

"Ok, fine, whatever, do whatever needs to be done."

"And..." Young Man #2 looked at Leninia like a prairie dog popping out of its hole and staring with astonishment at whatever it is there is to be stared at (all this Leninia of course learned from The Yearning Channel, copyright 200...eh, whatever year it is right now).

"And what?" Coy Leninia asked.

"And all of that before this? I mean...You probably think that I'm an uncool materialistic..."

"Emotionally constpitaed frekoid?" Leninia finished sweetly.

"Yeah...I mean no...I think...The things you said to me before? Are they...? Are they?"

Leninia remembered the voice in her head.

"Yes." She said. "Yes."

"Hold me closer, tiny and terrible Leninia."

[Mithadan]

As with any activity conducted in a public forum, so too are there fans of the legal profession; those who would rather perish than miss a trial of any great moment. Those who hang upon every last word spoken by a loyer and every last nuance of the law. From the corners of Valleyum, these had descended upon the plain before the Hill of Fish to witness Sueim strive against Greedhog. There they stood in the gallery. All two of them. At this moment, they were attempting to do the wave but were rather looking like Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum bobbing up and down from Through the Looking Glass. But that is, of course, a different story...

Hal sidled over to Merisu and patted her on the shoulder. "Have heart fair maiden," he cried. "It is always darkest before the storm. Every cloud has a silver lining. What goes up must come down. Our distinguished counsel will muster his wiles and deliver a brilliant repartee! Justice will prevail! E pluribus unum! Ad hoc, ad loc and quid pro quo!"

"Ipsi dixit?" mumbled Kuruharan.

"Et tu?" snarled Orogarn with a glare at the dwarf.

Then Sueim smiled and rose gracefully from the counsel's table. He paused to straighten his tie, then advanced to stand before Mantoes. The shining loyer cleared his throat and then spoke in sonorous tones, words of great moment and significance. "I rest my case," he said.

"WHAT!" cried Merisu. "That's it?"

Sueim looked off towards the hill upon which the stake stood with a prisoner bound to it with leather thongs and duct tape. He nodded. "That is most assuredly it," he replied. "Hal would you escort Merisu to the rear of the Itship please?"

Hal gave Sueim a poisonous look, however, with the Velour looking on he had little choice but to comply. With bowed head, Merisu walked away until she was hidden from view behind Chrysophylax who, for the past few minutes, had been issuing a cloud of steam that even Prada's bright eyes could not pierce.

Mantoes hemmed and hawed for a few minutes with the other Velour, then returned to the bench. "Like, having reviewed the Orcish Conundrum Concordat and the records of Gravlox Uruk, we think that he was well on the way to redemption even before that idiot Elf or half Elf shot him full of arrows..."

From behind the Mists of Chrysophylax there came a voice. "What! Hey! I object! OW! Pimpi, why did you hit me..." Quite rightfully, the voice was dutifully ignored by all present.

"...Even after his untimely demise," continued Mantoes. "He worked hard at his lessons and training, even his dental hygiene though to little avail, and learned the ways and manners of the Elves. We find that he is sufficiently reformed to not qualify as an Orc for the purposes of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat."

"Oh my Emu!" came a distinctly and properly feminine yet strong and admirable cry from behind the Smokes of the Dragon. This cry was likewise ignored.

Greedhog ground his teeth in irritation and his clerks began discussing how to appeal from a ruling of the highest court on Muddled Mirth. Then Mantoes spoke again. "But like, however, the fact is that he is in the possession of Môgul Bildûr, formerly known to all here as Melvin Bluenote, and like, it is so totally true that possession is nine-tenths of the law. So I guess we kind of, like, have to rule in favor of Môgul Bildûr."

From behind the Mists of the Wyrm, there came another cry. One would have expected it to be the sound of anguish and grief of a distraught lover who had lost her one and only forever. But it sounded suspiciously like, "Yes! Yes!"

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum gasped, as did a few of the other, less interested, observers. At Greedhog's counsel table there were high fives all around and not a few "Woo hoos" and cries of "Who's your daddy?" But Sueim rose and, to the surprise of all present, he did not look displeased. Indeed, he was smiling broadly. "My Lord Mantoes," he began. "Some clarification, please. As I understand, your ruling is that Gravlox Uruk is redeemed, but that whoever is in possession of him is entitled to his...errr... possession. Is that correct?"

Mantoes nodded. "Sorry, dude."


"No problemo," said Sueim. He motioned towards the sky, and a wind arose which blew aside the Mists of Chrysophylax. The dragon, who appeared almost to be a bit teary, stepped aside. There was revealed for all to see, the sight of Merisuwyniel and Gravlox Ex-Uruk embracing one another tightly. Next to them were Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë, Gravlox's rescuers. They waved happily at Sueim, who waved back. Then the Loyer turned to face Môgul's counsel.

"Possession is nine tenths of the law, Greedhog," cried Sueim. "In your face!"

The forces of Môgul Bildûr quailed at the blow that had been dealt to their master and a wail arose from the great mass of Orcs, Trolls, Wraiths, half-Orcs, half-Trolls and other assorted incestuous combinations that comprised the army. But suddenly a rain of legal papers fell from the sky and there, free from the bonds of Sueim's writs and injuctions was Môgul Bildûr, flying on Heffalump. "Who cares about a traitorous Orc or Elf or whatever he is," he cried. "The court has ruled and I am now free to act as I see fit. I think I'll take up right where I left off before this ridiculous sideshow began. Let's see... Where was I? Oh yes!" Mogûl swept down over the Itship and his Aerophaunt, Heffalump, trumpeted loudly. He raised a hand and shouted, "Kill them! Kill them all and bring me the fragments of the Ent! Bwah ha ha!"

But at that second, a new voice rang out and it was nearly as loud as Mogûl's. "Wait a minute Bildur!"

Mogûl closed his eyes in annoyance. "Deja vu, all over again. I hate deja vu." He opened his eyes and looked about to find the owner of the voice. And lo! There stood Leninia, and next to her stood a man in a rumpled suit who looked altogether too much like a bureaucrat. But the voice belonged to neither of them. Rather, it belonged to a very tall and skinny man, dressed all in black, who stood holding a long sword. And behind him was arrayed a vast shadowy army of the spirits of Men and Elves from the Halls of Mantoes. Yes, there was Feeblenor who long ago had wrought the Lava Lamps and his seven sons, Maypo, Maalox, Celebimbo, Curuthin, Ramrod, Ramfast and Carrera. And there were Thingy and his household, and Pinhead who had dwelt in the caves of Imablonde and many others of the Noodlar and the Doolalliquendi besides. And there were the great Mannish heroes such as Moron the Old and Who-Him and their hosts as well. But Mogûl's eyes were glued upon the tall thin man who had spoken. "Too-Thin Labamba," he whispered...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

I feel pretty,
Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity
Any Velou who isn't me tonight.

I feel charming,
Oh, so charming
It's alarming how charming I feel!
And so pretty
That I hardly can believe I'm real.

See the pretty being in that mirror there:
Who can that Green Goddess be?
Such a pretty face,
Such a pretty dress,
Such a pretty smile,
Such a pretty me!

I feel stunning
And entrancing,
Feel like dancing and ringing a bell,
For I'm loved
By a pretty wonderful Mel!

Yawanna twirled around as she sang in the gardens of Valleyum, and flowers sprang up where her bare feet touched the ground. It had been a long time since the words of the ancient tale of the West Side had occurred to her, and she was well aware of the fact that this song was no longer hip. But for some reason, it made her feel young, as young as Melvin had made her feel with his charming smile and flattering words. Ever since she had willingly suspended disbelief, she had surrendered to his enchantment, and it did not break.

She stretched a pale green hand down to collect some seeds, and the plants gladly gave them to her. Carefully marking each kind and wrapping them in paper envelopes, she put her most prized possessions in a large suitcase. She would turn Muddled-Mirth into a paradise, a garden in which love, light, and joy could dwell forever – or at least as long as it lasted. She envisioned herself as its Queen – she would not be dark, but terribly beautiful, fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All would love her and despair! Finally she would no longer have to play second fiddle to that upstart Prada – who did she think she was anyway, with her head full of fashion nonsense instead of Yawanna’s creativity?!

Thus did she dream of a fair future, and it occurred not to her to doubt Melvin’s sudden appearance nor to question the truth of his words. Yet gradually she became aware of a melody that intruded upon her singing, a discord that she at first wove into her own music, yet it did clash and she realized that her Cell-antír was ringing shrilly. And she loathed the thought of being interrupted in her pleasant thoughts and tasks, yet she was also curious to know who wished to send her a message.

Her green brows furrowed as she read the words. They brought back a memory she had thought forgotten, and indeed she was not inclined to revive it, yet it left a bitter taste in her mouth and her normally smiling lips pressed together as tightly as her clenched hands did.

Dear Yawanna,

Mogul is leading you on. Please listen to the attached em-pethree. And please accept my sincere apologies for that incident at the last Velour Annual Charity Auction and Bazaar. I do hope your hair grew back out OK.

"Andy" Andotiruves

cc: Emu the Flightless

Almost involuntarily, her hand moved to click on the enclosure. She listened to it, first with disbelief, then with increasing doubt. She recognized both voices, that of the Elven maiden and that of her beloved. Could it be?

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade, and when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it? You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

She sank to the ground, covering her face with her hands. Who was she to believe, this obnoxious “Andy” or her darling Melvin?

[Mithadan]

Of the Chamber Pot of Doom or the Tale of Who-Him and His Son Too-Thin Labamba

Of old, when the Elves were brought to Valleyum, the Elder race was less old and had little experience with civilized life, having spent most of their time wandering in the woods and fields. Thus, when they were brought to the Blessed Lands the Elves were untidy (and thus were named by the Velour the 'Slobs'). Being glad of the company and bearing great affection for the Elder Children of Emu, the Velour resolved to tidy up after the Elves and later instruct them on the skills of housekeeping and cleaning up after themselves. So it came to pass that the Velour crafted for the Elves enchanted chamber pots which cleansed themselves and tasked the lesser spirits to do laundry and pick up the prodigious amounts of trash that the Elves, in their joyful free-wheeling style, left behind where ever they went. And the Velour, being a bit airheaded themselves, then forgot to instruct the Elves on such menial tasks...

But ages later, the Noodlar rebelled and returned to Muddled Mirth without the permission of the Velour. After taking counsel, the Velour resolved to encourage the Noodlar to return by withdrawing their magic from the chamberpots and prohibiting the lesser cleaning spirits from following the Elves to Muddled earth. Thus was hardship wrought upon the Noodlar who were forced to learn to clean up their own... messes, or live in untidiness. And the Elves did not learn quickly...

So it was that Prince Pinhead, the Lord of the great caves of Imablonde, could no longer bear the smell of unchanged chamberpots and dirty laundry and left his realm for a time on a ride through the forests of Dairyland. And lo! one night after days of riding without changing his clothes, he heard voices unlike those he had ever heard before. Pinhead dismounted and crept up to a clearing and saw a great multitude of people unlike any he had seen before, and these were the Younger Children of Emu, the Men. And after they had gone to sleep, he crept into the clearing and took up a rough hewn harp and sang a song of Velleyum. The Men awoke in an enchantment and loved his music and said, "boy, Pinhead, you sure can sing, but you smell bad!" And Pinhead dwelt among them for a time and they laundered his clothes and cleaned up after him and he rejoiced and resolved to bring the Men back with him to live among the Elves as their housekeepers, butlers, stablehands and other assorted menial workers.

So it was that the Lord of the Men, Moron the Old, agreed and Men came to live among the Noodlar and do their dirty work for a proverbial song. But Môgul Bildûr was displeased and sought to create strife between Men and Elves and he sent his agents among the Younger Race with whispers of Unionization, minimum wages and benefits. And some fell under the spell of the Dread Developer, but most rejected him, recognizing that he, his Loyers and his armies of Orcs and Trolls and whatnot were even greater slobs than the Elves. Then there was war in Dairyland...

Now Who-Him was a great lord of Men who had negotiated with the Elves and gotten lands of his own for his people so long as they cleaned up after the Elder race. And they did so with joy, knowing that they had a pretty good deal in comparison to the Men serving the Sons of Feeblenor who still had to sleep with the horses. And the people of Who-Him were faithful and brave and were great cleaners and warriors to boot. Indeed, they had grown so savvy and sophisticated that they were little unlike the Elves themselves, save that their lives were short. And among them arose minstrels who were nigh as skilled as the Elves, and greatest among these was Who-Him's son Too-Thin, who was also known as Labamba in recognition of his music. But the joy of the people of Who-Him was cut short and an army of Orcs rolled over his lands and Who-Him was captured and brought before Môgul Bildûr. And Môgul offered him his freedom if he would become a champion of Unionization and strive against the Elves, but Who-Him refused. So Who-Him was given nifty shoes of stone and taught to swim with the fishes...

But Too-Him and his band escaped the nets of Môgul Bildûr and gathered to him Men and Elves and created a travelling troope of performers who would offer to entertain the Legions of the Dread Builder, then, after the the Orcs and Trolls (and whatnot) were drunk as Zerls, would slay them all. And Too-Him wielded a great sword and would leave his mark, an "L", carved upon the chests of those he slew. And the Elves and Men of Dairyland rejoiced at the actions of Labamba and grew bold and strove against Môgul Bildûr even harder.

So the Dark Lord sent a great army afield to capture Labamba, and there was a dragon with them, Flourdrum the Dreadful. Yet even this army would not avail to capture or defeat Labamba, so Flourdrum went forth with but few Orcs around him and made a camp in the lands where Too-Thin was said to dwell. And Too-Thin and his troope came and played for the battalion, thinking to slay them as he had done so often before. But Flourdrum placed Labamba under a spell and convinced him of the benefits of Unionization so that in after times Too-Thin was both beloved and feared by the Elves.

At last, weary of the long wars against Môgul Bildûr, Too-Thin assembled a great army and planned to attack Slangbad in secret. And he built many ships and sailed his army to Valleyum, planning to march up the coast of the Blessed Lands and cross the ocean again in the far north thus coming upon Slangbad from behind. And it may be that Labamba's ploy might have been successful, for Môgul Bildûr's attention was elsewhere at that time, due to the untimely death of Flourdrum who had been barbequed by the Orcish army when provisions had run low. But when Labamba and his army landed on the shores of Valleyum, they were set upon by the Toll Maiar of VIA and arrested for illegal entry. Thereafter, they were imprisoned in the Halls of Mantoes, but it was said that when great need arises and the shores of Valleyum themselves are threatened by Môgul Bildûr, that Labamba and his army would be released together with the spirits of all who were ever slain or cheated by the Dread Developer and that Labamba and his army would then fight the Step-Sister of All Battles on behalf of the Velour and the Elves... and then seek back wages...

[The Saucepan Man]

“Curses! Foiled again!” exclaimed Môgul Bildûr in typically stereotypical fashion as he surveyed the host of Who-Him and Too-Thin from his perch atop Heffalump, before steering the great Oliphaunt back over the serried (and rather worried) ranks of his vast army. The Velour too made a hasty departure, muttering something about surf being up and having important affairs of state to attend to, judging (wrongly, as it happened) that all had now been set right, that the Bolstered-ship looked to be completely in charge of the situation and that this was really none of their business anyway.

And so, as the two great hosts faced each other across the wide plain, Môgul hastily convened a conference of his commanders. The various Uruk captains, semi-literate Trolls and senior Loyers present eyed each other nervously, fully aware of the likely consequences of their Master’s set-back. Only the Cap’n Ar-Kidd, the bushy-browed Dumbarian commander, remained in good spirits. In reaching Valleyum and discovering the fabled weed native to the land, he had achieved that which his ancestor, Ar-Peronome, had been unable to do. Whatever happened, he would now die a happy man (aided no doubt by the vast quantities of said fabled weed that he had been smoking). Greedhog, on the other hand, simply stared blankly at the ground, unable to comprehend how the trial had slipped so badly from his impeccably manicured grasp.

Having predictably worked out his anger on a selection of his unfortunate commanders, Môgul turned to his Advocate-General.

“There there, old chap. Never mind. It wasn’t your fault,” he said, albeit rather unconvincingly.

But Greedhog was inconsolable.

“They’re the good guysss,” he hissed in disbelief. “They’re not sssuppossed to cheat. That’s what we do. They are sssuppossed to act with honour and integrity. How are we sssuppossed to know where we sstand if they don’t play by the rulesss? It’sss just not right!”

“Whatever,” said Môgul, losing patience.

He had in fact been rather impressed with Sueim’s tactics and was seriously considering headhunting him (quite literally) to replace Greedhog. But right now, he had more important matters to consider, such as how to prevent his entire army being obliterated by a bunch of hoary has-been heroes.

“Now let me see …” he said, producing from deep within the folds of his black cloak a battered and dusty old tome and flicking through the pages.

The Dark Lord’s Bumper Book of Back-up Plans, Desperate Gambits and Aces in the Hole had never failed him in the past, but it was wearing rather thin. Most of the pages had been ripped out and those that remained seemed woefully inadequate to address for the situation at hand. But it was not long before a malignant smile spread across his face.

“The fools!” he chuckled. “Hmm, that should even up the odds a bit.”

“My Lord …?” said Greedhog expectantly.

“They have released from the Halls of that idiot Mantoes a host of long-dead heroes, right.”

“Right, Oh Magnifisscently Malisscious One,” replied Greedhog, seeking to curry favour with his Master once more.

“Well, it says here that, by doing so, they have caused an imbalance in the space-time continuum.”

“Er …?”

“Which means that all I have to do is reverse the polarity of the neutron flow …”

“Eh …?” mumbled a confused Greedhog.

“Sorted!” exclaimed a blissfully oblivious Ar-Kidd.

The remaining captains assembled simply stared dumbly, thinking that their Master had taken leave of his senses, but wisely refusing to articulate such thoughts.

“Shazam!” declared the Dread Developer portentously.

Nothing happened.

“Shazam!” he said once more, trying a slightly different emphasis.

Silence. His commanders began to back away nervously.

“Sha-zam!” he tried again, summoning up every remnant of dark sorcery within his black soul.

Still nothing.

“Oh Delightfully Diabolic and Dessceitful One,” piped up Greedhog. “If I might …”

“Shhh …!” hissed Môgul sharply. “Listen. Can you hear it?”

Almost imperceptibly at first, a deep rumble reached the ears of those assembled. Gradually, it built until it had become an ear-shattering roar, seemingly issuing forth both from the sky and from deep within the earth at one and the same time. The very ground upon which they stood began to shake and dark clouds gathered overhead. Bright shafts of jagged lightning rent the stormy darkness and a piercing shriek could now be heard above the roar. It was, as usual, all rather clichéd, but effective nonetheless. As was the Dread Developer’s reaction.

“Look! Look!” he exclaimed in jubilation. “They come! They come to me! MWAHAHAHA!”

Back at the site of the trial, the One-up-man-ship had been in the middle of celebrating their seemingly inevitable victory and greeting with great vigour the throng of Who-Him and Too-Thin when the hullabaloo had begun. Thinking that the army of Moredough was beginning its advance, they turned to meet it in battle. But the dark horde had not moved.

“What in Emu’s name is happening?” cried Orogarn Two.

“Ai!” wailed Vogonwë, clapping his hands to his sensitive ears.

“Good grief, what now?” muttered Kuruharan, glancing disdainfully at the Half-Elf.

“It can’t be …!” said the Gateskeeper in disbelief. Being a geek of colossal proportions, he had recognised the signs immediately.

“Can’t be what, Gateskeeper?” asked Soregum.

“He has reversed the polarity of the neutron flow!” declared the wierdo Wizard ominously.

“Oh no! Not the polarity of the neutron flow!” cried the It-ship as one, without having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

And there was a great wailing and gnashing of teeth among the Wail-ship and their allies, until Soregum piped up.

“Um, what exactly does that mean, Gateskeeper?”

“It means, little one, that …”

But he was cut short by Too-Thin’s cry.

“Egad …!”

All eyes turned to follow his gaze to a nearby hill to where a great scaly reptilian head was rising over the peak. It was swiftly followed by a great scaly reptilian neck, a great scaly reptilian body, four great scaly reptilian legs and a great scaly reptilian tail.

“Flourdrum!” exclaimed Too-thin.

For indeed it was the great Dragon, father of the Hokikoki. And he was not alone. The storm clouds parted as a host of winged Dragons swept down from above, led by Ancalorgas the Black, the most terrible of his kind. And among their number were Smug the Complacent, Scathing the Critical and Argon the Inert. And lo, there ran the great Werewolves, Carchasscof and his sire, Dribblin, no longer hiding amongst innocent villagers but free now to wreak their beastly havoc. Above them wheeled the beautiful but deadly figure of Luringfemfatal, the Vampire vamp, temptress of the noble and virtuous (and, incidentally, Leninia’s former role model).

“It means, little one,” continued the Gateskeeper grimly, “that Môgul has released from the Void every evil spirit that ever dwelt in Muddled-mirth.

And sure enough, a great horde of Werewolves, Vampires, Demons, Wraiths, Zombies, Skeleton Warriors, Mummies, Frankenstein’s Monsters and Creatures from the Black Lagoon was now advancing down the hill towards them led by Flourdrum. And behind them all, a familiar old man wheeled his Vending Trolley. Saurkraut had returned too.

But that was not all. Way back in the mists of time, in his eagerness to conquer the hidden city of Gondola, Môgul had created an army of mechanical beasts and enclosed within them evil misshapen beings. They too now advanced towards the Dread-ship. And their metallic war cry was dreadful to hear.

Ex-term-in-ate!

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Caught-in-the-Middle-Ship stood on the Great Plains of Valleyum, their heads moving to and fro in a manner reminiscent of tennis game spectators in later ages. On the one side stood Labamba with a multitude of valiant Men and Elves, yet the sight of the fearsome beasts both living and mechanical on the other side was verily horrifying to behold.

Merisuwyniel, their hitherto fearless leader, feared not Death nor the sickly, fluorescent green hue that the army had taken, obviously thinking it to be the proper appearance for an army of dead – or undead, as the case may be. She was not puzzled by the strange words concerning space-time continuum and reversed polarity of neutron flow, for her highly intelligent Elven mind was able to grasp even the most complicated of futuristic technobabble. She eschewed not the wear and tear of battle, knowing full well that her new questing habit in shades of lavender brought out the colour of her eyes and highlighted the sheen of her golden tresses in a most flattering display of femininity, whilst being eminently practical in matters of grime-repellent fabric and the close fit of the divided riding skirt.

And yet she remained motionless, indecisive even, in a way quite untypical for her normally courageous spirit. A feeling that she had never known before had taken control of her heart. It was not loneliness, for lo! was not Gravlox’ arm laid protectively about her shoulder? It was not anger, though that would have been an understandable reaction to the desertion of the Velour. It was not hunger, for she was no Hobbit.

No, this strange, hitherto unknown feeling was – fear! Fear and… despair! She had kept hope throughout the Quest of the Entish Bow, despite overwhelming odds time and time again. She had not despaired, though her small band of Questers bumbled its way through Muddled-Mirth in ways that would have served well as “How not to” instruction manuals. But now, when all hell was unleashed and seemed to have assembled against her, her strength and courage finally failed.

“Well, this is the end, Gravlox,” she proclaimed dramatically, clasping his now well-groomed hand. He looked pale and worn from his captivity, yet in his eyes there was peace and love. “I would have followed you, my Orc Captain… my almost-Elven lover… King of my heart!” she said. They embraced, oblivious to the terror surrounding them, and if their kiss was so fervent as to be embarrassing in such a public location, who could blame them? They had nothing to lose.

“I’m glad you are here with me,” Merisu sighed. “Here at the End of All Things.”

There was no protest from the Entish Bow, clasped firmly in her other hand. It, too, had seemingly given up hope.

[Kuruharan]

While this moderately nauseating scene was going on, Kuruharan sat on a rock in a recently acquired rusty suit of plate armor with a ridiculously oversized lance planted in the ground next to him.

“Kuruharan!” screamed Orogarn Two, “what are you doing? Get over here and help!”

“…mmm…wha,” said Kuruharan. “Oh, sorry. I was just reading this fascinating treatise on military tactics. It’s shown me the importance of engaging critical factors of the enemy’s supply system.”

“Will you just shut up and get over here!” screeched Vogonwë.

“Humph,” said Kuruharan, “how rude.” He placed his book on the ground. Embossed in gold letters on the cover of the tome could be discerned the name of one of history’s greatest military thinkers. The letters read Donkey Hoté.

Kuruharan picked up his lance and strode over to Chrysophylax. The dragon was saddled and bridled and consequently not in the best of moods.

“Shouldn’t I be flying through the sky spreading death and destruction amongst our enemies?” the dragon asked, trying to sound reasonable.

“Nonsense, my loyal steed,” replied Kuruharan cheerily. “That’s a waste of effort! All we have to do is surgically destroy their food reserves and the enemy will starve to death!”

“Might not the Gallowship all be dead by the time that happens?” asked Chrysophylax.

“Every plan has an element of risk,” said Kuruharan. His gaze swept the battlefield in search of his intended target. “Now, where are the enemy windmills?” he demanded.

*Clang* went the visor of his helmet as it crashed down on his nose.

“Wha…I don’t think the enemy brought any windmills,” said Chrysophylax.

“Preposterous,” snorted Kuruharan as he raised the visor. “If they don’t have any windmills how will they grind up their grain to make flour for bread?”

“I don’t think they brought any grain to make flour for bread,” answered the dragon.

“Ha,” said the dwarf. *Clang* “Ouch!!! This just goes to show that you know nothing about logistics. (Stupid visor!) Armies march on their stomach…”

“Actually, this army flew,” interrupted Chrysophylax.

“…therefore they have to have a supply of food,” continued Kuruharan, not even hearing. “Ergo, they have to bring grain. This means they have to grind it up. This means they must have brought windmills.” *Clang*

“Why can’t we all think like you,” said the dragon sarcastically.

“Because then everyone would be a genius!” answered Kuruharan. He lifted his visor and scanned the battlefield again. “There they are!!!” he cried.

“Where?”

“Right ther..*Clang*…OW!!”

“Uhhh,” said the dragon. “I don’t think those are windmills. Those are three great enemy Loyers.”

“There’s something wrong with your eyes,” snapped Kuruharan. “How else do you explain their size and those four great vanes that are spinning about?”

“Those aren’t vanes!!!” said the dragon. “Those are their two arms and the great shadows about each of them that look like vanes!!”

*Clang* “Ooof!!” Kuruharan muttered. “We can be glad that you are just the loyal steed and are not in charge of tactical decisions.” The dwarf climbed into the saddle and set his lance. “Heigh-ho Silver, AWAY!!!”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘Gold’,” said Chrysophylax. “Chrysos (or krysos) means…”

“Oh very well,” said Kuruharan. “Heigh-ho Gold, AWAY!!!”

Away the dragon shot!

“EEEEEKKKKK!!!” squealed Kuruharan as he fell out of the saddle. He held on to the stirrup and was dragged along the ground in a most undignified manner, flailing around with his lance.

*Whang* went the lance off the side off Chrysophylax’s head. The dragon staggered and started weaving from side to side in his charge. “Oooohhh, nooow I see. Maybe those are windmills after all.”

Alas, their heroism had not gone unnoticed. The three Loyers watched as this growing threat stumbled and staggered unsteadily toward them. As one they opened their mouths and let loose a terrible cry.

“BAWH-HAWH-HAWH-HAWH-HAWH!!!!”

Unfortunately, at that moment Kuruharan’s lance plunged into the turf. Doubly unfortunately, this caused him to spring back into the air. Triply unfortunately, he still had hold of Chrysophylax’s stirrup. Quadruply unfortunately, this yanked Chrysophylax off balance and sent him sprawling.

The Loyers collapsed on the ground in convulsions of laughter.

Kuruharan was left trapped thirty feet in the air, clinging desperately to the lance.

“Would somebody like to give me a hand please?” said Kuruharan.

The Loyers were laughing so hard that tears were starting from their eyes and bursting into steam as they hit their faces. They could barely catch their breath.

The lancehead snapped off and Kuruharan began his descent to the earth.

“TIIIMMMMBEEEER!!!!” *splat*

The Loyers were writhing in delirium. They would have burst into laughter anew, but alas, they lacked the air…so they simply burst.

Thus it was that Kuruharan and Chrysophylax managed to kill three Loyers and live to tell the tale.

[Thenamir]

With the deaths of the three Loyers and the consequential angering of the enemy hordes, it appeared that battle was indeed about to be joined in earnest (most likely dead earnest). Since recovering from his collapse after sending his O-mail to Yawanna Gateskeeper had merely stood observing the unfolding of events and commenting the bleedingly obvious. Until now.

Quietly he slipped off unnoticed from the We're-all-going-to-die-ship while they were distracted by the assembling of the resurrected enemies, disappearing behind a rock outcropping nearby. After a short period of quiet mumbling (and a couple of shocked gasps) a figure emerged from the shadows, grey and dirty robe tattered and ragged, a bent figure moving slowly. He looked like an old beggar-man, walking wearily, leaning on his rough staff. His head was bowed, and he did not look towards them.

Vogonwe was the first of the Hey-remember-we-are-the-good-guys-and-gals-ship to notice the figure, but could not see his face: he was hooded, and above the hood he wore a wide-brimmed hat, so that all his features were over-shadowed. Yet it seemed to Vogonwe that he caught the gleam of black-rimmed glasses keen and bright from within the shadow of the hooded brows . The wannabe-poet elbowed Orogarn Two, who was muttering to himself trying to keep up with all the newcomers now on their side. "That line of horses," queried the Proctor's heir, "can you make out the warriors astride them?"

"Sure," said the sharp-eyed arrow-thrower. "Who-him's on the first one, Too-thin's on the second, and Moron's on the third."

"Who's on the second?" asked Orogarn, slightly puzzled.

"Who's on first." replied the patient elf.

"No, what's the name of the warrior on second?"

"Too."

"Yes?"

"No, I meant Too is second."

"Of course two is second -- being Orogarn Two I ought to know. I want to know who's on the second horse!"

"Who's on first."

"What a moron!"

"Oh, he's on third."

"WHO'S on third?"

"No, Who's on first."

"Gah! I need Maalox."

"Oh, he's bringing up the rear..."

While these two prattled on, the bent grey figure positioned himself between the battle-readied questians and the approaching armies, so that he could no longer be ignored. Kuruharan gazed with wide eyes for a while, as step by step the figure drew nearer. Then suddenly, unable to contain himself longer, he burst out: "Your arrows, Vogonwe! Get ready! It is Sauerkraut. Do not let him speak, or put his hotdog smell upon us! Throw first!"

Vogonwe took his arrow slowly and as if some other will resisted him. He held it loosely in his hand but did not ready to throw. Orogarn and Merisu stood silent, their faces watchful and intent.

"Why are you waiting? What is the matter with you?" said Pimpiowyn in a hissing whisper.

"Vogonwe is right," said Orogarn quietly, "as improbable as that might seem." Vogonwe cast a withering glance at Orogarn, but the Grundorian failed to notice and it missed its mark, falling to the ground untouched. Orogarn continued, "We may not shoot an old man so, at unawares and unchallenged, whatever fear or doubt be on us. Watch and wait!"

"That's never stopped us before," noted the rest of the group, more-or-less in unison. The old man took no notice, but stooped and sat himself on a low flat stone. Then his grey cloak drew apart, and they saw, beyond doubt, a flash of white, but whether of hidden clothing or untanned flesh could not be determined. With a flourish he swept off the grayed and dirty cloak he had worn since he first appeared to the Whatdowedonowship. (At least, it was intended to be a flourish, and would have succeeded except that the sleeves momentarily tangled, destroying the effect.) The assembled Questians, surprised (and slightly embarassed) by the maneuver, averted their eyes, not knowing what the four-eyed man wore beneath (if anything). When they dared to look again, behold, the Gateskeeper stood before them, his hair was white as snow in the sunshine (as was his pasty white skin); and gleaming white were his dress shirt and jeans; the glasses under his deep brows were polished bright, piercing as the rays of the sun; a power strip was in his hand.

"Gatesy," murmured Merisu in surprise and wonder, "your hand is restored! And you're all in white!"

"I have come through fire (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=310330&postcount=141) and water (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=174723&postcount=99), and a bit of Balrox Bleach (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=174698&postcount=74) works wonders," replied the shining geek, who wasted no time in turning to the advancing enemy who were momentarily blinded by the sunlight coruscating off his glasses and new attire. Using that moment to best advantage, Gateskeeper began speaking spells of delay and time-wasting:

Solitaire, Freecell, Pac-Man and Plus-pack!
Minesweeper, Tetris and Missile Attack!
Online casinos and fake-contest spam!
Neopets, Xanga, Napster and Hangman!

As he spoke the staff of the bright maia began to spin and turn in his hands, and soft wares began to appear, flying at the encroaching evil emissaries. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that the enemy did nothing to resist the incoming programs, but instead grabbed at them and fought over them. The advance of the enemies slowed to a crawl as they began examining, then playing the insidious games and mind-numbing amusements with single-minded focus. Mogul could hardly believe his eyes at the sight of great wyrms playing Dig-Dug, Werewolves playing Duck Hunt, and Orcs playing Beavis and Butthead (for them, a reality game) -- the Dark Lord had forgotten to put up the filters and firewalls.

Gateskeeper gave a great whistle, and from the recently resurrected came a horse shining white -- the fabled Fad-O-Slacks, Lord of Horses and Fashion Pantaloons. Leaping upon the great equine form the great software nerd cried, "Now! Charge!!" A roar rose up from the side of the Good Guys (tm) that shook the air and earth, and the line of righteous combatants surged forward to join battle.

[Mithadan]

Seeing the success of their friends' actions, Gravlox and Merisu were heartened. They stood next to one another with heads held high as the battle raged. Orogarn assailed a troop of Orcs with his blade swinging madly. After several fell to his sword, his foes broke ranks and attempted to flee. But one lingered too long and was struck down with a cloven helm, ruptured spleen and torn zyphoid notch. The Orc's blade flew from his hands and landed on the ground with a clatter nearly at the feet of Gravlox. The almost Elf reached down and lifted it, even as Merisu drew her own blade. With a smile, Gravlox turned to her and asked, "Shall we?"

"Oh, yes," replied our heroine. "Let's!"

So the two entered the fray with the other members of the Bloodthirstyship and their assault was like a wrecking ball crashing into a condemned building. Heads flew from necks, arms fell from shoulders and legs were cut out from under their foes. Hearts, lungs and livers were pierced, bellies were disemboweled and spines snapped. And after a few minutes, they began to sing with joy.

Gravlox:
Such a pounding!
The enemies fleeing!
Madness takes its toll.
But listen closely...

Merisu:
Not for very much longer!

Gravlox:
I've got to -- keep control.
I remember, killing the Orcs,
Drinking those moments when
my foes fall dead.

All the Itship:
And the Void would be calling...

Let's kill some Orcs again!
Let's kill some Orcs again!

Orogarn:
It's just a jump to the left.
(Thwack, smash)

All:
And then a step to the right.
(Crash, biff, bam)

Hal:
With your hands set in fists...
(Whack, pow, oof)

All:
You bring your knees in tight.
But it's the sword's trust
That really drives you insane!
Let's kill some Orcs again!
Let's kill some Orcs again!

This went on for some time, and soon a great hill of slain foes had been created by the Itship. And indeed it seemed almost as if the tide had turned when Sueim raced up with a cry. "Look!" Nearby, a great Dragon was writhing with body english as a little yellow ball with a pie slice missing wound through the air before him. It was pursued by three ghostly wraiths, one red, one white and one brown. The yellow ball dodged desperately and the red and white ghosts turned away. But the brown one caught and devoured the ball. Immediately, magical runes appeared in the air which read "GAME OVER".

"Darn brown one," growled Gatesy.

The Dragon bellowed and spouted flames. Nearby a second Dragon snarled as the same set of runes appeared before it. In moments, many of the dragons Vampires and Werewolves were freed from their spells and were acting as if they were in really bad moods. The Itship retreated before this new onslaught and the enemy were heartened and shouted and cheered. "Back to the hill!" cried Merisu.

The Itship had barely gained its summit when the assault began. Their blades whished through the air and arrows whistled towards their targets. A new mound of Orcs, Trolls, Werewolves and Vampires was developing at the base of the hill. Yet no matter how many they slew, it seemed that more rushed up to take their places and the Dragons were gathering and waiting their turn. Could this be the end of the Itship?

"Shut up!" cried Vogonwë. "Damned narrator..."

At that moment, Sueim stood tall in the midst of the fray, and shaded his eyes as he looked off into the distance. Then he raised his hands to his mouth and cried in a great voice, "The Sparrows are coming! The Sparrows are coming!"

"Bloody great," muttered Kuruharan. "Just what we need. Some appetizers for the Dragons."

And they came... A great cloud of sparrows swooped in from the East and stooped down upon the dragons. "Oh no!" cried Pimpiowyn. "I can't bear to look!" But to the Itship's surprise, the valiant little birds flew straight into the nostrils of the Dragons. The Wyrms looked puzzled. Then they looked annoyed. Then they looked alarmed. Then, with great gouts of fire caught in their sinuses, their heads began to explode, showering the Itship with gore... and stuff.

"Oh, gross!" moaned Pimpi. "This is even worse than Sauerkraut's cart."

[Kuruharan]

Chrysophylax stooped over the shattered cranium of Flourdrum. “Alas, poor Dumpling! I was once vaguely acquainted with him, Kuruharan: a fellow of infinite jest, of most depraved fancy. He hath inserted a whoopee cushion under my buns a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my bottom trembles at it. Here hung those lips that sneered at me I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your water balloons? Your taunts? Your whoopee cushions, that were wont to set the back end on fire? Here I am now to mock your own grinning!!!” Chrysophylax crushed the remains of the head.

Chrysophylax strolled over to the body of Ancalorgas the Black. “This was the scariest dragon of them all: All the dragons save only he did that they did in miserably low self-esteem. He only, in a general vicious thought and common ill to all, made one of them. His life was brutal, and the elements so mix’d in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world ‘WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!!’ But I come to bury Ancalorgas, not to praise him!” Chrysophylax jumped up and down on the corpse.

Chrysophylax walked over to the next body. “Ahh, dear old Smug the Complacent. Many the time he would natter on incessantly about the improvement of my character. He would ramble on about how I should give my thoughts no tongue. I should be familiar, but by no means vulgar. What friends I hast, and their adoption tried, I should grapple them to the ground with hoops of steel and eat them when they weren’t looking. I should give no dragon my ear, but shout at the top of my voice. I should also take no dragon’s censure, but be hasty in judgment. Not a borrower but a lender (at interest) be; for loans at reasonable rates are excellent ways to send money chasing after more money. And this above all: to my ownself be true! What a windbag he was!” Chrysophylax kicked the body over a nearby cliff.

“Here is Scathing the Critical. He was never happy with my name. He said I was a disgrace to dragonhood and wanted me to take a new one. He was always shouting, “Get thee to a punnery!!” Chrysophylax set the body on fire.

Chrysophylax stood over the last body. “Is he dead? Never could tell with ole’ Argon the Inert. Good night stinky dragon and flights of imps screech thee to thy rest!” Chrysophylax started munching.

“Why does the drum come hither?”

“Because the battle is still going on while you’ve been soliloquizing you idiot!!!” yelled Kuruharan. “Go, bid the soldiers shoot…or do SOMETHING useful!!!”

The fighting continues and a peal of ordnance is shot off

[The Saucepan Man]

The mighty Dragons had fallen, their pride fittingly swallowed, as it were. And at this, a great cheer had gone up from those who fought with the Embattled-ship. But many foes remained. And the most terrible of them were the metal beasts that trundled across the field of battle shrieking their harsh war cry.

Exterminate! Exterminate!

Like domed cones they were, roughly man-size, and knobbly were their armoured skirts. No arms had they, but two weapons, as like kitchen implements, extended before them. From one of these, as like a whisk, they fired rays of death which felled any who stood in their path. The purpose of the other, as like a sink plunger, was not entirely clear. Their domed heads sported single eyes on stalks and each was topped with a pair of flashing lamps. It might be said that they appeared rather dated, for they were conceived by Môgul in the days before he had developed the dark art of Sêejeeaï. Yet they were deadly.

Neither sword nor axe could breach their metal casing and no arrow could pierce their shell. Warrior after warrior fell to their cruel rays, and soon the order was given to withdraw. Vogonwë, Soregum and Orogarn found themselves caught up in the retreat, which before long became a rout. Blindly they ran and, though they fought against the tide, the harsh creatures mercilessly herded them into a barren gully, as like a quarry, from which there was seemingly no escape.

In desperation Orogarn scanned the cliffs that surrounded them, and soon he found what it was he sought.

“This way!” he cried, as he scrambled up a section of the cliff which permitted some purchase. His companions followed, climbing until they reached a narrow ledge high above the narrow gully.

“We should be safe here, for now,” said Orogarn. “It doesn’t look those things they are much good at climbing.”

“What in Muddled-Mirth are they?” said Soregum, panting to catch his breath.

“They are the Dar-lêks,” declared Vogonwë solemnly. “The dread metal beasts that Môgul Bildûr conceived to spearhead the assault on the swinging city of Gondola, once the jewel in Dairyland's crown.”

“Swinging city?” replied Soregum. “I guess that it was a pretty groovy place to live, huh?”

“Not at all,” replied Vogonwë. “It was suspended by great chains from two mountain peaks and swung in the air between them. The legends tell that living there was a rather nauseating experience. The motion sickness was quite hard to bear, you see.”

“So, anyway. How do we defeat these things?” spat Orogarn grimly.

“No Man, Dwarf or Elf could withstand them, save one alone,” continued Vogonwë. “The Elven Lord of Time, Dok-Dorhu was their nemesis. But he now dwells in Mantoes’ Halls and I fear that we can expect no help from him. I composed a poem about him once. Would you like to hear it?”

“As if we don’t have enough problems,” muttered Orogarn.

“Perchance it will serve to lift our spirits,” continued Vogonwë, oblivious to his companions’ objections.

Dok-Dorhu was an Elven-lord.
On him was praise loudly poured:
when he fought for Gondola swinging high
like a pendulum in the sky.

His scarf was long, his blade was sonic,
his companions’ love was purely platonic.
When Slangbad’s forces rudely attacked
many a Dar-lêk’s armour he cracked.

And while survivors took to the balloon,
He stood against the marauders aloone.
With a mighty stroke, the chains did fall
and down came Gondola, Dar-lêks and all.

“Er, if these Dar-lêk things cannot climb, how come they managed to attack a city suspended in the mountains?” enquired Soregum.

“Simple, my little fat friend,” said the Gateskeeper, suddenly appearing as if by magic. “In their later incarnations, they were able to hover.”

And sure enough, before the startled companions could respond, the Dar-lêks began, one by one, to lift from the ground and climb slowly through the air towards them.

“Well that’s just great!” groaned Soregum mournfully. “We are going to die then.”

“Not at all, my dentally challenged chum,” responded the Gateskeeper. “I really didn’t want to do this, but …”

He raised his staff and pointed it toward the ascending creatures. A bolt of lightning sprang from it and struck the lead Dar-lêk. It crackled and fizzed and dropped to the ground. The bolt leaped from one metal monster to the next and very soon they were naught but lumps of blackened scrap metal scattered across the gully.

“These level 3 spells can be really rather useful, you know,” said the Gateskeeper cheerfully. “Not really in keeping with the spirit of things, I know. The purists will have a field day, I fear. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The battle to end all battles raged around the BattleShip, and the plains of Valleyum resounded with the clash of swords, the twanging of bows, and the clicking of loyers’ pens. Also with the sounds of the various creatures, sentient or otherwise, dying or still alive, that had come to participate in the fight. As if that alone wasn’t enough, suddenly there was heard a rushing of waters, the great noise of a great storm from the shores of that land.

For lo! though the Velour had left the Itship to battle alone (though now joined by the outpourings of Mantoes’ halls), some of their servants and helpers, the Maiar, pitied them and came to their aid. Either that, or they wanted to join in the fun too.

Master of the Pea Seas that wash the shores of Muddled-Mirth is a vassal of TM Ulmo, named Davossë. He goes into the depths of discussion and rejoices in the winds of opposition; for in storm he delights, and laughs amid the roaring of the posts. His spouse is Laluinen, the Lady of the Pea Seas, whose posts lie spread through all forums under the Barrow. All threads she loves that live in the Books, N&N, Movies, and Mirth, and all posts that grow there; to her posters cry when attacked by Davossë, for she can lay calm upon the waves, restraining his wildness. The Downers lived long in her protection, and held her in reverence, giving her titles both lofty and strange.

It is said that in the making of Canonicity, Mogûl endeavoured to draw Davossë to his allegiance, promising to him the certainty of final authority and the power of the last word, if he would serve him. So it was that long ago there arose great tumults of many pages that wrought havoc on the forum. But Laluinen, at the prayer of HI-wë, restrained Davossë and brought him before the Barrulmo-Wight; and he was pardoned and returned to his barrow; yet the delight in violence has never wholly departed from him, and at times he will rage in his wilful opinion without any support from the Legendarium. Therefore those who dwell on the Downs or come there to post may love him, but they do not agree with him.

With them, on the wings of the storm, came many other spirits, and their voices arose, crying out insults at the enemies.

“You steal taters from confused gaffers!”

“You are descended from grovelling stone trolls!”

“You look like a muddy-booted Baggins!”

“You terrorize wood-elves!”

Friends and foes alike stood still, confused at the abstruse meaning of those words. The InsultShip took advantage of the sudden silence and added a few creations of their own:

“You’re dating a horrible Dunlending!” Pimpi shouted.

“You take advantage of friendly Istari!” Merisu added, not to be outdone by her shieldmaiden-handmaiden.

“You’re being stalked by petty dwarves!” Kuruharan growled.

“You were misplaced by a forgetful Maia!” Orogarn declaimed.

The enemies were completely dumfounded; no loyer had an argument against such silliness, and they began debating whether some kind of libel charge could be pursued. However, the orcs needed no meaning; they knew when they were being insulted even without understanding the words, and they fought on all the more furiously. The respite was over, and the din of battle arose once again.

[Mithadan]

High above the battlefield, the Velour had gathered in their chambers to hide... errr, to observe to progress of the war raging far below. Smoke obscured the sunlight which normally streamed through the windows and the crash and clamour of battle echoed in the great hall. The great ones slumped in their chairs and their normally bright and happy faces grew long as the forces of the Red Nostril swarmed over the plains of Valleyum. As most of the Velour wallowed in their misery, Haulië paced back and forth and Mantoes peeked out the window at the hordes below.

"High tide at the north beach," commented Tulk Hogan. "Should be some gnarly waves coming in. Anyone want to catch some waves?" But his companions sat in silence.

A groan came from Mantoes. "Melvin has loosed the dark forces from the void by reversing the neutron flow. There are dragons and vampires and werewolves!"

"Oh my!" cried Prada.

"Whatever," moaned Manuël Sàntana.

Haulië froze in mid-pace. "Whatever?" he cried. "WHATEVER?!?!?"

Manuël shook his head sadly. "War's over, man. Melvin dropped the big one."

"Over? Did you say 'over'?" shouted Haulië. "Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Dwarves bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!"

"The 'Dwarves'? And what's 'Pearl Harbor'" whispered Mantoes to Prada.

"Forget it, he's rolling," she replied.

"And it ain't over now. 'Cause when the goin' gets tough... " Haulië paused to collect his thoughts and recall his cliches. Then he brightened noticably. "The tough get goin'! Who's with me? Let's go!" With a blood-curdling shout, he seized his hammer and raced to the stairs. He had gone halfway down the mountain before he realized he was alone. Cursing under his breath, he turned and trudged back up the stairs. When he entered the hall, the Velour were exactly where he had left them; slumped in their chairs with sour expressions on their faces.

"What the heck happened to the Velour I used to know?" cried Haulië. "Where's the spirit? Where's the guts, huh? 'Ooh, we're afraid to go with you Haulië, we might get in trouble.' Well just kiss my forge from now on! Not me! I'm not gonna take this. Môgul, he's a dead man! Greedhog, dead! Sauerkraut..."

"Dead!" yelled Mantoes. The remainder of the Velour turned in surprise and Haulië stopped his rant and wiped away the foam from his mouth. "Haulië's right. Psychotic, but absolutely right. We gotta take these guys. Now we could do it with conventional weapons that could take years and cost millions of lives. No, I think we have to go all out. I think that this situation absolutely requires a really futile and stupid gesture be done on somebody's part."

"And we're just the guys to do it," cried Haulië.

"Let's do it!" shouted Tulk Hogan.

"LET'S DO IT!" screamed Haulië. He turned and, once again, raced to the stairs. This time, the rest of the Velour followed...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

As Merisuwyniel and her companions fought for their lives and for the continuation of their story, they were hard-pressed by their many foes. And they did cry out to the Velour for aid, and though the lords and ladies of that land heard their pleas, they did not deign to come to their assistance. Yet their hearts were not wholly hardened, and they sought to enlist help from another source.

And so it came to pass that Elves came to join them in battle; armed they were, carrying wondrous speaking swords made in Gondola of old, yet they sang merrily:

A wop bop a loo bop a whop bam boom.
Be-bop-a-lula, pooh pooh bee doo,
paah-dum paah-dum doo bee dum, pooooo!
paah-deeedle-eedeedle-eedeedle-eedum, poo pooo beee dooo!
Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, shing-a-ling-a-ling, shoo-be-doo-ah.

So they laughed and sang as they marched; and pretty fair nonsense I daresay you think it. Not that we care; we’re in this for cheap laughs, all the more if you tell us so. [Translator’s note: We humbly beg the readers’ pardon for this authorial pigwiggery; however, in the interests of an exact translation, we have adhered to the original document here.]

And though the waters raged with a great roaring, Davossë heard their voices, and his brows furrowed in anger at the inappropriateness of their presence in Valleyum. For they were not entirely consistent with the Legendarium, he deemed, and had no place therein, and therefore he cried out, “Go back to the fairytale from which you came! Yet your swords you may leave here, for they are the genuine stuff!” But they would not be dissuaded, and indeed the FaeryShip was glad of their help and welcomed them. And Laluinen comforted them, saying, “Of course you belong here! He didn’t mean it that way.”

Trolls there were that also came, with strange names, such as Bert, and Tom, and William. Evil they seemed, and prone to join the enemy forces, yet they knew pity and said, “Poor little blighters!” when they saw the valiant Questers beset by their foes. They too were derided by the spirits of the seas, though they neither knew nor cared, and fought against anyone who happened to be in their way – until the dawn came, when they turned to stone.

[The Saucepan Man]

Môgul Bildûr allowed himself a brief sneer of satisfaction. Although it was traditional for one in his Dark and Lordly position to hold an unshakeable belief in the inevitability of his ultimate victory, however many setbacks were encountered on the way, the sheer dogged determination of the Foil-ship to thwart his every move had recently given him some reason for doubt. But now, for once, everything seemed to be going according to plan. The battle continued to rage, blood continued to flow, corpses continued to pile up (and then mysteriously disappear) and deeds both heroic and treacherous continued to be done. And yet there appeared to be no sign of a let up in the fighting. It was as he purposed.

“Well Colin,” he said. “All seems to be in order, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes Lord Môgul - er - Lord Bildûr - er - Sir,” replied Sauerkraut obsequiously. “And thank you very much Sir for freeing me from the Void Sir.”

“Yes, yes. That’s about the twentieth time that you have thanked me. Remember. All you have to do is make sure that the polarity of the neutron flow remains reversed.” Môgul turned to Greedhog. “Your moment has come, my faithful Advocate-General.”

At this, the Senior Loyer brightened considerably. He had yet been sulking over his ignominious defeat at the hands of Sueim and he was also somewhat put out by Sauerkraut’s reappearance and blatant attempts to inveigle his way into his Master's affections. But there now appeared to be an opportunity for him to redeem himself in his Master’s (indeterminate number of) eyes.

“Yesss, Oh Prince of Pernicious and Poisonous Plotsss,” the old Loyer hissed. “What iss it that you command? Do you wisssh me to assail their armies with the absssolute assssurednessss of my authoritative argumentsss? Or sshall I neutralise their knightss with my notable knack of negotiation? Perhaps you would have me decisively destroy them with deadly and deceitful debate. Or would you prefer that I pin them down with the precise persspicacity of my polemic?”

“No. I want you to steal the Entish parts.”

“Dammit, my Lord,” replied Greedhog, momentarily thrown. “I am a Korprat-Loyer, not a burglar!”

“Take a detachment of your most artful Loyers, and some sturdy Trolls for protection,” continued Môgul, ignoring the Loyer’s protestations. “Make your way through the enemy ranks and rendezvous with our operative in the opposing camp. He will know what to do. Taking advantage of the distraction occasioned by the relentless battle, he will lead you to the arborious articles so that you may take possession of them.”

"Ah, I take your meaning, Oh Dark and Dreadful Duke of Deceit,” said Greedhog, resuming his customary manner of address. “But what of the Entisssh Bow? Ever it isss within the grasssp of the maiden Merisssuwyniel.”

“Well, if our diminutive double-agent is not able to appropriate it, your Loyers will just have to improvise with some spell of sequestration or injunctive incantation.”

“Underssstood, Oh Masster of Magnificently Mighty and Malignant Malevolence and Murderous and Malicious Maleficence,” nodded Greedhog, surpassing even his own high alliterative standards. “It sshall be done.”

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

As he surveyed the havoc wrought by the Gateskeeper among the Dar-lêks, it suddenly occurred to Soregum that he was not where he should be. He felt a strong but inexplicable urge to return to the Ent-ship’s encampment.

“Come,” he called to his companions. “We must return to the battle and hold true to our Quest.”

Vogonwë, Orogarn (Two) and the Gateskeeper were momentarily taken aback by the Hobbit’s sudden and uncharacteristic turn of valour, but could not deny the truth of his words. And so they headed back towards their camp. Yet as they tracked back along the narrow ravine, the sky above darkened abruptly as if a storm were gathering about them. There was a sudden great roar and, in an instant, they were immersed in flames. Only the Gateskeeper’s quick-thinking and trusty Firewall spell saved them from a swift and deadly immolation. With a great rushing of wind, an immense shadow passed over them.

“Curse that scatterbrained Dragon!” cried Orogarn. “Our troubles are bad enough without having to deal with friendly fire.”

“That wasn’t Chrysophlax,” declared the Gateskeeper solemnly. “There were two of the beasts, one black and gaseous and the other golden with conceited air about him.”

“Ancalorgas the Black and Smug the Complacent!” declared Vogonwë. “But it cannot be! I saw their foul forms scattered across the battlefield with my own (Half) Elf eyes!”

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

Greedhog’s company steadily made its way across the battlefield, cutting a swathe through all who stood in its path. Deadly were the Loyers’ enchantments and fell the insults of the Trolls. It seemed that none could withstand them. Yet there was one who stood alone before them, wielding an axe two-handed: Who-Him, erstwhile Lord of Dûn-Romin and general all-round good guy. His axe smoked in the black blood of the Troll-guard of Greedhog until it withered (for the Loyers had exploited a loophole in its lifetime guarantee), and each time that he slew, Who-Him cried: “Staurë continuata! Plot shall come again!” Seventy times he uttered that cry, but the Loyers grappled him with their craftily worded clauses, which clung to him though he severed their provisos; and ever their options were renewed, until at last he fell buried beneath their fine print and died on a technicality.

Victorious, Greedhog stepped forward and ordered his company onwards, his black gown swirling about his head like two vast wings. And yet he paused, sensing a vague irritation in the general region of his feet. Looking down, he saw that his right foot had been pierced by a small but finely-wrought Elven blade, while an umbrella skewered his left. As he watched, each smoked and smouldered, then writhed and withered and were consumed. So passed Hush, the dagger of Pimpiowyn, and the poodle-headed umbrella of Leninia. And had there been any two blades which could have dealt that foe a bitter wound, they were not these two. For Greedhog just laughed and, as he did so, his wings spread across the field of battle.

“Did you not know,” he said to Pimpi and Leninia as they cowered before his vast form. “That no Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, may hinder me.”

“That’s as maybe,” said a commanding voice behind him. “But it says nothing about Loyers.”

“Wha -!!??” uttered Greedhog, turning to the source of the voice. And as he did so, Sueim (for it was he) swung his mighty blade. Greedhog’s grotesque features acquired a perplexed, and somewhat disappointed, look as his great misshapen head parted contact with his hideous neck.

“But sssurely that’s a breach of professssional etiquette …” it hissed as it span through the air. But then it was silent and the Advocate-General of the Dark Tower Block was no more.

“Nice work ladies,” said Sueim to Pimpi and Leninia, flashing them a winning smile.

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

When they returned to the encampment, Pimpi, Leninia and Sueim found their companions deep in discussion. All save Soregum, who skulked awkwardly by the waggon bearing the Entish parts, greedily eyeing the Entish Bow slung over Merisu’s back.

“And now the Dar-lêks have reappeared,” resumed Vogonwë once he had made a suitably appreciative fuss of his valiant sweetheart. In the distance, the metallic monsters bobbed and weaved there way back towards the battle, their harsh cries carrying over the tumult.

“Gateskeeper, have you any knowledge of what foul magic is at play here?” enquired Merisu.

“Aye,” replied the Wizard gravely. “’Tis the imbalance in the space time continuum.”

The Blank-ship stood blinking dumbly.

“As log as the polarity of the neutron flow remains reversed, all who die on the field of battle will continue to return. I sense Sauerkraut’s hand in this, but the power that he wields is that of the Dread Developer.”

“You said all who die,” ventured Hal. “Does that not apply to those on our side too?”

“It would appear so,” said Who-Him, appearing in their midst.

“Indeed,” continued the Gateskeeper unruffled. “For as long as Môgul goes unchallenged, this Battle of Evermore will continue with no respite, binding us here until the very end of time itself. And while the Velour languish impassively in their Ivory Tower there are none here with the power to challenge him.”

“Cool!” chirped Reaperneep, to general disapprobation.

[Bêthberry]

Stranger than if the director had yelled "Cut" was the sudden and rude interruption of the Brawlship's melee. What could account for such an unseemly seem in the flow of the narrative but the naughty tanglings and untanglings of the net itself?

In short, the over the loudspeaker came the announcement:


Hark! There is no music that hath not its uttermost source in me. None shall alter the music in my despite, not even the dark discord of domain keepers. Hence, come yee together to rejoice in making a music even more wonderful despite the poor timing and bad melody of the last day.

Show me a vision of your words made wonderful of your own accord. Show me your minstelry Unforbidden (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?p=409574#post409574). Let the deeds of the squatters of the Barrowfield aside the walls of Edoras be made famous in song.

"What the?" intoned Vogonwë. "Do I sense an intermission in this interminably long game? Are we to interminge with others? Dare we we foresake this interring of orc to intercede in another game, allowing an intercalary intervension in this interesting possibility?"

Whereupon other members of the IntercessorShip interjected words too interlocutory to be printed here.

[Rimbaud]

Polarity of the neutron flow, eh, thought Hal glumly, as he hacked methodically at some regenerating orc pieces. Polarity. Neutron flow.

Nope. Still didn’t mean anything. He tried again. Enemies that come to life again after you have killed them. This was more like it. He could sink his teeth into this, although the problem was not a tasty morsel. And the infinitely regenerating Bad Guys are bent on destroying the Battle-ship, and more pertinently me. The mouthful of problem became somewhat more acidic, and he fancied not swallowing it.

Why are you staying? asked his mind, somewhat unhelpfully. You only joined the Whateveritis-ship for the most tenuous of reasons.

“Um, chaps?” enquired Hal, attempting nonchalance as he stabbed awkwardly down at the top half of an orc that was busy both reattaching itself to a nearby pair of legs that did not seem to be its own, and gnawing on Hal’s thigh. “Chaps?”

“What?” enquired Orogarn, tersely, as he deftly flicked his Daayv L’Roth haircut out of his latest victim.

“I was wondering…you know, just musing on…” said Hal, more uncertainly. “I was thinking perhaps I might, you know, slope off? Find a coffee, that sort of thing?”

Orogarn turned to face him, stony-faced, and Hal sheepishly returned to the slaughter or the not-so-much-lambs-as-evil-dudes. You can’t ask permission to leave heroic battles! sneered his mind, bitterly. You really are a poor excuse for a hero. True enough, mused another voice in his head. You’re doing a pathetic job of living up to your brother’s legacy.

“Who the hell are you?” stammered Hal in some confusion.

“Orogarn,” said he, for it was he, and he it was whom Hal had addressed. “We have been fighting together for several pages.”

“No, not you,” snapped Hal. “The voice inside my head.”

It sounded bad, and Orogarn threw him a suitably exasperated look so Hal tried to explain.

“Not the normal voice in my head,” he said, parrying a pike thrust with his fish-guard, and attempting a triple pike of his own to avoid a sword chop. “There’s a second voice, a different…”

it sounded worse and he tailed off. The battle split him from Orogarn then, and he wasn’t too sorry.

Then, something rather unexpected and horrible happened to Hal at the back of his head, and he fell to the ground as insensible as a weasel in a pickling barrel of brandy.

[Mithadan]

The battle raged and ebbed, swaying back and forth, now favoring one side, then favoring another, back and forth, to and fro, until the oddsmakers, who had been observing quietly from a nearby hillside, became dizzy and sick and dropped their books, and many other things besides including their lunches, to the ground. Thus was a valuable record of these days lost, but not all suffered from this sad event, for some, such as Kuruharan and Orogarn II, had the presence of mind to snatch up as many receipts as they could from the ground (and the hands and pockets of the slain) so that, in after times, they cashed in to their great profit and in later days... but that is another tale.

The battle... yes! The battle... it raged on. But though the Itship and their allies had fought valiently, they slowly grew weary and their arms heavy and Pimpiowyn experienced a hunger such as she had never before known, having not ever skipped so many meals. Thus, the forces of Môgul pressed their advantage and the armies of the light, or at least a lighter shade of grey, were hard put to hold their ground. It looked dark indeed, unless you were Môgul to whom things seemed bright, proving at last that good and evil are but differences only in perception and the winner writes the history and the loser goes quietly into the night never to be heard from again until revisionist historians take up the tale and, through careful analysis of the notes, letters, books and records of the time learn, or think they learn, that all was not truly as was told or written and indeed things were different and not the same and all is only shades of grey... or blue, blue is a very nice color, don't you think?

Anyway, the battle raged on and things didn't look good for the Lightershadeofblueship, most can agree upon that. Then, suddenly, horns, horns, horns, echoing through the bright (or dark) air. The Velour had come at last! And all turned, elf, man, dwarf, orc, troll, loyer, vampire, werewolf and a small group of leprechauns who had wandered into the wrong tale, to look at a nearby ridge to see a line of figures dressed in white robes (or surfer jams, whatever...). And to the surprise of the Itship, each of the figures turned and drew up their robes, or drew down their jams and bent over, waving their, ummm you know, for all to see.

"Oh my EMU!" cried Pimpiowyn. "What are they doing?"

But Merisu stared in awe. "It is an ancient ritual challenge, named Dissil after the great light that rides the skies in the evening. I have never seen it done, but it is the ultimate display of disdain. The Velour are Dissing Môgul's troops!"

Indeed a great howl arose from the masses of Orcs and Trolls and other assorted nasties, and they gnashed their teeth and clashed their swords on their shields and some screamed, "We've been Dissed!"

"Yes!" cried Prada as she waved her... ummm, posterior before the might of Môgul. "You've been Dissed by the best! Waht are you going to do about it?"

"Yeah!" yelled Manuel. "You want a piece of this?"

The Velour began dancing and prancing with their robes held high and their jams held low, and the armies of Môgul could not be restrained. With screams of anger and cries of rage they poured across the plain and up the ridge and the Velour fled before them. Nigh unto half of Môgul's forces charged over the ridge and disappeared from sight as they pursued the Velour...and they were never seen again.

It is said, and after a few drinks you can't stop Mantoes from talking about it, that the Velour led the army of darkness on a merry chase across the lands of Valleyum, over hill and under hill, across streams and plains and forests and swamps and bogs and fens and across a golf course and many other places besides until they came into the Uttermost West and reached the Edges of the World. Here, Manuel called up the winds and clouds and TM Ulmo called up the waters until all was covered in fog and the armies of Môgul, aided by an occaisional well-aimed kick or shove, poured like lemmings over the edge... Perhaps someday we'll all hear a THUD and we'll smile and raise a glass, knowing what happened... until the revisionists research it, of course (there is a rumour that the Orcs, etc. were led to a giant nightclub with an open bar and are there even yet, and will stay there until the well runs dry, but that's also another tale... damned revisionists).

[Rimbaud]

“Blargh,” said Hal, swinging his sword-arm, which fortunately for any prospective opponent was sans sword. “Bleurgh.”

The battle had taken its toll on Hal, and the back of his head was aflame with all the fires of a late night Chinese restaurant (Spring Garden Street, Philly, you know who you are) and on regaining consciousness, Hal had sadly not recovered his sight.

“Have at you,” he mumbled, his enervated fist finally contacting with something.

“Ooof,” replied Kuruharan casually, and flattened him with a well-judged trip.

Luckily for Hal, the impact of hitting the ground-cum-mound-of-indescribable-orcish-pieces was sufficient to restore him to full visual capacity, whereby this newly brilliant ocular talent informed him of the riotously good turn the battle had taken.

To whit: three-knock-kneed orcish companies stood before the ColourfulShip, with their knees predictably knocking. The ‘Ship stared back, somewhat startled by the rapid turn of events. The story really had been flying along. This situation remained in limbo for a few seconds (Pimpi won on account of her height advantage, but lithe Merisuwyniel won many plaudits) until the orcs realised that several hundred of them against a few knackered Heroes still suggested a good shot at victory.

They charged.

“Damn,” managed Hal, faintly. He was caught by a bevy of ‘Shipites, and restored to his footing just before the orcs swarmed over them. Which was why, luckily for readers reading his point-of-view, he was able to spot the giant Day Ussex Makkinna spiralling their way.

“The Eagles!” he gasped. “The Eagles are coming!”

And they were, green-jerseyed and white-helmeted, like a tidal wave of overweight humanity they stormed the field like an anachronistic half-time special, sweeping the comparatively underfed orcs from their feet and unceremoniously drop-kicking them into touch (over a small hedge nearby, whereby these particular orcs played little further part), thereby excusing Hal the extreme embarrassment of admitting he had no idea where his sword was, and that he had been flailing at imaginary opponents with his hand.

Dear Rim,
Eh?
Best regards
Whit.

[Thenamir]

Unfortunately, the Eagles managed to take out only eleven of the still-overwhelming numbers of orcs before they trotted off the field doing odd dances in the manner of the Sorethighhim. Gateskeeper's nifty new white outfit was now so splattered with the black blood of his foes that he now resembled a bipedal dalmation, but he had no time to look up a good dry-cleaner between staff parries and sword thrusts. Slicing through a Geordian knot of massive orcs in metal VISORs, he attempted to survey the battlefield of never-say-die foes, but everything he saw was merely depressing to the point of desperation: unending seas of unending enemies who themselves were unending. The only hopeful spot was where Vogonwe and Pimpi stood alone in the center of a large roughly circular area which no enemy could penetrate, for verily all who came within the invisible boundary ventured within earshot of Vogonwe's shrill extemporaneous on-the-spot poetic account of the battle in progress. Pimpi wore earplugs and waved Hush at any who ventured too close. Vogonwe threw arrows aimed to maim rather than kill, so as to prevent them from dying and coming back at full strength.

"So many," Gatesy muttered to himself while trying to catch his breath, which had once more inconveniently scampered off into a nearby ravine. "So many...if only there was some way to cut the enemy numbers...reduce...compress...compress??...Compres sion!! Of course! Why didn't I think of it sooner!" he cliched. The weary wizard put on a grim smirk (which his grandmother had knitted for him many years prior) and turned to face a new set combatants. Thundering towards him were the three remaining waves of orcs upon which several Loyers were surfing, for indeed were they of the dread faction of the Kahli'phorr'nyah Loyers. Dressed in their gaudily-colored tropic-print shorts, they smelt of rancid coconut oil and bellowed their dread battle cry of "COWABUNGA, DUDE!!"

Gateskeeper responded to the improbable spectacle from atop his fashionable steed Fad-O-Slacks by swinging his staff in a wide arc over his head before bringing it crashing to the ground with a shout of "ZIPFILE.EXE!!" The effect was astounding: absolutely nothing happened. Well, not exactly nothing -- Gateskeeper got a nagware o-mail about not having completed the registration form for the use of the magical command. Whipping the staff up from the ground he quickly entered the required information and obtained a 30-day temporary trial period just in time to repeat the action before being pincushioned in the all-too-near barrage of poorly-forged-but-really-sharp-pointy-objects.

This time the effect was even more astounding: a brilliant bolt arced from the staff head and hopscotched lightning-like thru the nearest of the companies of warriors who were suddenly reduced in size to mere ripples -- the heavily armed, six-foot-three members of the You-Rock-High batallions loosed to deal with the spotted sorcerer and his companions were abruptly transformed into cockroach-sized stomping material...2-inch hors d'oeuvres for Chrysophylax...loyers were brought low...dragons were diminutized.** Peals of laughter arose from the momentarily-relieved Good Guys, for there is nothing more hilarious than hearing the battle cry of a Loyer in the voice of a chipmunk.

With merry hearts they began a dance of death that would surely have done St. Vitus proud. The newly minute minions, finding themselves facing seemingly oversized opponents turned and fled, but those who escaped the boots of the Forces of Good made it away only to be crunched under the iron footwear of the next battery of battling belligerents. Kuruharan, as was his usual modus operandi, quickly sold out of his supply of golf clubs which the Questians then used to "release the prisoners" -- that is, they rained down miniature heads upon the stunned full-sized troops further back in the column. The headless ham-handed hirelings were, of course, regenerated, but being still short-of-height they were only repeatedly lost (and crushed again) in the following flow of fierce full-sized fighters.

The merriment in the camp of the How-do-you-get-orc-blood-off-your-shoes-ship, though, was short-lived. The next horde of evil minions quickly overcame its apprehension and surged forward heedless of the Lilliputian casualties. But even as Gateskeeper prepared to downsize them a shadow fell over the confident conjurer, missing him by scant inches as it thudded into the blood-dampened earth. The air about the combatants suddenly began to whip up the dust surrounding them, and the advancing orcs stopped and staggered back as a custom black aerophaunt with a convertable top landed in the space before the thunderstruck thaumaturge. Its rider wore a robe so hideous in its utter blackness that it seemed to pull all light into itself, drawing every eye to its evil weave and leaving those who beheld it despairing of ever regaining hope of light and life again, much like the campaign platforms of the major modern political parties. A tense silence fell upon the battlefield, hitting the ground near the shadow which fell a few moments earlier and squashing a couple of mini-orcs in the process.

From atop the sporty late-model aerophaunt (which sported a rump-er sticker that proclaimed "Don't laugh, it's paid for.") the rider threw back his cowl, and lo, there came the unmistakable hiss and the impeccable white wig of none other than the Chief Counsel of Mogul and master of the Great Cloud of Litig-ai-shon, Greedhog (surely you didn't think he'd escaped the regenerative fiesta, did you?) Desperately trying to think of something threatening to say, Gateskeeper stood alone between the Dark Loyer and the rest of the Geez-We-Thought-Maybe-We-Were-Going-To-Finally-Win-Ship, but only for a moment. First Merisuwyniel, then Gravlox, then the entire Fellow-gallo-insert-gender-and-or-race-here-ship stood forward at Gateskeeper's side -- mostly his backside. Heartened by the support of his long-time comrades, he brandished his staff menacingly at the Lead Loyer and shouted "Go back to the abyss!"

Greedhog laughed, a sound as merry as the joyous wailing of the eternally damned. "Old fool," he wheezed from his perch. He drew from his briefcase a tall, thin stack of subpoenas, writs, petitions, restraining orders, and other papers upon which were inscribed many foul and cunning devices. Holding it high over his head, a sheath of flame ran dramatically from its base to its summit, shining with a vile and depressing light yet not comsuming them. He gestured with his free hand and Gateskeeper's staff burst asunder in his hands. "Wow," mused the Gateskeeper, "I thought my virus scanner was impregnable."

"Old fool," Greedhog repeated, advancing his aerophaunt slowly towards the cluster of heroes and heroines, "this is my hour! And besides, The Abyss was a crummy movie." The massive dark form moved within striking distance of the small knot of brave and/or foolhardy Questians, ignoring Vogonwe as he verbally composed the requiem that he thought no one would live to hear. Such was the discomposure engendered by Greedhog's fearsome presence that none thought to raise hand or sword in defense, but merely tried to maintain enough dignity so as not to soil their breeches before the end. But even as the loathsome loyer prepared to hurl his lethal load of lawsuits and end the quest for good and all, he hesitated but a moment. For in that moment a thin ray of sunshine shone across the gap between them, and as from very far away a sound of hope reached their ears, like unto a symphony of a thousand herald trumpets no two of which were tuned to the same pitch, like the lower Bronx at rush hour. Merisuwyniel cried out, "Horns!" And the rest of the Yet-Another-Improbable-Rescue-Ship took up the cry, "Horns, horns, horns!"

( ** Editor's note: a lone mini-dragon on the edge of the battle managed to escape the melee, and lives on to this day doing television commercials for an American car insurance company.)

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel listened closely, her brow slightly (yet fetchingly, of course) furrowed. “Hark!” she called out, and her companions harked obediently. “I hear…” she continued, interrupted by the voices of the others.

“Trumpets, trumpets, trumpets!” shouted Orogarn, who well knew the sounds of Gondor’s favourite instrument.

“Piccolos, piccolos, piccolos,” Pimpiowyn piped up shrilly.

“Tubas, tubas, tubas,” Kuruharan boomed.

“Stop!” Merisu commanded, “You sound like you’re filling out triplicate forms for some bürô-krát! You’re all right, of course – it is all those instruments and more.”

Suddenly a voice was heard, louder than the music, louder than the din of battle, yet its source was invisible to their eyes. All fighting ceased in confusion as the participants attempted to make sense of the words.


“Well, folks, it’s half-time, and here’s your host Pete Ship-ôlé to comment on the big show. Actually, I think we’re running a bit late – I certainly hope the battle won’t take as long after this as it did until now! I’d like to welcome my co-host Bill Furknee, who is joining me to comment this evening.”

“Thanks, Pete! It’s been a great battle so far, but it’s time to lighten up a bit, and here to entertain you is the Minus Teeth Royal Marching Band. If you’re wondering why there are so many players, it’s because they too have been revived – deceased band members from many long years. As they say, sometimes the baton is mightier than the sword!”

“Indeed it is, Bill. Let’s take a look at the action now. First you see that there are seventy-six trombones leading the big parade, and what’s that behind them?”

“I may be wrong, Pete, but it looks like an estimated one hundred and ten cornets! They’re followed by rows and rows of the finest virtuosos – the cream of Gondor’s famous band!”

“Just look at the next players, will you, folks? More than a thousand reeds springing up like weeds! And you heard them right at the start of the show – horns, horns, horns, of every shape and kind.”

“Yes, and now we can see the next rows – there are copper bottom tympani in horse platoons, thundering, thundering all along the way! I can hardly hear my own voice! And it’s getting better all the time – now the double bell euphoniums and big bassoons are having their say.”

“Well, Bill, this is very impressive, very impressive indeed. Who’d have thought that they would get such a line-up together. But what’s that? It’s getting even louder now!”

“Yes, Pete, there are fifty mounted cannon in the battery, and they’re thundering, thundering louder than before. This is almost deafening! The crowd is cheering them on, but it can hardly be heard.”

“And it’s not all just noise, folks – these guys can really play! Just listen to those clarinets of every size…”

“Yes, and their trumpeters can improvise a full octave higher than the score!”

“Well, Bill, they’re on their way out of the stadium, and I must say, this was another great show! I’m afraid they trampled on some of those miniature warriors out there, but there seem to be enough of them that they won’t be missed much. This is Pete Ship-ôlé…”

“…And this is Bill Furknee, signing off for tonight. We hope you enjoy the rest of the battle – we’ll be back next week for more. Stay tuned for these important messages.”


Silence reigned on the battle field – yet not for long...

[The Saucepan Man]

Greedhog stood facing the Questors of the West, absent mindedly batting his unfeasibly large mace against the side of his unfeasibly regenerated leg. The Questors stood facing Greedhog, fully expecting to experience the uniquely fatal thwack of the forbidding mace at any moment.

“What’s he waiting for?” whispered Merisuwyniel to the Gateskeeper.

“Beats me,” replied the Wizard as he carefully gathered up the splinters of his staff and, holding them together, vainly attempted a re-boot.

“I fear that that is precisely what he intends to do,” pointed out Hal, their parlous state causing his formidable wit to desert him, leaving him with nothing but the obvious gag to fall back on.

But Greedhog did not attack. He merely stood there with the impatient but anticipatory air that he normally reserved for clients whose tardiness erred on the unfashionable side of late.

Soregum was situated some fifty yards behind the scene of the confrontation, ostensibly guarding the wagon containing the majority of the Entish Artefacts. But, as he cowered beneath it, his attention was caught by a sudden movement in a scorched copse some distance to his right. Turning his head, he spied a small con* of Loyers gathered among the blackened trees. They were all that remained of the cadre that had set out with Greedhog on his initial foray into the battle. And, for some strange reason that Soregum could not quite fathom, they seemed frantically to be waving at him. At that moment, he became vaguely aware that there was something that he had to do. He looked first one way and then the other and, seeing that all eyes were fixed on the confrontation with Greedhog, he beckoned them over.

Taking care not to be seen, the Loyers crept stealthily towards Soregum, their black cowled gowns providing the perfect camouflage against the blackened earth. When they reached the wagon, one of their number immediately slapped an official-looking scroll on it. Another, who went by the name of Dictum the Officious, turned to speak to Soregum.

“You are the one known as Halitosis?” he enquired.

“Er - yes,” replied Soregum, wincing at the code-name assigned to him by Môgul.

“We are here under the authority of the Dread Developer, Lord of Moredough, to seize possession of the fragments of rent Ent,” declared the Loyer. “We are given to understand that said fragments are contained within this vehicle. Is that correct?”

Soregum nodded.

“Pursuant to Article 38.2, clause 56, sub-clause mcxii of the Muddled-Mirth Civil Code, the parking of vehicles of any kind (including, without prejudice to the generality of the foregoing, carts, wagons, carriages, drays, buggies, curricles, tumbrels, rickshaws, wheelbarrows and the like, but excluding chariots) within two hundred yards of a confrontation between two opposing forces on the field of battle is expressly forbidden, save for the purpose of loading or unloading weaponry, armour, siege paraphernalia and the like. Sub-clause mcxiii further provides that, should either party in said battle be in contravention of sub-clause mcxii, the other party (being the party which did not previously have ownership, possession or control of said vehicle) shall be entitled to take possession of said vehicle and all items contained within it.” All this, Dictum recited seemingly without drawing breath. “In accordance with said law, we have therefore impounded this wagon and all that lies within it.”

“I see,” said Soregum. “But you should know that there is one more piece to the Ent.”

“The Entish Bow,” replied Dictum. “Yes, we are aware of said item.”

The Loyer turned towards where the Oblivious-ship stood before his Lord High Advocate and stretched out his arm. In the distance, Soregum was just able to discern a small notice fluttering through the air and attaching itself to the Entish Bow.

“I have imposed an ASBO** on the Bow,” Dictum explained. “It will now be unable to alert its mistress. Your job is to retrieve it.”

Soregum felt that he should protest but, to his great surprise, he dropped to the ground and began to crawl stealthily towards his erstwhile companions. Gradually he inched closer and closer to them, his rheumy eyes firmly fixed on the Bow-which-had-been-struck-dumb. But, when he was not ten yards from his objective, a sudden commotion broke out.

“U IZ AL LAMERZ!!!! LOL!!!!! WOT U STANDIN THER FOR???!!! GET A LIFF, SADDOS …”

Trolls are not known for their great patience (nor, indeed, their discipline) and a company of Greedhog’s Troll-Guard had eventually (and laboriously) come to the conclusion that all this standing about exchanging wary glances with the opposition was not really their cup of tea. What they really ought to be doing, they unanimously agreed, was playing a few rounds of conkers with their enemies’ heads. And, before anyone realised what was happening, they broke suddenly upon the opposing line like a storm, beating upon helms and heads, and arms and shields, as smiths hewing hot bending iron, with howls of derision, hammers of invective and tongs of flame.

In horror, Soregum saw that Pimpiowyn, having become separated from the group, had been stunned and overborne. Merisu and the others, being fully occupied fending off the Trolls’ abusive assault, had not seen her fall, and even Vogonwë was oblivious to her fate. The great Troll-Chief that smote her bent down over her, reaching a contumelious claw. At that moment, it seemed to Soregum that time slowed to a halt - rather conveniently as it happened, as it permitted him to pay full attention to the vision that now appeared before him. There, sitting on an old, worn leather armchair and puffing away on a ridiculously long pipe, was a grey-haired, wizened old Hobbit.

“Duffer Gummidge …!” exclaimed Soregum. “But how …?”

The insanely aged Hobbit’s face creased benignly and broke (almost literally) into a paternal smile, revealing a mouth virtually devoid of teeth.

“If you remember only one thing in your life, Windsor, my son,” the Duffer slobbered gummily. “It is always to look out for number one.”

And with that, he vanished. But fortunate it was that he had appeared at that moment, for Soregum’s contempt for his father’s advice knew no bounds and the Duffer’s words had the immediate effect of breaking Môgul Bildûr’s hold over him.

“Silly old coot!” thought Soregum to himself, as he sprang forward and sped towards where Pimpi lay under the shadow of the great Troll-Chief, reaching as he went for the blade which hung by his side. Happily, time had not quite got back into the swing of things, for Soregum’s dagger had rusted over through years of disuse and stubbornly refused to emerge from its scabbard. By the time that he reached Pimpi, however, he had somehow managed to wrench it free and, flinging himself on top of her prone body, he stabbed upwards. Then did the rusty blade of Moredough pierce through the thick-skin of the Troll and plunge deep into his vituperative vitals, and his icky black blood came gushing out. As Soregum heaved Pimpiowyn to one side with his free hand, the Troll toppled forward and came blundering down like a dropped clanger. Blackness and stench came upon Soregum and, although these were circumstances which would normally be reassuringly familiar to him, they were unfortunately accompanied by a crushing pain, and his mind fell away into a great darkness.

“It’s not fair! It can’t end like this,” his thought wailed, even as it was wrenched away, and it began to sob uncontrollably within him as he desperately fought to hang onto the doubts, cares and fears which, for all their bother, at least signified life. And then even as it was dragged struggling into oblivion it heard voices, and they seemed to be crying in some forgotten world far above.

“Yawanna is coming! Yawanna is coming!”
_____________________________________________

* Con n. The collective term for Loyers. One theory has it that it is an abbreviation of conference, but most hold that it is not short for anything and that it should simply be given its common meaning.

** ASBO abbr. Anti-Sentient Bow Order

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Just as all seemed darkest on the battlefield, with clouds hiding even the faint light that the night had to offer, the sun rose, tinting the entire world (at least that part of it which was visible to the proponents of our story) the appropriately-named rose colour. This was fortunate for Vogonwë, who had been muttering, “The list of our synonyms grows thin!” as he frantically paged through his well-worn thesaurus in search of poetic equivalents to use for “black”. His epic poem was filled to redundancy with a multitude of “sable, coal, raven, ebony, jet, pitch, inky, sooty, burnt,” etc…

Alas, every time he stopped reciting new verses of his imaginative account of the battle, the foes drew nigh again, only to recede when his renewed effort drove them backwards, retching. The fresh colours that now flooded the fields of fighting inspired him, and his fanciful descriptions including but not limited to words like “cherry, orange, peachy, apricot, lemon…” would have made his beloved Pimpiowyn drool, had she been within earshot.

Merisuwyniel paused, resting her sword-arm (strong and muscular yet feminine and attractive) for a moment. Suddenly she recalled words she had heard long ago. A melodious voice chanted, “Look for me at the rising of the sun on the umpteenth morn.” A vision of green loveliness arose to her memory and she was aware of the voices of the Velour, crying out from wherever it was that they now were, “Yawanna is coming!”

And behold, the battlefield now glowed with a hue of emerald that no sunrise has ever produced. Vogonwë’s fruit basket lyrics had now reached “lime” and were rapidly proceeding toward “cucumber”. And lo! she came in her great majesty, clad all in dark green leather, polished to a gleaming sheen and laced to emphasize her breathtaking voluptuousness, and in stiletto boots of the same colour. Her emerald eyes flashed in their regal wrath, and her locks flowed behind her like unto green grasses waving in the wind. Unnumbered verdant vassals surrounded her, pausing by her side, at her feet, and behind her as she surveyed the charred and blackened battlefield. No living thing grew there; her lovely lips tightened wrathfully, then opened in song. And as she sang, she strode forward in time with the rhythm, slashing a whip of ivy to punctuate every word:


Al-ways look on the green side of life!
Al-ways look on the clean side of life!

Some guys in life are bad,
They can really make you mad;
Other dudes just make you swear and curse.
When you're stepping on life's thistle
Don't cry “Ouch!”, just give a whistle,
And I will help things turn out for the best.

And...always look on the green side of life,
Always look on the clean side of life.

If love seems jolly rotten
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to plant and water, prune and weed.
When you're feeling awfully low
Come and watch the garden grow;
It’s amazing what becomes of one small seed.

And...always look on the green side of life,
Always look on the clean side of life.

For romance is quite absurd
And death's the final word;
You must always face your lover with a bow.
I won’t forget your sin, no matter how you grin;
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.

So always look on the green side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath.

You’re a piece of sh**
When I look at it;
Love's a laugh and you're a joke, it's true.
You thought it was all show,
Kept on laughing – now you go;
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And... al-ways look on the green side of life!
Al-ways look on the Queen's side of life!


And lo! vines of ivy and grape-leaves reached out to fetter the orcs and trolls, and roots grew up to make balrogs and wargs stumble and falter. And so they were immobilized yet not killed, the most effective way of bringing their assault to a stillstand.

And even as Yawanna sang, the time-space continuum wavered, debating with itself like unto a computer on the brink of self-destruction when posed with its own illogical reasoning.
“Green – a political philosophy of ecological awareness, arising late in the 7th Age – too far in the future to be known at this time.
Song melody – composed during the 20th century AD – does not belong to this Age.
Clothing and mannerisms of Yawannatrix – do not compute with canonical source materials.”

Smoke began to emerge from the chinks of the continuum, glowing eerily green and covering the battlefield like some ghostly army. With a huge explosion, it vanished completely. Vines now strangled their victims; tree roots pulled others underground, burying them alive; and grains filled the air with pollen dust, choking those who were still breathing. Tendrils reached out to grasp stacks of legal papers and tear them to shreds.


And so it came that Mogûl, robbed of all of his vassals, slaves, and legal consultants, finally stood alone on the now lushly verdant battlefield, facing Yawanna and the Valiant-Ship.

[The Saucepan Man]

A muted pop. A plaintiff cry of "Not again!" And then darkness.

Slowly, Môgul became aware of a comforting glow. In the dim, flickering light he could make out the back of a worn leather armchair. Beyond it, a hearty fire roared in a fireplace. The scene seemed strangely familiar to him. He felt warm and safe and secure. The cares and worries of the Pages past fell away from him and he was as a youth once more. It was a most unpleasant sensation.

"Hello Melvin," said a voice from the armchair, a gentle though slightly reproachful voice which he recognised instantly.

"Hello Father," Melvin replied.

"Come here, my lad so I can see how you have grown."

And Melvin found himself before the armchair. The old man regarded him, his kindly eyes tinged with mild disapproval.

"So, the prodigal son returns. Tsk tsk, what have you been up to, my boy?"

"Er, I have been ..." Melvin paused, not sure at first how to reply. "I have been caring for your creation, Father," he continued.

"Ah, Melvin," the old man sighed. "But you have not been caring for it, have you? You have sought to control it, to master it for your own ends."

"No I haven't. Well. Maybe just a little bit. But it needed someone to take it in hand. To bring some order to the chaos. At least I didn't just ignore it, like Manuel and the others did. They couldn't care less about it"

"Perhaps, Melvin," came the patient reply. "But they have not tried to take dominion of it, as you have. They may have been neglectful, but you're just plain bad."

"I only did what I thought was best, Father."

"Of course you did, Melvin. That is because I gave you free will. You and your breth/sist-ren. And each one of you has chosen his - or her - own path. Yet you shall see, Melvin, that there is nothing that any of you can do that does not have its uttermost source in me. Nor can you hope to alter my design against my will. For he - or she - that attempts this shall prove but my instrument in the creation of things more mirthful, which he - or she - him - or her - self has not imagined."

Melvin thought about this for a moment.

"So it's your fault that I am bad then, Father. You made me this way."

"Eh?" The old man suddenly seemed troubled. "No. It's not like that at all. I did not intend that you should behave in this way."

"But, if you gave us all free will, you must have contemplated the possibility, indeed the likelihood, that some of us would turn out bad."

"But it was your choice..."

"... in which case, the existence of evil is an inherent aspect of your design."

"Er ..."

"You said it yourself. Everything that I have done has its uttermost source in you."

"But ..."

"Which means that there must be a part of you that is bad too."

"No, that's not ..."

"And, what's more, it seems that we don't have free will at all. Because, as you said, whatever we do, we will only be furthering your plan."

"But ..."

"Which must necessarily have required us to be bad in order to further it as you planned."

"No, I ... I .. er ..."

And with this, Emu Ilovetar, for it was He, disappeared in a puff of logic.

The scene dissolved and Môgul once more found himself surrounded by darkness; a thick, black smog which obscured his sight in every direction. Yet he could sense that another was there with him in the inky blackness.

"Colin, is that you?" he called out.

"Yes," said a thin, shrill voice. "I am sorry, Lord Môgul. It was too much for me. The logical improbability of the narrative placed an excessive strain on the time-space continuum. I could'nae hold it."

"So what happened?"

"We were both atomised in the implosion."

"Ah, that explains a lot."

It was now clear to Môgul that he could not penetrate the thick black smoke because he was in fact the thick black smoke.

"Well, don't just float there in a particulate state," he said sternly to Colin. "Pull yourself together, man."

"I can't," wailed Colin. "I flunked materialisation at college."

"Oh. Too bad. Goodbye then, Colin."

"Nooooo! Don't ...!" The thin, incoporeal cry faded out as the little control that Colin, otherwise known as the Wizard Sauerkraut, retained over the remains of his earthly phwoar slipped from his feeble grasp and his phïzz departed Muddled-Mirth for the second and final time.

Môgul, however, was a dab hand at materialisation and though it took some effort, for the implosion of the time-space continuum had dealt him a grievous blow, he soon stood once more on the field of battle. Brushing a thin layer of Sauerkraut from his cloak, he surveyed the scene. And swiftly he came to the conclusion that, while things could have been worse, there was little in it. For it appeared that his entire army had disappeared without trace.

“Greedhog …?” he called, only to spot his former Advocate-General’s great boots set upright where the Senior Loyer himself had stood only moments before, empty but for a pair of fine sunflowers sprouting from each. Nearby lay the remnants of Greedhog's Troll-Guard, now reduced to scattered boulders, cracked and split by tendrils of ivy and shrouded in a patchwork quilt of moss and lichen. And a bed of bluebells lay around the Wagon of the Entish Parts where formerly his cadre of elite Loyers had skulked.

Finally, Môgul’s eyes settled on the green (and rather fetching) figure of Yawanna, standing proudly amidst the swiftly flourishing field. Selecting his most swoon-inducing form, he sauntered nonchanlantly over to her, producing as he went an bouquet of twelve red roses. Then, upon further consideration, he substituted the bouquet with a luxury box of chocolate-covered lembas. Which he then exchanged for a fine emerald necklace and matching earrings. Then, just for good measure, he produced all of them at once.

“Darling,” he said contritely, proffering the roses, chocolates and jewellery. “I can explain.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Don’t you ‘Darling’ me,” said Yawanna in a voice that could have frozen a whole army, had there been one left, “and keep your cheap gifts for those who are easier to dupe. You’ve explained quite enough already. I’ll do the explaining now.”

The Victorious-At-Last-Ship stood in breathless silence, hardly daring to believe that they had finally reached the goal of their long and arduous quest. Merisuwyniel’s eyes shone with green reflections in their violet depths as she watched her heroine’s triumphant appearance. Gravlox held her right hand in his firm and now shapely grasp, while her left hand lay on Pimpiowyn’s shoulder (yes, she too was revived now) companiably. Vogonwë, next to her, had stopped reciting his epic poem, thankful for once that he had lost the greater part of his audience. Kuruharan was leaning ever so slightly on Chrysophylax, for even the Dwarf had tired of fighting. The Dragon was content to lie on the ground, digesting the remnants of barbequed battle. The Gateskeeper had forgotten all of his technical paraphernalia, his hands hanging in unwonted restful pose at his side. Since the other females of the group were otherwise claimed, Hal and Orogarn (still Two, of course) had taken Leninia between them protectively – or was it possessively? Soregum was missing, though none of them actually noticed his absence.

Grasses and wild flowers gently caressed their ankles, and if some of the more daring plants found their way under the females’ skirts, who was to blame them? The Bow, freed from its antisEntient state, hummed with excitement once again, and the conglomeration of wooden artefacts on the cart that made up its entirety emitted a low harmonious buzzing. Obviously, Something was about to happen.

“Melvin,” Yawanna began, “from the very beginning you attempted to spoil everything that the rest of us sub-created. When we built lands, you destroyed them. When we delved valleys, you raised them up. When we carved mountains, you threw them down. And when we hollowed seas, you spilled them. But the very worst of all is, when we tried to give this History of Muddled-Mirth some kind of coherency, cohesion and continuity, you ruined it all with chaos and confusion! Well, that’s over – you’re not going to mess with us anymore!”

“But Honeypie, I’ll reform,” Mogûl answered. “You can save me, you’ll be the redeeming influence that makes a good Velour of me yet -”

“ENOUGH!” her voice resounded over the plains. “You had your chance. Maybe you haven’t learned from your experience, but I have. Your heart is as black as your gothic raiment, and as hard, cold, and unyielding as your metal crown. Muddled-Mirth will have no peace nor beauty while you remain unfettered. Maybe my breth/sistren and I do not have the power to end your miserable existence, but at least we can prevent you from doing any further harm to our beloved world and its inhabitants. You will be bound and banished to the Pink Floyd, behind The Wall. You won’t heed no education; we don’t need your thought control; no dark chasm in creation: Mogûl, leave our world alone! All in all you’ll just be – talking to a brick wall!”

Suddenly Mogûl found his legs wrapped tightly with vines, growing at an alarming rate. Yet his arm was still long, longer than Yawanna or any of the Relaxed-Ship had realized. Quickly it reached out to Merisuwyniel and tore her from her beloved’s grasp, bringing both the Elven maiden and the Entish Bow into his power.

“Now we’ll see who laughs last!” he shouted triumphantly. “I have the most important piece of that pesky tree-cowboy in my hands, and as long as the Ent is rent, you have no might over me! Now hand over the rest of that firewood, or the She-Elf has seen her last Quest!”


(to be continued...)

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Far away, over the river and through the woods, on their way back home from wherever it was that the Velour had pursued the enemies, the Valleyum dudes and dudettes conversed excitedly, high on the unwonted triumph of having actually accomplished something useful.

“That was fun!” Prada laughed. “Let’s do it again!”

“Naw, let’s, like, have a party to celebrate!” Chanessa countered.

“But what about the rest of the foes?” Manuël objected, feeling responsible for a change.

“It’s, like, their problem – let them handle it,” Mantoes suggested. “Like, it’s not our fault – we’re not Rent-an-Ent, after all!”

“But we could at least go see what’s happening,” TMUlmo said.

“You know what? I bet they’d totally appreciate some support,” Estë-Lynn exclaimed. “Let’s, like, give them some cheerleading!”

The female Velour whipped Pôm-Pôms and tiny skirts out of their miniature designer backpacks and started cartwheeling toward the battlefield. The males followed, trying to look dignified and masculine and lagging a bit to make it look like they weren’t really associated with the females. Suddenly Haulie’s steps lengthened noticably. Irritated, Manuël asked, “Hey, what’s with the hurry, dude?”

“I can feel something – Yawanna is in trouble,” he answered curtly.

“So what do you care?” Mantoes wondered. “Isn’t she Mel’s gal now?”

“The Ent is endangered too,” Haulie added. “They will have need of the wood,” he stated cryptically. He started running, and such was his strength and the speed of his legs that he soon reached the newly green battlefield.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Yawanna and the fellows and gals of the Fellow/Galship had spent their strength in attempting to reach Merisuwyniel and wrest her from Mogûl’s grasp, but the might of his concentration had held them at bay, or at least at arm’s length, effortlessly.

“Haulie!” Yawanna exclaimed with a choke that could be interpreted as a sob of relief, or perhaps a cry for help, or perhaps something completely different or nothing at all.

Mogûl turned to see who approached and greeted him casually. “Howdy, Haulie! Wassup, dude?”

“You’re up, and to no good, as usual,” Haulie retorted. “You have something that belongs to my spouse, and you’d better give it back to her, or...”

“Or what? Will you send some Dwarfies to get it for you?” Mogûl mocked.

“I will create some good Loyers to fight you on your own terms!” Haulie answered.

“But good Loyers are Mith-ical!” Mogûl laughed. “They don’t exist, and if they did, they would be a contradiction in terms and therefore completely ineffective!”

Merisuwyniel gasped as his grip on her tightened. She was finding it difficult to maintain her usual poise under the circumstances. Orogarn Two, who felt the loss of his heroic power most keenly, made one last, desperate attempt, and lo! Mogûl’s concentration had loosened and he charged forward, waving his sword in a manner that was more foolhardy than brave. He managed to slash the Velour’s arm, startling him more than actually hurting him, but causing him to release his hold on the Elven maiden.

Mogûl turned to his aggressor with a snarl, lowered his head, and with a headbutt pierced him with the sharp points of his deadly crown. Orogarn slumped to the ground, mortally wounded, and with his last breath cried out to Merisu, “Take this, and check out my lucky nickel! It will help you in your hour of need!” He reached into a pocket of his well-worn (or Vínt-âge, as they were called) blue pants and took out his wallet, tossing it to the Elf, who caught it nimbly and gracefully (of course). Then he expired, and those who beheld him in his death saw the splendour of the expiration date which was printed on the sole of his shoes.

At that moment Haulie lifted his mighty hammer, raising it high, and smote the ground before Mogûl’s feet. “You – shall – not – sass!” he cried loudly, and the earth cracked. A quick-thinking vine lashed out, entwining itself about Mogûl’s ankles and pulling him into the crack, and another quickly caught Merisu before she could fall with him. With a terrible cry, Mogûl plunged down into the depths of Muddled-Mirth’s bowels. All that the Leftovership heard was his parting shout, “Spy, you mules!”, then they saw him no more. (No one understood what his last words meant, for which reason they were remembered for all times and thought to be particularly astute.)

Stunned by the monumental events they had just witnessed, the assembled company stood in shocked silence for a moment. Leninia burst into tears, remembering Orogarn Two’s strong embrace and mourning his loss, as they all did. But soon Yawanna threw her arms around Haulie in what looked to be the beginning of a reconciliation and reunion. Merisuwyniel was comforted tenderly by Gravlox, and Pimpiowyn kissed Vogonwë just because she felt like it. The others cleared their throats and bowed their heads before gently picking up the hero’s body and carrying it to the cart with the pieces of Ent upon it. It seemed fit to all that he should be borne in honour with the wooden artefacts. But where should they bring him, and what should they do next?

“We must carry on with our Quest and bring it to completion,” Merisuwyniel announced. “Orogarn (“Two”, someone whispered, just out of habit) would have wanted us to do that.” She turned to the Green Goddess questioningly.

Yawanna pointed to a white peak on the horizon. “We must go to the holy mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill. There are the sun studios that are most holy to the Velour, and there shall the Ent be reunified. Follow me!”

[Kuruharan]

As everyone made their way to Tan-Quickly-Hill, all were satisfied that the Quest looked to be nearing completion…except one. Reaperneep plodded along all depressed and sad, his tail dragging the ground, his battered and bloody rapier still clutched in his paw. A few short posts ago he had been caught up in a Valhallian-like paradise that looked certain to last for the rest of eternity. What mouse could ask for more? And here he was, his hopes crushed. Peace and serenity were returning to Muddled mirth. What would become of him? He end up just like Orogarn Two…brought into the story for a plot diversion that nobody ever paid much attention to, only to be finally killed off when it became utterly useless to be kept around any longer.

As he dragged along in mournful reverie he tripped over something lying on the ground. It looked to be a bit hairy. Morose curiosity drove Reaperneep to roll the body over and see a glorious hero of blessed memory who had found a courageous death in the battle to end the world. Instead, it turned out to be a still living Soregum.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Reaperneep. “Pitooie…hayuch…” said Soregum as he spit dirt out of his mouth. “A lucky escape,” said Soregum when he’d found his breath. “If you say so,” said Reaperneep. Soregum stared at the mouse a little oddly. “But we just triumphed over impossible odds,” said Soregum.

“But what battles does that leave us to fight?!” demanded Reaperneep. “This is a most unfortunate illustration of the turn of Fortune’s Wheel.”

“What?”

“Fortune’s Wheel…” said Reaperneep in puzzlement. “Surely you’ve seen the show. Patt Sayjack and Vanawww Blanca…”

“Sorry,” interrupted Soregum. “We don’t have time for another pointless excursion into nonsense and anachronism.”

“Then will this whole post fall into anticlimax without even a proper punchline?” asked Reaperneep sadly.

“Looks that way,” said Soregum.

[Bêthberry]

Bilbo S. Thompson, gonzo translator of no small conceit, was coming out of a lembas daze. He realized he hadn’t contributed anything to the latest round of entish irreverence and he was appalled by his lack of bad taste. “I’m a whole different person when I’ve been upstaged,” he mused to himself as he wired some Longbottom Leaf to one of his outrageously oversized cigarette holders.

He began: How many more of these lame delays are we going to have to write off as 'regrettably necessary' holding actions? And how many more of these double-downer sideshows will we have to go through before we can get ourselves straight enough to put together an actual real climax to this action that will give at least the fellow contributors who tend to agree with each other a chance to consummate that old familiar choice between the lesser of two evils?

The gonzo translator put down his crayon. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t be irreverent enough, couldn’t be unpredictable enough, couldn’t be gonzo enough to out-hyperbole the other contributors. He would have to beat them, have to go from bad to worse to rotten, on other terms. So be it.

Bilbo S. Thompson picked up his glitter marker. He would shine. He would do what none of them had done yet. He would be … predictable. And so he produced entirely a history greater than The Great Sharkey Hunt on someone else’s terms. The guy was dead now anyway, he wouldn’t care, that Jöhn Lêndïn.

The Ballad of Yawanna and Mogûl

Standing in the stock of south Mirthdom
Covered in the vines of life’s dance
The man with the hack said, “You’ve got me back”
And you thought you didn’t have a chance.”

Tolkien, you know it ain’t easy,
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

Finally made the post of conclusion
Thinking nothing would be the same
Vogonwe called to say
You can make it okay
You can get resolved in a trilogy plain.

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

Roved from Vallyum to the Barrow Downs quilt-in,
Talking to the wood for a week,
The orcs said, “Say what you’re doing with trees?”
MeriSue said, “We’re only trying to get us some piece.”

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

Saving up your battles for the big play
Giving all your time to war mongery
Last night the Troll-Chief said
“Oh boy when you’re done,
You won’t know what to do not being dead.
Made a lightning trip to Minus Teeth
Eating lembas in a coney stew
The Deadbook said, “She’s a terrible thread,
She’ll drag your legend into dispute.”

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy,
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going,
They’re gonna parody thee.

Caught the final thrill back up to the Hill,
All the ents together in a choir,
The men from Tan-Quick said we hope you’re now slick
It’s good to have all of it for hire.

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy,
You know how hard it can be.
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Go, Questers, go! Go, Entish Bow!” The spirited cries of the Velour cheerleaders were slightly belated, as the AreWeThereYetShip was already rapidly proceeding toward the holy mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill. And such was the virtue of the hallowed lands of Valleyum that the usual trail of destruction and food wrappers that otherwise followed in their wake was conspicuously absent.

The Velour were lagging behind them, sorely missing the dune buggies with which they normally preferred to travel, but still feeling buoyantly virtuous. Since it looked like there was no further danger to them, nor any activity required of them, they could bask in the glow of seeming to participate without actually doing anything.

The Green Goddess was busy thinking of all that needed to be organized while she walked hand-in-hand with her spouse. She mentally composed an o-mail of condolence to Orogarn’s father:

To the Honourable Lord Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor and Guardian of the Porcelain Throne of Minus Teeth, from Yawanna, greetings!

I have the sad task of informing you as his father that your noble and valiant son Orogarn Two has lost his life in the fulfillment of his duty as a hero of the Questship of the Entish Bow. We now bear his body in great honour; would you like to have it transported back to the city of his ancestors for burial? Please inform us of your wishes and we will provide for carriage worthy of his person and rank.

Unfortunately, the static caused a poor connection between the far Western lands of Valleyum and the kingdom of Grundor in Muddled-Mirth, so that only a truncated message reached the Proctor:

Yawanna have your son’s body back?

Since Denimthor had seen a vision of Orogarn (Two, of course) lying pale beneath the skies of Valleyum, he was not surprised. However, the official news of the death of the Not-Prince, successor to the Not-Throne, caused much weeping and mourning in the city of his origin. Poems were made and sung that were equal at least to Vogonwë’s best efforts, the flags of Minus Teeth flew at half mast, and the elderly wore only the bottom half of their dentures in honour of his memory. The children strewed their toothbrushes with ashes, crying bitterly when they had to use them.

Denimthor wrote a return answer:

No father should have to bury his child! Since he is no longer of use to our country, it matters not where he lies buried. Do as you think.

Alas, even this brief answer suffered from the static, so that Yawanna received the following reply:

No!

Reaperneep considered himself the deceased hero’s guard of honour and walked beside the humble cart which bore his remains, holding his sword high and looking grim, though no one approached them.

Vogonwë had spent the first miles speechless, sucking on throat lozenges to soothe his weary vocal chords. Yet after awhile he could not resist the opportunity offered him by the somber, somewhat festive procession (which moreover provided him with a captive audience) and began chanting a dirge:

His head was higher than the helm of kings
with heathen crowns, his heart keener
and his soul clearer than swords of heroes
polished and proven; than plated gold
his worth was greater. From the world has passed
a prince peerless in peace and war,
just in judgement, generous-handed
as the golden lords of long ago.
He has gone to Emu glory seeking,
Orogarn Two beloved.


“Hush!” Pimpiowyn exclaimed suddenly. The others turned toward her in astonishment, wondering why she would object to Vogonwë’s poem. For he had spoken with authority and great skill, as if with the voice of one who was a master of words, and they would feign have listened longer.

“I’m sorry, darling, I don’t mean you!” she said contritely when she realized that he had taken her outcry personally. “I mean my sword Hush – it’s gone!”

“When do you last remember having it in your hands?” Merisuwyniel asked helpfully.

“Hmm, I don’t know – on the battlefield, I think,” the Half-Halfling answered.

All eyes were on Pimpi, or someone might have noticed that Soregum’s face turned pale, then flushed, and his hand went to his breast pocket. He hesitated, but soon realizing the extent of her distress, edged over alongside the cart. His hands moved with the skill of the Little People, faster than the eye, and then raised the sword triumphantly. “Here it is,” he called out. “It must have been in the cart all the while.”

“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, giving him a kiss on the cheek in reward. And though this history does not tell the tale, it is said that he never after did wash that cheek and became known as Soregum, the Black-Faced.

Watching the cart, Vogonwë continued:

Hey! rattle and bump over rut and boulder!
The roads are rough and rest is short...


but the mood had passed, the mountain was nigh, and his audience was distracted. Eager to reach their goal, they pressed forward. Gateskeeper even pressed fast forward, but nothing happened and he had to content himself with normal speed.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Very Secret Diary of Falafel (Noble Steed, associated with yet not owned by Merisuwyniel)


Day Umpteenthousand-something-or-other – who really cares?! I don’t suppose anyone will ever read this anyway, because all of the history will come from the Red and Green and Yellow Books that are written from some Elven, Human, or Hobbit point-of-view.

We equine companions (and similar creatures) didn’t have much to do during that ridiculous and confusing battle. There were so many fighters popping up out of nowhere and disappearing again, turning miniature, and whatever (especially whatever!), that our DismountedShip never had time to ride. And where would they have gone if they had? Looks like we’re trapped in this far-away country; the flying vehicle that brought us here is shattered, and what ship would bear us ever back across so wide a Sea?

Anyway, we lounged around on the sidelines, counting the arrows that Vogonwë plucked out of thin air, betting who’d be the next coward to hide behind us, and mesmerized by the rise and fall of Merisuwyniel’s, um – breath. Unfortunately, the farther the battle progressed, the less food and drink were available to us. The grass withered, the flowers faded, because the tainted breath of Mogûl blew upon it, and water was no more.

When we realized that we too would be affected by the outcome of the battle, we finally roused ourselves to action. I wish someone would have taken note of the valiant deeds done by those of us they call animals; those two-legged “fighters” could have learned a thing or two! I put my hooves to very effective use, and the others followed my example. Without our help on the flanks, the Elves, Humans, Hobbits and all mixtures thereof couldn’t have held out long enough for Yawanna to win the day.

I’m not complaining, mind you – I’m just glad it’s over. Of course it’s sad that one of the Questers died at Mogûl’s hands – or head it was – but they were lucky not more lost their lives. I was afraid if the enemy didn’t get them, Chrysophylax’ fire would; he sure had himself a BBQ! But I guess his aim is better than I thought.

Here we are then, on our way upwards, judging from the terrain. Most of our companions are way behind; when I look back to see if they are still following, even my equine eyes cannot discern their faces nor recognize who is still moving. At the beginning my fellow beasts of burden made a show of pulling the cart in honour of Orogarn’s heroic death, but I’m the only one left now. ‘He ain’t heavy’ – hah! Either he is or the wooden artefacts are. Anyway, my mistress and the Green Goddess are walking hand in hand beside me; it’s just the three of us, with that mountain looming large ahead of us.

But though all others forsake Merisu, I will never leave her nor forsake her; whither she goeth I will go. And it may be that I will be her equine companion for many long years, for unto me has been given the lifespan of my foresire Felaróf, which exceeds that of normal horses by far. And it looks like Yawanna will stay with us too, at least as long as we are here in her country; I heard her say, “You’ll always have Paris!” That I didn’t understand, so I pricked my ears (different and less painful than piercing them!) and heard the echo say, “You’ll always have the pair of us!” She means me too! A very insightful goddess.

It looks like we’ve gotten wherever we’re going, at least for now; Yawanna has begun singing a song of worship, apparently. Let me see if I can hear the words; I’m sure the other horses will be jealous when I sing it to them!

She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes,
she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes,
she’ll be coming around the mountain, she’ll be coming around the mountain,
she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes.


later...

We stopped at the foot of the mountain, where there were a number of mounds covered with white flowers. Instinctively I knew that those were not for nibbling and kept to the grass a short distance away.

“Should we not wait for the others to join us for the burial?” Merisu asked.

“Nay,” Yawanna answered. (I would have given the same answer had she asked me!) “For who knoweth how long it will take them nor whether they shall even come to this place, here at the end of all subplots. Besides, my husband would think that he could do it better, and instead of a mound we’d have another chasm. And when it’s broke, who fixes it?!”

With a charming wave of her emerald hands, she beckoned to the vines, bushes, and herbs that surrounded us, and they pushed clear a level space. Then they reached up to the cart and gently lifted Orogarn Two (yes, respect requires the suffix) ’s body and laid it there. His noble sword they placed at his side. Afterwards they piled the earth high above his remains, and within the shortest time flowers were growing on it. Amidst them the green leaves were shaped like unto a funny penguin, though some took the form of a ghastly green something-or-other.

Suddenly I heard Merisuwyniel’s voice begin to sing; I would have recognized its lovely tones anywhere, beautiful enough to melt the hearts of good and evil races, even to touch Mantoes’ compassion on behalf of her beloved, as had been the case long ago. But the words she sang were wonderfully fashioned, more than any of hers had ever been, and I surmised that the creative spirit that pervaded this holy place had suffused her.


Build high the barrow his bones to keep!
For here shall be hid both mouse and keyboard;
and to the ground be given blû dením Djeens,
and green Tê-Shirt with sword gleaming,
wealth unbegrudged for the well-beloved;
of forum admins the first and noblest,
to his moderators help unfailing,
to his members the fairest founder of websites.
Glory loved he; now glory earning
his grave shall be green, while forum or mainsite,
while post or thread in the internet lasteth.

Strange and otherworldly did those words sound to me, as echoes of another age perhaps, and I pondered them without finding meaning. Whether my mistress understood what she sang or not, it was a beautiful and touching moment. Yet our trip up the high mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill had only begun.

[Kuruharan]

At the sight of Tan-Quickly-Hill, a thought burst into Kuruharan’s brain.

“Wow! Nice digs. This would be an excellent site for a casino!! Surely these Maya and Velour need some way to blow off steam!!”

With that thought echoing in his brain, the enterprising dwarf strolled up to Manuël.

Bowing in the proper dwarven fashion, Kuruharan said, “Please allow me to felicitate Your Majesty on your most recent victory. A triumph of this magnitude will surely awe and keep Muddled-mirth in its place for eons to come.”

“Wha…aaa…” intoned Manuël.

“May it please Your High Majesty,” continued Kuruharan, “to commemorate this splendid occasion, I have come to beg leave to establish a casi…err…erect a memorial…monument, I meant monument (sorry) on Tan-Quickly-Hill, to show forth the glory of your victory for all eternity.”

Manuël stared at the dwarf a moment. “HAAAUUUULLIIIËËËË!!!!”

“Dude?” replied Haulië

“Your creature used big words to me,” said Manuël. “Translate.”

Kuruharan repeated his request. As the dwarf spoke, a thought burst into Haulië’s brain.

“Duuuuuude! This would be an eeexcellent place for a casino!!”

What he said out loud was, “Uhhh…sorry dude! Like, uhh, zoning codes. Yeah, that’s it! The zoning codes don’t allow the building of casinos on Tan-Quickly-Hill.”

“Zoning codes?” said Kuruharan.

“Recently passed,” said Haulië hastily. “We are planning a few renewal projects and all construction has to be…uhhh, like, umm…approved by the Board! Yeah, approved by the Board. Unfortunately, the Board is pretty slow. It generally takes two Ages to process all the paperwork. You’ll probably be long dead before your request came up for review.”

“Curses,” snarled Kuruharan inwardly. Out loud he said, “Please it Your Not Quite As High But Still Pretty Up There Majesty, if I could then present another request?”

“Errr…” said Haulië.

“If Your Majesty would be willing to grant a small license concession to your humble servant, I’d be much obliged,” said Kuruharan.

“What sort of license?” asked Haulië.

“Please it Your Majesty, a gaming and foundation license,” replied Kuruharan. “The sort of license, since Your Majesty is the creator of our race, that King Gaín Lotsamoola would be unable to contest even in his own court. It wouldn’t need to be much of a thing. All it would really need to say is something about how I can have leave to establish my own franchise and not give the king a cut of the take.”

“Sorry, dude,” said Haulië. “I really don’t think…”

“If Your Majesty were able to accommodate your servant in this matter, I would be unable to say anything when I got back about how your wife almost left you (ahem),” said Kuruharan.

“On second thought,” said Haulië abruptly, “in view of your services to, like, the cosmic order, and some junk, I grant your request.”

“My gratitude is inexpressible,” said Kuruharan with another deep bow (in proper dwarven fashion).

“What’s the hold up?” asked Yawanna.

“Huh…hold up,” said Merisuwyniel.

Sure enough, everybody else was at least a quarter mile behind them. Everyone seemed to be watching some sort of discussion taking place between Kuruharan and the Velour.

“Now what’s he doing?” groaned Merisuwyniel. “Can’t I even have my moment of triumph in peace?!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel, Yawanna, and Falafel had reached the top of Mount Tan-Quickly-Hill with the cart full of Entish pieces. They were alone, for the others of their company had lingered at the base of the mountain with the Velour, held up not only by Kuruharan’s bartering but by the fact that they had found a place of great interest – ‘Sethamir’s Stable, Sun Studio, and Surf Stuff’. There could be found sunglasses of high fashion, colourful apparel suited for water sports, and the boards which were so essential to the Velour for their ritual ceremonies. The LandLubberShip gazed at the various objects in wonder and would feign have been tempted to buy them but for their lack of local currency.

“Hey, doesn’t Merisu have Orogarn’s wallet?” Pimpi asked. “Perhaps we could use his credit card.” That was all the motivation they needed. They proceeded to follow their leader up the steep path with newly revived enthusiasm. In fact, they, unhampered by the cart, arrived at the summit in time to hear Yawanna’s clear voice ringing out with words of great import:

“Ent-That-Was-Broken, why have you come?”

And a voice, nay, several voices were heard, sounding strangely wooden and saying: “To be reunited and have no more pieces!”

Then Yawanna said: “The hour is come at last. You have besought my aid upon Tan-Quickly-Hill in the land of Valleyum, and I am the Maker of this, one of my children. I alone can remake him, that he can again fulfil the purpose for which he was created. Bring forth the Entish pieces!”


And she began to sing a song of great beauty and power:


Dat Wood, Dat Wood, Dat Dry Wood,
Dat Wood, Dat Wood, Dat Dry Wood,
Dat Wood, Dat Wood, Dat Dry Wood,
Now hear the word of Yawanna!

Oh, the leaf wood’s connected to the twig wood,
And the twig wood’s connected to the branch wood,
And the branch wood’s connected to the limb wood,
And the limb wood’s connected to the trunk wood,
And the trunk wood’s connected to the root wood,
Dat Wood is gonna live.

Yawanna connected Dat Dry Wood,
Yawanna connected Dat Dry Wood,
Yawanna connected Dat Dry Wood,
Dat Wood is gonna live!


And lo! as she sang the members of the Fellow/Galship of the Entish Bow came forward, bearing the pieces of Ent that they had brought with them from the long labours of their Quest.

Merisuwyniel laid the Entish Bow down at Yawanna’s feet, then furtively slipped the wooden foot that she had still kept in her pocket to Gravlox, so that he could proffer it as his own.

Kuruharan was so elated over the possibilities of future business in Valleyum that he silently brought forward the Great Foozle (“a shortish, longish, roundish, squareish, thinish, fattish, shapely, shapeless piece of wood”, it had been described) which he had found, not even considering asking for remuneration.

Leninia blinked back tears as she stroked the strings of the Entish Guitar one last time, yet she had learned to think of others instead of herself on this long journey, and gave up her erstwhile musical companion for the greater cause.

Vogonwë, Halfemption, Gateskeeper, and Sueim (the wraith formerly known as Grrralph) valiantly hoisted the Thighs of Soreham, laying (or rather dropping) them on top of the other pieces. There were cries of “Ouch!”, “Watch it, stupid!”, and “Aren’t there enough pieces already?!” from the Rent-Ent, but all was soon forgotten as they were lifted into place by Yawanna’s might.

Pimpiowyn donated the breadbox, since that was the piece nearest and dearest to her heart. And at the very last, Reeperneep came forward, having shouldered the Entish broom like a sword. Bowing down reverently, he gave it to Yawanna, and she smiled upon this small but proud creature, touching his shoulders lightly with the broom in knighthood as it were, before adding it the the assembled pieces.

Then she spoke in great majesty, asking: “Can this wood live?”

And Merisuwyniel answered for them all: “O Yawanna, thou knowest.”

Then the Green Goddess spoke to the wooden pieces, “Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and you shall live. And I will lay vines upon you, and will cause leaves to grow upon your branches, and cover you with bark, and put breath in you, and you shall live.”

And lo! the pieces of wood arose, and were joined to each other like unto a huge tree-shaped Man, and a trembling passed through the branches. And all who were assembled there held their breath in expectancy. Yet nothing happened.

“Can someone fetch water?” the goddess asked.

Soregum, who had kept to the background, still feeling out of sorts and out of place, hurried to the brook which was conveniently located nearby. He doffed his hat and filled it with the clear water (well, it was clear until it was carried in that hat of his). At Yawanna’s command he then poured it on the earth round the Rent-Ent. She then again raised her hands in invocation, but still nothing happened.

Yawanna was troubled in spirit, for she could not imagine what had gone wrong. She ran her lovely green hands over the Ent-That-Was-Still-Broken, gently probing for a crack or some other sign that something was amiss.

“But – a piece is missing!” she cried out in anguish. “The Ent cannot be reunited if even a tiny bit is lacking!”

Merisuwyniel and her companions looked at each other and whispered desperately. ”Have we forgotten a piece somewhere? Can it have gotten lost in one of the continuity gaps? Did the long time of our journey cause us to forget a part? Is our whole Quest in vain?”

Suddenly, in the hour of their greatest need, Merisuwyniel remembered the last words of their valiant companion, Orogarn Two:

“Take this, and check out my lucky nickel! It will help you in your hour of need!”

Hurriedly, she rummaged through the pockets of her divided skirt (which were filled with a good many handy and necessary things, though they were never lumpy nor made her look fat). Finally she found Orogarn’s wallet, bequeathed to her as his last gift. She tossed out various IDs, receipts, and calling cards, including the Gold Tooth Card of Grundor (which Kuruharan helpfully picked up, “forgetting” to give it to her, upon which it mysteriously found its way into his pocket), before discovering some loose change. Puzzled, she searched for a nickel.

“There’s one!” she exclaimed. But it felt much too light for the usual metal coin. And the carving was not right somehow.

“Why, it’s wooden!” she cried out, astonished. She held it to her ear, motioning to her companions for silence, and heard a soft humming sound. “It must be Entish!”

Quickly she gave it to Yawanna, who inserted it into a tiny space, like unto a slot. And it came to pass that the Ent began to stir its branches and limber its limbs. The FinishedAtLastShip watched in amazement as eyes appeared among the leaves, and a mouth that opened to speak.

[Diamond18]

"Did you hear something?" Pimpi asked.

"Hear what?" Vogonwë replied.

"I'm not sure, it sounded like a little voice, far off, saying something."

"I didn't hear anything. Look, the Ent is coming to life."

"Yes, but--"

"Love, if you don't mind, I'm trying to pay attention."

"Well, fine, I just thought it might be Mogul coming back to life."

"Don't be absurd. Like that's ever going to happen."

"It might."

"Not in our lifetime. Now be quiet, the Ent is about to speak." They both fell silent, waiting expectantly.

For a very long time.

At length, Vogonwë added, "Or not."

Pimpi took that opportunity to speak upon the matter she had been stewing over; "You're telling me to be quiet? Oh, that's rich!"

"Pimpi--"

"Oh, look, a biscuit in my pocket...."

With that, she fell to munching quietly, and Vogonwë returned his attention to the fascinating thing that was happening. Or was about to happen. Or may happen somewhere in the near future. Okay, distant future. It might not happen at all, but in case it did, he returned his attention to it. Soon he fell asleep, and Pimpi finished her biscuit. Growing bored, she cut his hair with Hush and wove the shorn locks into a vest-coat the size of which could fit a small dog.

SOMEWHERE IN HAVANA

The night was sultry. An old gringo sat nursing a cup of hot chocolate spiked with cinnamon rum and a slice of lemon. A little dog, no heavier than a bread box, came scampering up and piddled on his shin -- he just grunted and took a sip of sweet, chocolaty lemon goodness.

"Oy," said the little dog. "Can I 'ave some o' that?"

"Get lost," grunted the gringo. "Can’t ye see I’m old and grumpy, wee little pooch?"

The little dog whined and pranced till the old man relented and poured a little puddle of chocolate out on the patio. The little dog lapped it up with its quick pink tongue. It looked up and said, "'At was right good, it 'twas. Now I only wish I 'ad a vest-coat of Elvish hair."

"What would ye want that for?" the gringo asked.

"Why, it's lucky, they say. If ye wear a vest-coat of Elvish hair, ye can fly."

At that moment, the finest vest-coat of soft brown Elvish hair fell from the sky and landed in the old gringo's cup of hot chocolate spiced with cinnamon rum (and a silce of lemon).

"Oy," said the little dog. "Can I 'ave that?"

"What makes ye think ye can 'ave it?" the gringo retorted. "Maybe I want to fly!"

"It won't fit ye! It's exactly the size of a small dog," the dog pointed its paw impatiently.

The gringo nodded, reluctance in his old eyes. "So it 'tis, so it 'tis. 'Ere ye go then, little one." He slipped it over the dog's wee little head, and buttoned the vest up good and proper. Before his wondering eyes, the little dog levitated from the ground, spun around three times, and spat up some pea soup, hot chocolate, two granola bars, a banana, and a twist of lime. Then it flew off into the night, never to be seen in those parts again.

MEANWHILE, BACK IN VALLEYUM

Pimpi awoke with a start and wiped drool from the corner of her mouth. "I had the strangest dream," she remarked, but it fell on deaf ears, for Vogonwë had progressed to snoring.

The Ent was still blinking (as it takes a terribly long time to blink in old Entish) and there was no sign of a certain incredibly hard to kill big baddy anywhere, so she cut off more of Vogonwë's hair and with it made macramé potholders for her trousseau.

[The Saucepan Man]

And still the Ent stood motionless, its mouth open, as if to speak. But the no voice issued forth from it. Instead, it emitted a peculiar gurgling, rattling, wheezing sound.

“Behold! The Ent that was Rent but now fully Extent lives!” cried Yawanna in joy.

“Are you sure, babe?” enquired Manuël Santana. “It doesn’t, like, sound too hot to me.”

“Well, it is bound to experience some shock after all this time,” replied the Green Goddess. “It’s only …”

But as she spoke, the Ent began to shudder and convulse, and the strange sound originating from it grew in intensity. And, just as the noise reached a crescendo, an object the size and shape of a large cucumber, a putrid, glistening pinkish-greenish ochre in colour, emerged from the Ent’s mouth and dropped to the ground, where it lay writhing blindly.

“Ew! Gross!” exclaimed Prada.

“Dude!” cried Mantoes and Tickle-me Ulmo in concert, high-fiving. “Uber-gross, man! Way to reuninfy!”

“Er, is that supposed to happen?” asked Howlie.

But Yawanna did not answer. Instead, maniacal laughter filled the air as, at a point some twenty feet above the stricken Ent, a patch of thick black smog appeared and slowly resolved itself into a recognisable, albeit rather twisted, form.

“You!” uttered Yawanna in disbelief.

“Yes, me,” replied Môgul Bildûr. For it was he.

It is fair to say that defeat on the field of battle had not done the Dread Developer any favours, aesthetically speaking. No longer was he able to assume the drop-dead gorgeous form of a roguish rock star. Rather, his face was misshapen, his eyes dark and sunken and what skin he had left was ashen grey and peeling prodigiously from his skeletal form. He floated there in mid-air, as though seated upon an invisible throne, the mangy white furry - er - thing, Heslob, perched on his bony knee.

“You look awful,” said Yawanna, stating the obvious.

“It is of no concern,” cackled Môgul insanely. “My power is not diminished.”

“But you have lost!” declared Merisuwyniel defiantly. “The Ent has become whole. And according to the ancient tale, you should, by all rights, now be kissing goodbye to your soul.”

“Ah, yes. You refer of course to my little brother’s little rhyming curse. Not one of his best, it has to be said.”

“Hey, dude, cut me a bit of a slack,” muttered an abashed Mantoes. “I was just starting out on the doom pronouncing gig back in those days.”

“No matter. The pertinent point is that the Ent is not whole. For it is unable yet to live and breathe. There are a number of – ah – obstructions within …”

“What do you mean?” ventured Yawanna weakly.

And, of course, Môgul, being the super-villain that he was, could not resist the opportunity to explain his fiendishly cunning scheme.

“Mwahaha!” he gurgled, by way of introduction. “You know, when you are forced to spend some of your time in beetle form, you get to make all kinds of interesting acquaintances. May I introduce you to a friend of mine?"

The ground began to shake and a low rumble, deep within the earth, could be heard. Rather disappointingly for Môgul, no one seemed unduly perturbed by this, as it was a common occurrence when he was around. But what happened next was altogether more disconcerting. Gradually, a pair of enormous, chitinous legs broke the surface of the ground, in front of where the Ent stood. As the shiny black limbs pushed the soil aside, they were followed by a grotesque head bearing a pair of evil-looking mandibles. Then a thorax, followed by a great dark brown abdomen and two more pairs of spindly legs. Eventually, the vile creature had heaved herself out from her tunnel and squatted menacingly before them, regarding the assembled company through two large compound eyes, antennae twitching malevolently.

“Behold Exfoliant!” exclaimed Môgul triumphantly.

None knew whence she had originally come, but some have said that in pages long before she had descended from the vagueness that lay around and about this thread, when Melvin had first dwelt in idle contentment with his breth/sist-ren in Valleyum, and that she had taken rather a shine to him. But he had rejected her, and she had removed herself to the great forests of southern Valleyum. Deep in the gloom she had made her lair, and taken shape as a deathwatch beetle of monstrous form. There she had chewed up all the trees and bushes and plants that lay about her, until the forests were no more and she was famished. And so it was that Môgul had sought her out when first he had escaped from the void. And he had tempted her ravenous hunger with stories of the great woodlands of Muddled-Mirth, and so enlisted her aid in his efforts to destroy the Ent to which his fate was tied.

Môgul turned his attention the Entish Questors.

“My persistent friends, you may be surprised to learn that there is a traitor among you. One who has been travelling with you, but who is in fact an agent in my service.”

The companions stared from one to the other in disbelief - save for one, who was desperately wishing that he was somewhere else entirely, preferably a nice Hobbit hole in the Mire, with a plate of hot crumpets and a pipeful of Mireboro Light.

“Step forward, Windsor Gummidge!” commanded the Dread Developer.

“Who?” enquired the majority of the Gallowship in unison.

“Perhaps he is better known to you as Soregum,” the Dread Developer continued.

“Who?” they all said again.

“Small fellow, so high, bad teeth, enormous belly, smells.”

“Oh him.”

“Soregum, how could you?” said Pimpiowyn, addressing him in a voice which was to him as an arrow through his heart.

“I always knew that he was up to no good,” declared Vogonwë, self-righteously.

Soregum, meanwhile, had turned quite the brightest shade of red that even he had managed yet to achieve and stood, frozen to the spot, overburdened with shame and quite unable to speak.

“You will have noticed that he has quite a fondness for the Halfling leaf,” continued Môgul. “In fact, he cannot do without the foul stuff. So I took the precaution of keeping him fully supplied with stock from Moredough. And I believe that he has been using your charming wagon within which to store it. What a pity that the weed was contaminated with the spawn of my dear friend, Exfoliant. And, of course, when the grubs ran out of pipeweed to feed upon, they moved on to the Entish pieces. They do so love wood, you know.”

All stood dumbfounded, staring at the poor Hobbit, their eyes piercing him like sharp blades.

“And so the accursed Ent is riddled with the writhing spawn of Exfoliant. They lurk within it now, awaiting her command. Just one word from me, and the Ent will be no more.”

“Yawanna!” cried Merisu. “What can we do?”

“Nothing. He has won,” she said bleakly. Then, turning to Môgul, she continued,” Then why not give the word? What is it that you want from us?”

“Simple, my dear. All I require is kingship over the lands of Muddled-Mirth. Valleyum I am content to grant to you, my breth/sistren, as a fiefdom, subject to a suitable tribute payable annually. Oh and I almost forgot. Mantoes must, of course, renounce the doom which he pronounced upon me. If you give me your agreement on this, the Ent will be returned to you, hale and healthy. If you do not, he is maggot fodder.”

There was a moment of silence. And then Manuël Santana, King of the Velour, stepped forth with an air of determination.

“Sounds good to me, man,” he grinned. “I’d say we have a deal.”

“Yeah, it’d, like, avoid a lot of fuss and nastiness,” agreed Prada.

“Melvin’s right, dude. The curse stinks,” said T-M Ulmo to Mantoes.

“Dude!” said Mantoes, high-fiving T-M Ulmo. “That’s harsh, man. But fair. It was, like, pretty lame. I suppose I could cancel it.”

“And you would get to keep the Ent, dear,” ventured Howlie.

“Then we are agreed,” said the Dread Developer smugly.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel’s lovely violet eyes filled with tears - very becomingly so, of course. Not for the first time did she wonder if all she had done, all her planning and effort on behalf of the Entish Bow, had been in vain. “It cannot be!” she cried out passionately.

“Hush, my dear,” Yawanna reproached her, causing Pimpiowyn to look up in puzzlement until she realized that, as her knife was not sentient, it could therefore not be the recipient of those words. “The Children should not interrupt when grown-up Velour are speaking among themselves.”

Merisu’s full crimson lips trembled most fetchingly at those harsh-sounding words. How could the Green Goddess turn her back on them? Of course, she cared about the Ent, and it looked like it was to achieve the whole life it had so long desired. But what of Muddled-Mirth? What good was it to save one Ent when all Nature would suffer under the cruel rule of the Dread Developer? “There must be some way to stop him!” she exclaimed.

Mantoes, who had been paging through his battered notebook, looking for the old curse in order to erase it, sighed. Even in speaking, the Elven maiden’s voice could not fail to charm him. He could only hope that she wouldn’t start singing, or he would melt as wax in her shapely hands. “Here it is,” he said to the others. “But – ”

“What’s wrong, dude?” Manuël asked.

“It’s indelible!” Mantoes gasped. “I can’t erase it! You wouldn’t think it now, but I was so brash and arrogant in my youthful days that I wrote everything in ink – crosswords, sudokus, dooms: once they were on paper, there was no turning back.”

“Can’t you cut the page out of your book? I can give you my nail scissors,” Chanessa offered helpfully.

“But there’s something really important on the back side of it,” Mantoes moaned. “My handy-dandy All Ages Chart of the Tides.”

The others nodded sympathetically, recognizing vital information when they heard of it. Môgul tensed, though it went unnoticed, as all were looking at Mantoes.

“Well,” said the ever pragmatic Vairsacë, “you could copy that chart onto a new page, then cut out the old one.”

This brilliant proposal was vigorously approved by the Velour. Estë-Lynn found a pen in her totebag, and Mantoes sat down to begin the task at hand.


Merisu could take it no longer. “What are you all thinking?” she accused. “You can’t give up like that! And even if you do, I won’t let it happen. Môgul must get what he deserves.” With those words, she unsheathed her sword and approached the ghastly figure valiantly. She managed to slash an “M” into his skin before Exfoliant turned to defend him. Before her comrades could come to her aid, she was pinned to the ground by huge mandibles. She gasped in pain as she felt them pierce her delicate skin. Then, as suddenly as the creature had assailed her, it withdrew again.

Yawanna stood there, holding a glowing green gem in her hand. Its rays were directed into the beetle’s eyes, and the foul creature writhed in pain.

“You are not ruler yet, Melvin,” she exclaimed, “and not here! Call your pet back until your time comes.”

Reluctantly, Môgul waved a skeletal hand to motion Exfoliant to his side.

“She looks hungry,” Yawanna mused. “I have a very special pipeweed stashed away here, on the holy mountain – for medicinal purposes only, of course. Perhaps she would like to try some?” She held out several leaves, almost hand-shaped, with long points, to the beetle. Greedily, it grasped the greens and stuffed them into its mouth.


In the meantime, Gravlox had hurried to his beloved’s side. He looked into her anguished eyes and saw the blood drops flowing from the sides of her head. Fortunately he was now in the habit of carrying clean handkerchiefs in his pockets, and he pressed one to each wound. “Your ears, your beautiful pointed Elven ears have been pierced,” he mourned. “Will those wounds ever heal?”


Exfoliant swayed from side to side, a blissfully vacuous look on her face, if insect expression could be interpreted correctly. A strange humming noise emanated from her bloated body, and those listening heard strange words with no context to make them intelligible. “Yellow submarine... four beetles... my friends... must go there...” She turned about as if searching for something, then tumbled down the mountain, into the sea, and was never seen again on the shores of Valleyum nor in Muddled-Mirth.


Yawanna looked at Môgul triumphantly. “That is what happens to those who destroy my children wantonly,” she said.

“Oh, but there are more of them in your wooden corpse,” he sneered. “You cannot rid the world of evil forever.”

“Perhaps not, but I can do more than you think,” she retorted. Leaning down to touch Merisuwyniel’s wounds and stop their bleeding, she picked up one of the improvised, blood-drenched bandages. She waved it at the still motionless Ent, and the wood began to vibrate. Yet alas, it was not a sign of life, but the movement of the foul spawn of Exfoliant. Hosts of beetles emerged from every crack in the wood, drawn by the scent of blood, and began to swarm toward the Paralyzed-in-Terror-Ship.

Yet they were stopped, for Yawanna stood before them, a flashing green gem in each hand. The rays blinded them and seared their flesh; soon they dropped to the ground, lifeless. Môgul watched aghast as he was bereft of the last of his allies. He gathered up the dark mists that surrounded him in an attempt to disappear. Yet the Green Goddess held him fast with the two rays, like unto a tractor beam. She motioned to Merisuwyniel, who arose and came to her side.

“Hold these jewels and make sure he doesn’t get away,” she admonished.

“But am I strong enough?” the Elven maiden hesitated.

“You now bear the marks of the sting of Exfoliant,” Yawanna informed her. “He can no longer harm you. But first, you must give back to me that artefact of mine which you hold in your possession.”

Puzzled, Merisu’s brow furrowed – becomingly, as always. “What on earth do you mean? I have nothing of yours.”

“Remember the white tower on the shores of Muddled-Mirth, and the globe which you took away ere it fell?” the goddess prompted her gently.

The Elven maiden blushed in shame. “Oh, that...” she murmured, rummaging through her pockets till she found the desired object.

Yawanna smiled. “Do not fear, for you did right to bring it here. This is the occasion for which it was created, and its purpose shall be fulfilled this day.”

She raised the glass orb in both hands, and the sun shone on it until it glowed with a fiery warmth in its depths. Mantoes, who had finally finished copying his chart, with many comments from his breth/sistren, ambled over to report, yet they were all stricken with silence as they perceived the import of what was happening. The Hopeful-At-Last-Ship watched with bated breath.

A clear, pulsating light shone from the globe, and as Yawanna turned toward the Ent-That-Was-Reunited-But-Not-Yet-Alive, its gleam seemed to reflect on the wood. Yet it was rather shining into the wood, into every crack that had been defiled by the vile creatures of evil, until all was purified and warmed by its light and its very sinews were knitted together again. A gentle breeze arose from whence none could tell, but it was whispered ever after that it must have been sent by Emu himself, for it caused the branches to shiver and and buds to awaken on its twigs.

With a gasp and a cough, the Ent began to breathe. Its eyes opened to reveal pools of green and golden depths, shining with ages of memory and long, slow, steady thinking, yet their surface was sparkling with the present. It felt as if something that grew in the ground had suddenly waked up. “Hrum, Hoom,” its voice murmured, a deep voice like a very deep woodwind instrument. “That was not hasty, and it was almost not hasty enough for me.”

The animated skeleton amidst the dark mists above their heads rose slowly to a great height like smoke from a fire. For a moment it wavered, then crumbled into a pile o’ bones and faded into a haunting spirit. Drawn inexorably by the force of the glowing globe, the Dread Developer ceased his earthly exploitations and was pulled inside the glass orb.

The holy mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill trembled and quaked at this monumental event, and its peak did open to reveal fiery depths. In measured steps, the goddess walked to its very brink, holding the globe, then she dropped it into the bottomless chasm. It sank with a series of bubbles and was gone.

“Now, where were we?” Yawanna said brightly.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel gazed upwards at the tall Ent looming before her. She felt shy in his presence, as if he were a complete stranger. This was no longer the familiar Bow she had carried so long, but a huge, tree-like personage with a history that reached back into the depths of time, long before her birth. The sonorous voice was so different from the wooden sound which she had often heard, or the flow of thoughts to which she was accustomed. And yet, in the depths of his eyes she saw a spark of recognition, and his mouth opened to speak to her.

“Come here, Little One!” he boomed. “Reach out and feel my bark – I do not bite!”

She stretched her hand out slowly, and was suddenly lifted high into the air by two strong branches. There she perched, close to the Ent’s face. She touched his rough cheek gently, and his thoughts flooded her mind. It was her Ent, different, larger, as if he had grown since she had last been with him, yet they knew each other well. She basked in the knowledge of his friendship and deep gratitude for all she had ventured for him. Yes, it had been a difficult, dangerous, and long path that she and her companions had taken, but it was well worth every effort.

Tears of joy flowed down her lovely face, and her shapely lips opened in laughter. And lo, the FinishedAtLastShip laughed with her, and all the Velour joined in just for the fun of it. Then in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold (well, not quite, as it was only Vogonwë, but at that moment everything sounded good to them!), and Pimpiowyn waved Hush. And their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.

Then Merisu and --- *, for that was the Ent’s short name, for the use of mere mortals and other time-pressed creatures, having communed with one another, strode to the place where Yawanna stood and bowed deeply before her.

“Truly,” Merisuwyniel said, “you have proven yourself worthy of praise, for you have conquered our foe and helped us in our greet need.” Thus she raised her voice and began to sing, and all others who were present joined in with her:

“Long live the Green Goddess! ** Praise her with great praise!
Praise her, for she has conquered the Dread Developer!
Praise her, for she has reunified the Ent That Was Rent!
Praise her with great praise!”

And they bowed down in reverence, the representatives of the Free Peoples of Muddled-Mirth – all races and combinations thereof. And the Velour bowed down in shame, for they realized that she alone had dared to accomplish what they had neglected, whether out of laziness, or selfishness, or mere thoughtlessness.

And lo! Yawanna blushed a deep and most becoming shade of green. She took Merisu’s hand and bade her rise, reminding all with words too wondrous to tell of the Elven maiden’s faithfulness, loyalty, and endurance.

“You have been wounded,” she said, “and even I have not the power to heal wounds afflicted by that base and foul creature, Exfoliant. But I will adorn your wounds, so that they will be honoured for all time.” With those words, she took her beautiful emerald earrings and held them out to Merisuwyniel.

Merisu also blushed, though her cheeks turned rosy, not green. She hesitated, not only to accept such a generous gift and great honour, but also because she realized that she wasn’t sure if she could wear emeralds. After all, green was not the colour most prevalent in her wardrobe.

Yawanna smiled, for she knew the maiden’s thoughts. “Fear not,” she said. “These gems were created by my spouse Howlie, and though they shine green when I hold them, he captured the rainbow in them, and their colour will always match your own lovely eyes and the raiment you wear.” She fastened them in the holes Exfoliant had pierced in the Elf’s graceful ears, and they glowed amethyst, a shade which perfectly enhanced the colour of her beautiful eyes without detracting from them.

And all of the PraiseShip and the Velour sang out,

“Praise Merisuwyniel with great praise!”

Since the praise continued, with each member of the MutualAdmirationShip being lauded for the deeds he or she had done, and the Velour finding something to praise in themselves as well, we need not pay close attention to this scene, dear reader, but can tiptoe away in relief that the story is almost finished....



*The name of the Ent will be added as soon as inspiration strikes – or lightning, whichever comes first.

**Of course we know that the Velour are immortal, so wishing one of them a long life is redundant, but the traditional formulas aren’t meant to be taken literally anyway.

[The Saucepan Man]

Across Muddled-Mirth, the forces of Môgul Bildûr tumbled in the wake of his final defeat. At the Mines of Trebor, the Orcish interlopers staggered about blindly in their confusion, leaderless and without direction, falling easy prey to the returning Dwarven host. In Topfloorien, the Deeds of Sale and Leaseback granted in favour of the Dread Developer lapsed and the Elves reclaimed the malls of the Salad Realm once more for themselves. In Grundor, where General Gzzmmmphllgg stood ready to launch a final, decisive assault on Minus Teeth while the Proctor neglected its defences to mourn the loss of his heir, the sun broke through the dark clouds that hung over the Wight City and scattered the host of Moredough to the four winds. In the Land of Dodgy Dealings itself, the Thingwraiths’ rehearsal of the musical number that they had planned to mark their Master’s victorious return was hastily cancelled, as the Tower Block of Barát-Höm crumbled to dust, the Red Nostril atop it twitching and sneezing as it fell.

Back in Valleyum, the Eagles of Manuël Santana soared over the Hotel Valleyfornia and on to Mount Tan-Quickly-Hill, bringing tidings of the liquidation of Môgul Enterprises LLC and the collapse of its dominant position in Muddled-Mirth. And so the celebrations were redoubled and great praise was heaped once more on the Rather-Pleased-With-Themselves-Ship.

Yet there was one who did not join in the celebrations and upon whom no praise was bestowed. His humiliation complete, Soregum sat glumly apart from the company reflecting on the ruin of his miserable life. And at that moment, just as he thought that things could get no worse, Manuël Santana addressed the assembled throng.

“My breth/sistr-en, noble Entish Questors and fellow victors,” he said, subtly yet shamelessly seizing a share in the credit for Môgul’s defeat. “There is one matter that remains unresolved. And that is the question of what to do with the Dread Developer’s accomplice and partner in crime. I speak of the Hobbit dude, Windsor Gummidge.”

“Perhaps, if we just like totally ignore him, he’ll go away,” suggested Estë-Lynn.

“But it’s like totally the law that any loose ends must be tied up when a big evil boss dude is defeated” explained Prada.

“My business partner will be only too delighted to tie up this particular loose end - for a modest fee,” piped up Kuruharan, as Chrysophylax hungrily eyed the quaking Hobbit.

“Or we could just throw him off the side of the mountain,” added Vogonwë uncharitably.

“The law decrees,” intoned Mantoes, adopting the grave tone reserved for his formal declarations, “that accomplices of Dark Lords and the like must meet their end either at the hands of their Master or in unwittingly bringing about their Master’s defeat. And it is further decreed that, if neither such circumstance prevails, then said accomplice will spontaneously expire at the very moment their Master is defeated.”

“If I may make a small observation,” said Sueim, stepping forward and dusting down his gown. “None of those events has occurred. The Dread Developer is well and truly defeated, yet Soregum remains intact. Would that not suggest that a degree of clemency may be appropriate in this case?”

“Er, like, I dunno man,” replied Mantoes. “It’s never happened before. Is there anyone present who will speak on the Halfling‘s behalf?”

“Yes,” declared an Elvish voice, yet tinged with a hint of Orcishness. “I will.”

All eyes turned to Gravlox, for it was he who had spoken.

“I stand as living proof,” continued Gravlox, “that redemption is possible, however evil a life one has led previously. There are many here who have followed the wrong path, but have since seen the error of their ways. Leninia once lured lost travellers to her Marrow Bones pad, there to feast upon their souls. But she has been accepted willingly into our company and proved her worth. The Gateskeeper too was previously an agent of Môgul, yet renounced the sign of the Cloz'd-Dheal and has served the Questors well. Sueim, the Loyer formerly known as Grrralph, was once a Thingwraith in the service of evil, yet I would have been lost without his advocacy. And Kuruharan – er – um – well, perhaps not. Still, my point stands.”

“I dig your vibes man, but the Halfling dude almost brought about a calamity of like mega proportions,” observed T-M Ulmo.

“He’s like totally gross, too,” added Chanessa. “The world would be a better place without little, fat, ugly dudes like him around.”

“And what exactly has he done to make him worthy of redemption?” enquired Hornme.

“He saved the life of Pimpiowyn,” ventured Merisuwyniel, joining her beloved in his stand. “When the Troll Chief was sure to crush the life from her.”

“He did?” exclaimed Pimpi in surpise. “Vogie, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Um, I forgot, my dear,” mumbled an abashed Vogonwë.

“Cool! That works,” declared Mantoes. “One more thing, though. Someone will need to stand as surety, to guarantee his future good behaviour.”

“I will,” replied Gravlox. “He shall serve as my squire, if that’s acceptable to you, my love.”

“Of course,” said Merisu.

“OK, I hereby declare the Hobbit dude, Windsor Gummidge, formally redeemed for a probationary period of five years,” said Mantoes. “Subject to good behaviour during that period, said redemption shall become permanent.”

And, as Mantoes spoke, Soregum began to undergo a remarkable transformation. The years of misery and shame in the service of the Dark Lord of Moredough fell away from him. His hair softened and turned a warm shade of chestnut brown. The creases on his face were erased and his cheeks acquired a healthy glow. In place of his yellowed teeth and blackened gums, there appeared a magnificent white dental array. And his pot belly contracted to the merest bulge. He was a young Hobbit once more. Not for nothing was Mantoes renowned throughout Valleyum for his profitable sideline in cosmetic enhancement.

Soregum no longer, Windsor Gummidge bowed to the Velour and then knelt before Gravlox, planting his short sword, now gleaming, in the ground.

“Sire, I thank you for the service that you have done me,” he said, “and pledge to serve you and Mistress Merisuwyniel to the best of my abilities.

And as he spoke, the last traces of Orcishness drained from Gravlox, the mercy and nobility that he had shown completing his own redemption and rehabilitation.

It was a touching and beautiful scene, marred only slightly by the sound of a nauseous Kuruharan retching in the background.

[Diamond18]

And so then began the joyous celebration phase of the soaring climax. This required much feasting, dancing, feasting, singing, feasting, charades, feasting, and an all night Parcheesi tournament. The Velour and the MotleyCrewShip mingled freely for a time in the euphoria that comes from partaking of a Doubly Delectable Death by Chocolate Pudding Cake, and all were really deliriously happy.

Manuël himself was so giddy with the success of the rockin’ party that he got out his guitar and treated his fellow sentient beings to a jam session. Those who were not too dignified or jaded to do so danced and cheered as he got his groove on, and by the end he was feeling so exceedingly grooved that he made this noble proclamation:

“Like, dudes! And dudettes! It’s been a really non-bogus night, and I hope you’re all having an excellent time! This most excellent party couldn’t have happened without the help of you, our little friends from Muddled-mirth! And so, I, Manuël Santana, like, do hereby grant you all one wish, except for the hobbit-dude who already got more favors than he deserved!”

(This was well and good, since Windsor would probably have wished that an unfortunate accident befall Vogonwë in such a manner that Pimpi might be left in need of comfort, and Manuël, honoring his most non-heinous proclamation, would have rather heinously pushed Vogy off a cliff.)

Anyway, there was much cheering in the face of this proclamation. Unfortunately, since everyone was a bit punch drunk with the festivities, many of the Itship made silly and frivolous wishes. Leninia asked for a pair of shoes like Prada wore. The Gateskeeper yearned after a pair of rhinestone studded horn-rimmed glasses. Gravlox asked for a mirror. Reeperneep desired that another battle await him in the future. Halfempton hoped that he might have more face time if another battle should await him in the future. Kuruharan asked for many gullible and rich people to come his way. Chrysopholax wished that those people be fat and young. Sueim wished that certain people who insisted on calling him Grralph would just stop.

Merisu, alone did not make a wish, for she had everything she could hope to wish for right here: her beloved, better-than-the-last-model Gravlox, and her unrent Ent. Also it made her exceedingly happy to see all her friends exceedingly happy, so she could not think of anything to make it better. Yes, she is really quite cute and selfless, isn’t she?

Pimpiowyn of all Itshippers had enough presence of mind to remember that she and Vogonwë had come to Valleyum for more than just opportunities for epic poems and shieldmaidenry. In a piece of ridiculously good luck, it just so happened that they had come with a request for Manuël (which in all the hoo-fla-fla surrounding Mogûl and the Ent, had been put on the back burner. Waaaaaay on the back burner.)

“Manuël, sir, or dude,” she said respectfully, “my fiancé and I have a wish for you.”

“Yes, I would like to write the best poe--”

“Not that,” Pimpi hissed, silencing her true love with a well placed elbow. “Vogonwë here is half-elven, and would like to request you grant him permanently the immortality of an Elf.”

“Actually, I think I would rather write the best poe--”

“AND I, as his fiancée, would like to request that we both be allowed to stay in Valleyum, he as an Elf and me as an Elf-friend.”

“Done and, like, done!” declared Manuël jovially.

“Oooh, is there going to be, like, a wedding?” Prada gushed. “I just love weddings! Do you need a wedding planner? I love planning weddings! We could have another party celebrating the wedding!”

“Another party? Dudette! Rock ooooon!” Manuël said, and played an enthusiastic riff on his guitar.

And lo! throughout the Velour the news traveled that tomorrow would see another gratuitous celebration, and as each heard the news each gave each other high fives and exclaimed, “Dude/tte! Excellent! Party on!”

*

Morning dawned to find the Itshippers and Velour alike sadder and wiser, except for Pimpi and Chrysopholax, who were both ready for a healthy breakfast. Luckily for Pimpi there was enough food on hand to satisfy the most voracious of Dragons and Half-Halfthing things alike, though were it came from exactly and who prepared it was a mystery left unsolved due to apathy.

While Vogonwë moaned and worried what vast quantities of Doubly Delectable Death by Chocolate Pudding Cake would do to his pristine Elvish complexion, Pimpi set about the important task of Planning the Wedding. She wrote out invitations for every last Itshipper, even the ones who had died or were otherwise absent. Getting the invitations to these lost members proved rather difficult, as they were dead or otherwise absent. But, resourceful little holbytla that she was, she did not let this stop her.

She went out early that morning to Tan-Quickly-Hill, armed with a pair of invitations, a brandy tumbler, and a bottle of spirits. She ceremoniously filled the tumbler with brandy and dipped an invitation to Earnur Etceteron therein, then set it on top of Orogarn Two’s tombstone, pinning his invitation underneath lest the wandering wind blow it away. Then, the insane little half-halfing nodded in satisfaction of an utterly pointless and morbid job well done.

The tumbler sat on Orogarn Two’s tombstone for many years, until one day some hapless Elf came along and drank from it. Soon after he died in paroxysms of gut-wrenching pain, because everyone knows that to drink brandy off the tombstone of a Hero is in bad taste, and therefore cursed.

Pimpi, not knowing the fate that would befall this poor unnamed lout because of her symbolic actions, whistled happily as she went and delivered the invitations to the rest of the Itship.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

So lively had been the celebrating during the evening that none noticed the gradual withdrawal of two persons. Merisuwyniel and Gravlox conversed in low tones, for though they had seen each other in the fray of battle and during the tempestuous events that followed, they had not had opportunity to speak with one another privately. There was much to relate, for each wanted to know what the other had experienced during their separation, yet they felt a bit hesitant after such a long time. Had their love survived despite all that had happened?

Merisu gazed at Gravlox shyly; after she had seen his orcish face for so long in her memory and her dreams, it was strange to behold the handsome Elf that stood before her. Not that she objected, of course, but she felt some slight uncertainty when they were alone. He smiled at her, and his eyes reassured her with their familiar warmth. Then he moved closer to her and gathered her into his arms, reassuring her that he was truly risen from the dead. His hands caressed the soft material of her sleeves reassuringly (yes, she was wearing her beautiful Topfloorien gown, the one with the blue diaphanous material, embroidered as with stars), then moved to warm her back, which was covered with too little fabric to ward off the evening chill.

After a time, it seemed to be a good idea to find a more comfortable position for further, umm, reassuring words. Then words ceased and the curtain of darkness covered their own personal version of reunification.

Much, much later Merisu murmured, “Darling, do you think we should make that a double wedding tomorrow?”

“Not necessary,” Gravlox answered. “I had time to take a course in ‘Elven customs and laws’ while staying at Mantoes’ halls, and we Elves marry by simply, well, consummating our union. So we’ve actually been married a long time.”

“But what about your first marriage?” she asked, puzzled by the legal complications of his changed identity.

“Well, she divOrced me, so I was single again, then died, so I was a widower. Then we were together before I died, so I think that would constitute a marriage,” he went on.

“Then I was a widow all this time?” Merisu gasped. “Why, I should have been wearing mourning!”

“I’m sure black would have looked fetching on you, my dear,” he answered gallantly, “but it would be a shame to see you so somber. You look loveliest the way you are right now.”

She blushed, for her attire was rather scant at that moment. Or perhaps the rose that tinted her cheeks so becomingly was due to the rising of the sun.

“At any rate,” Gravlox chuckled, “there’s no doubt of our Elven marital status after this night! Now we should consider whether we wish to have a family.”

Merisu blushed again. “Not necessary,” she whispered. “We already are...”

[Kuruharan]

Kuruharan simply couldn’t take anymore of this. He’d already regurgitated everything he’d had to eat for the past three months. If Merisuwyniel’s hushed confession turned out to be what he was afraid it might be…he’d probably have a bout so severe as to cause him to retroactively starve to death. (Of course, he wouldn’t have been in this position if he hadn’t followed them in the first place in hopes that he might overhear something worthy of blackmail, or at least get some good pictures with a strange picture-box he’d bought in the Seventh Age…)

Suppressing his gorge, he tramped into the idyllic silvan glen and confronted the startled lovers.

”EEEEEEKKKKK!!!!”

Kuruharan affected to ignore their…ahem…state and looked down the mountain and toward the sea.

“Magnificent view,” he said to the world in general.

Merisuwyniel ran up and tried to slap him, but he leapt aside.

“For some reason,” said Kuruharan, “I’m having the most curious sense of déjà-vu. I believe we’ve done this scene before (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=197811&postcount=179)."

The irritation in Merisuwyniel’s heart suddenly dissipated into sadness and solemnity. She knew what the dwarf was about now. Annoying as he could be, she had a sinking feeling that life might prove just a shade…duller without the dwarf and his dragon.

There was another long moment of staring out to sea.

“It’s odd how things work out,” observed Kuruharan. “The last time Earnur was with you and Gravlox was…ahhh…quite dead. Now Earnur is dead and Gravlox is with you.”

“What are you implying?” said Merisuwyniel.

“Some people might think that you are bad luc…I mean, that Gravlox is a lucky, lucky orc…elf!!!” said Kuruharan hurriedly.

“You’re not even going to stay for Pimpi’s and Vogonwë’s wedding?” asked Merisuwyniel.

“Ummm…I’ve suddenly had my fill of elven wedding customs,” said Kuruharan. "I’m not sure I really want to. Besides, I’ve got this whole dramatic flying off into the sunrise thing planned and I’d really hate to miss it.”

There was a flurry of activity as Kuruharan made his announcement to the rest of the Gallowship. The news that the Gallowship were to see the first successful live escapee…uhhh…survivor…no…departure filled them with sadness. To further the melancholy, Reeperneep announced that he too would be accompanying the dwarf on his further adventures. When asked what those would be the glorious mouse only said that it had something to do with club bouncing…or was it a bouncing club…or something like that.

When all was loaded (including some of the watchers), Reeperneep took his station perched between Chrysophylax’s horns. He wore an expression of keen anticipation. He’d known that seeking the end of the world in the west would prove to be utter nonsense! Now they were heading in the right direction!! Eastward HO!!!

Kuruharan stood next to the dragon. He looked exactly the way he had the first time they had seen him. He still had neatly brushed light brown hair and beard, and twinkling blue-gray eyes. His clothes were still (somehow) very sharp. He still wore his cloak of the deepest crimson with silver fringe. Under that he still wore a full length coat of dark blue with gold embroidery along the edge. His tunic was still spotless and as red as a cherry, with more gold embroidery. He wore a gold belt with an axe thrust into it, and his boots were impeccably polished. On a gold chain around his neck he still wore a large golden dragon pendent. He either hadn’t aged a day or somebody had gone back to the original thread and cut and paste the same exact text and plopped it down here!

If the Gallowship hadn’t known any better, they’d have thought everything that had happened had been a dream and that he’d just landed back in the Hidden Farm…oh, how long ago was it…? It looked exactly the same…well, except for the fact that they were on a different continent, the fact that a fair portion of the individuals who had been present at that original introduction were dead through the ravages of war or the heroic over-consumption of alcohol, the fact that there were a number of odd new additions to the group (not the least of which was the mouse perched on the dragon’s horns), the fact that most of the surviving members of the Gallowship had married each other, the fact that they were surrounded by Velour…oh yes, and the fact that the Ent-That-Was-Broken was Broken no more! Other than all that (and maybe a few other things I’ve forgotten), everything was exactly the same!

There was another long pause.

“Well,” said Kuruharan, figuring there was nothing else for it, “here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea…”

“We’re not on the seashore,” interrupted Pimpi.

“brahum…” sputtered Kuruharan. “Here at last, dear friends, on the sides of the Mountain comes the end of our Gallowship in Muddled-mirth…”

“We’re not in Muddled-mirth,” interrupted Vogonwë.

“Ugh!” snapped Kuruharan. “Here at last, on the sides of the Mountain comes the end of our Gallowship in Valleyum!! There happy now?!! I would say ‘do not weep’ but I know that you just won’t be able to help it!”

With those words of benediction, the dwarf climbed onto the dragon and they were aloft.

There was much waving of hands and wishing of farewell as dwarf, dragon, and mouse rose to the clouds and set off.

Merisuwyniel just couldn’t resist getting in the last shot.

“Muddled-mirth is in the other direction, you IDIOT!!!”

After a sudden course correction from west to east, some embarrassed staring off in the other direction, and pretending he’d meant to do that…there was a last round of waving ta-ta as the Gallowship watched the trio soar through the skies until all sight of them was lost in the sunrise.

I suppose you probably want to know what happened to them after they got back.

They got back. Kuruharan used his gaming license to re-establish the great kingdom of Hazard-boom. He expanded the resorts and casinos until they exceeded in size and gaudiness even those of the Ancient Days. He also made King Gain Lotsamoola an offer he couldn’t refuse and got a hefty share of the take from the Trebor Resort and Casino. Reeperneep signed on as Kuruharan’s hired muscle and enjoyed a life of continually getting into brawls, battles, and total wars. However, he was always agitating that they hadn’t “gone far enough east!!” Chrysophylax received a franchise and set up his own shop in the Wight Mountains above Minus Teeth and preyed upon the hapless Grundorians who were still devastated at the destruction of their fair city. He also got into an unseemly brawl with Lord Dimli of the Glitzy Caverns Resort and Casino…but litigation is still pending in that case and the judge has placed a gag order.

However, from time to time, these three would occasionally get bored and go rampaging about the landscape again looking for adventure…so you just never know when they might turn up again…likely as not, they probably found some of their old friends someplace or maybe they’ll turn up in your story sometime! ;)

[Diamond18]

“Oh well,” said Pimpi, crossing three names off the guest list, “more food for the rest of us, I suppose. Vogy, have you given any thought to who you want as your best man?”

“My best what?”

“Best man. Or elf, I suppose. It’s a human custom, don’t you know anything about that half of your heritage?"

“Er. I have learned a little from you, my dear, and the likes of Orogarn Two and Lord Etceteron, but I’ve never attended a human wedding.”

“Oh for pity’s sake. Well, the bride and groom each have a friend stand up with them. I’m going to ask Merisu to be my maid of honor. Or matron of honor. I’m a little confused about that. But anyway, you need a best male-of-the-species to stand up for you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the custom.”

“Well...” Vogonwë seemed unduly adverse to the idea, and suggested, “what about hobbit wedding customs? Can’t we follow those instead?”

“Unless you want to do the Pumpkin Shoe Dance, no.”

“Well, I’m half-elven. We could just do it the Elvish way... you don’t even need witnesses for that....”

“No! We’re having a proper wedding!” Pimpi insisted. “One that’s followed by a big feast. Now go ask someone to be your best man. Maybe Gravlox will do it.”

“Are you insane? I killed Gravlox, and I let the dragon eat his pet bunny.”

“But it’s a new day and all is forgiven.”

“Look, maybe he’s not out for revenge, but you just don’t ask someone you killed to be your best man. Er, best orc.” He took a long look at Gravlox, who was canoodling with Merisu across the glen, and said, “Or maybe best elf. Whatever it is that he is nowadays.”

“But--”

“I’m not asking Goldilox over there to stand up in my wedding, and that’s final!”

“Fine. Windsor then.”

“No!”

“Why not? He saved my life, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a big hero. I don’t want that short little twerp as my best man.”

“Best hobbit,” Pimpi correctly haughtily. “And need a remind you that I too was once short, before I ate the magic beans?”

“Never that short,” Vogonwë insisted petulantly.

“You have something against short people?”

“I have nothing against short people. ‘Twerp’ was, I believe the operative word in that declaration.”

“Fine. Be that way. I’m not going to argue with you anymore. Pick someone to be your best man, I’ll be over there asking Merisu to be my maid of honor.” With that, Pimpi flounced off.

Vogonwë pouted for a few minutes, and then wrote sullen poetry for the next half hour, while Pimpi and Merisu, giggling like schoolgirls, went off to find a wedding gown for the bride.

He was working on a bitter haiku when Halfemption ambled up and read over his shoulder:

If Kuru was here
I could just pay him to stand
Up as my best dwarf

“Very bitter,” Hal remarked. “Nice.”

“Hey, Hal!” said Vogy, brightening. “I forgot you were here. What are you, exactly?”

“That’s a good question,” answered Hal. “Hold on a moment while I go find out.”

He walked away and was gone for several minutes, digging into his genealogical information, (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=360135&postcount=223) and presently returned, declaring decisively, “I am a half-half-elf, or quarter-elf, if you will.”

“That’s great. Would you like to stand up in my wedding as the best-half-half-or-quarter-elf?”

A small tear glistened in the corner of Hal’s eye, and he said, “How kind of you to ask. What an honor. Best-half-half-or-quarter-elf? Me? But, surely you jest.”

“I have never been more serious in my life.”

“I’ll do it,” Halfemption said, and gave Vogy’s hand a hearty shake. “Shall I also make a toast at the reception?”

Vogonwë gave it a moment’s thought and asked, “Is that the custom?”

“Um, yes.”

“Then I think you’d better.”

“Splendid, I shall go work on that right now,” said Hal, and went off happy in the knowledge that he was currently a valued member of the Itship. Several years on an island can do that to a person.

*

Pimpi and Merisu, meanwhile, were digging through their trunks in search of Pimpi’s favorite gown.

“Pimpiowyn,” Merisu asked thoughtfully after a moment, elbow deep in taffeta. “Are you quite happy with your situation?”

“Eh?” asked Pimpi, untangling an old pair of socks. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I just noticed that you and Vogy were fighting over something before. And it worried me,” replied Merisu with sweet concern. “You see, Gravlox and I never fight, or have disagreements, or elbow each other in the ribs. Ours is a romantic, lovey-dovey sort of relationship, and I cannot imagine being truly happy unless I were completely smack-faced in love with my intended.”

“Well that’s easy to explain. You’re an elf. I’m half hobbit. We’re the pragmatic sort.”

“Yes, I suppose. I just want to know that you are completely happy.”

“I am. This is my pragmatic hobbit version of being smack-faced in love. And besides, I’ve gotten so used to Vogy’s annoying bits -- the poetry, the insufferable elven haughtiness, the petulance, the.... er, what was I saying?”

“You’ve gotten used to all that.”

“Yes, I’ve gotten so accustomed to it that even his annoying bits are a like a comfortable old shoe. If I wore shoes. But anyway, if we should part I would miss even the worst of his poems. That, and if I found someone new I’d have to get used to all his annoying bits too.”

“Well. That’s... inspiring.”

“Isn’t it?” Pimpi smiled. “Oh! And look, here’s my dress!”

With a flourish she pulled out her favorite gown. It was the gorgeous gown that Lord Celery had bought her, oh so many years ago, in Topfloorien. A dress of black velvet, cut low at the neck, adorned with ribbons of golden embroidery, with flowing, gauzy, fluid, filmy, flimsy, diaphanous, gossamer, sheer, tiffany, ethereal, preternaturally gosh darn beautiful red sleeves falling gracefully to the ground and of a width and length that made any practical action of the wearer nearly impossible.

And this description is in no way cut and pasted from any previous post of any kind. Honestly!

*

The time finally came for the wedding, and Manuël Santana got out his Ever Lovin’ Guitar Strap (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v226/sarahlitarose/everlovinguitarstrap.jpg) for them to swear their vows by. It was a magnificent piece of leather, decorated with seashells, and all present gasped as one to behold its magnificence.

“Like, dude/ttes! Now the bride and groom will, like, exchange the totally groovy vows they both have written.”

Vogonwë, in an extreme fit of nervousness, forgot his vows and was forced to sheepishly dig through his pockets to find the scrap of paper he’d composed them on. He unfolded the crinkled paper, now damp from his sweaty palms (really, some days it just does not pay to be half-human) and cleared his voice.

“Oh I'm a lucky fella,
I'm a lucky boy,
I've got a new umbrella,
And it's me pride and joy!”

“What the...?” Pimpi said indignantly.

“Eep,” eeped Vogy. “Wrong scrap of paper. That’s, um, a children’s rhyme I was working on. Hold on a moment.”

He rifled through his pockets some more, but when he could not find his vows, he succumbed to a panic attack and fainted rather ignobly. Halfemption, fulfilling his duties as best-half-half-or-quarter-elf quite admirably, caught him in time to prevent him from cracking open his noggin on the ground.

“Smelling salts!” Pimpi cried, and an unknown personage helpfully provided her with some. She waved it under the groom’s nose, and he sputtered to life.

“Maybe we should, like, dispense with the personalized vows and just go with the usual,” suggested Manuël, and Pimpi agreed.

“Groovy. So, dude, repeat after me. ‘I, Vogonwë Brownbark, Son of Geppetuil, Elven-party-king and third cousin of Thranduil, thrice removed, do take Pimpiowyn Took, daughter of Éohorse Son of Needahorse, a Valiant Man of the Mike, to be my lawfully wedded wife, and I do solemnly swear by the ever lovin’ guitar strap of Manuël Santana, that I will love and cherish her for as long as we both shall live.’”

“Mama?” croaked Vogonwë. “Why are you sleeping in the dishwater? Mama? Can you hear me?”

Pimpi looked at the smelling salts dubiously.

“Duuuuude, just say ‘I do’,” Manuël said with a sad shake of his head.

“I do.”

“Groovy. Do you, Pimpiowyn Took, take this pathetic heap of half-elvenness to be your lawfully wedded husband, etc. etc.?”

“I do,” said Pimpi.

“Excellent! I now pronounce you, like, totally hitched!” Manuël played a riff on his guitar, and the deal was sealed. “Now, let’s paaaaaaaaaaaaaaar-tay!”

[Rimbaud]

And now, indeed, after an exceptionally lengthy guitar solo and a couple of impromptu line-dances, it was Hal’s turn to stand and make a brief speechlet.

Sadly, he failed in this endeavour, and produced a speech so mind-blowingly dull, long-winded and only tenuously connected with the nuptials at hand that it lulled the assembled into a stupefied silence. Here I will provide brief excerpts from this turgid tumescence of language; the most edifying and indeed edible selections of his pun-strewn prose.

“Pimpiowyn Took and Vogonwë,” he started promisingly, but it sank faster than a Pop Idol runners-up career after that. “Pimpi and Vogy. Pimps, and if you’ll allow me, the Voganator.” Here he paused, as if to let these mellifluous introductions float like scum on top of the placid, village pond of proceedings.

“So, yes,” he restarted. “Quite. Marriage. Getting hitched. The big knot-tying-thang. Yeah. Well, we all have to say after the ceremony that we’ve all just…enjoyed, that the two of them are distinctly more married than they were before. Definitely moving up the scale of being-marriedness. Hic!”

The audience began to shift, restlessly. It is, as many authors have failed to point out, rather difficult to shift in your seat without an attitude approaching restlessness, but still. Or, not still.

“Very suited to each other these two,” went on Hal, relentlessly. “Pimpi is strong, ambitious and loves a challenge – and Vogonwe is that challenge!” he looked up expectantly. Not a titter.

Hal launched into a couple of anecdotes about his late brother, and also some about the deceased Halfullion. His other brother arrived just in time to hear the end of these. Nobody seemed remotely interested.

“Knock Knock?” he cried.

“Who’s there?” replied one person in the audience, flatly.

“Control freak. Now you say control freak who!” cried Hal triumphantly. “Hahahahahahaha! Woo! Hic! Um, sorry. So, what is it with Seinfeld? There are all these clips where someone starts off with 'so what is it about...?'" And so on.

Eventually, Pimpi threw a particularly well-baked scone with such hobbit-power that Hal stopped talking and the party got into full-swing again.

However, sadly for all concerned, Hal awoke shortly after, to complete his toast.

“And I’d just like to say,” he slurred. “That of all the people I’ve seen get married, these are two that I really consider myself to have…met.”

There was some small smattering of applause, and Hal lurched over to latch on to one of the horror-struck bridesmaids for the rest of the evening.

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper, his robes re-whitened by the gracious Yawanna (who graciously forgave him for the unfortunate accident so long ago), watched the matrimonial proceedings with a joy he’d seldom experienced as a second-rate bad-guy. It was a novel experience to be part of a team in which you did not need to watch your teammates with as much acuity as your opposition -- in which advancement was based on accomplishment and not assassination. It was a bit like being exiled from the cast of Dawson’s Creek. But such thoughts occupied the minds of no one except the poor slob transcribing this history. Especially when it’s time to PAR-TAY!!

And you can only imagine the party that can be thrown by almost-all-powerful semi-demigods. The food was all that Pimpiowyn could have ever hoped for, in quality and quantity, and yet as in her Mogul-induced fantasy she gained not a pound. Vogonwe composed and recited poem after poem, but the wines that Yawanna provided not only gave him tolerable talent but gave everyone else the ability to ignore him at will – and best of all, there were no hangovers! Leninia even tried to compose some music to accompany him, but without the Entish Guitar, her heart wasn’t really in it, and she wandered off to a corner table to introspect. Halfemption had to be carried off when he tripped over the light fantastic and sprained an ankle. The Reunified-And-Very-Grateful Ent even took a turn on the dance floor with Merisu, but he had two left roots, and afterwards it was all she could do to hide her limp so as not to make the Ent feel too badly.

As for Gateskeeper, Hal’s toast had given him a marvelous opportunity to catch up on some badly-needed rest. However, once everyone came out of their stupor and the party hit the dance floor, Gateskeeper, remembering the unfortunate accident with Yawanna in ancient times and thus anxious to avoid dancing at all costs, volunteered to deejay with his staff-mounted sound-khaard. Mantoes graciously gave him the gift of unlimited royalty-free access to the complete music vaults of the Lords of Khopy-wight, and thus the hot tunes flowed until the wee hours of the morning – which Manuel was gracious enough to stave off for a few extra hours so that all could party until they dropped. Manuel was a bit unclear, though, on until what dropped, and the sun rather unexpectedly rose when a platter of sushi rolls slipped from Pimpi’s fingers to the dance floor.

But all good things must come to an end, and as the remaining members of the Dance-dance-revolution-ship tottered off for a nap (and the newlyweds for for their nuptuals) Gateskeeper had some time to give thought to his future. Thus the rising sun found Gateskeeper sitting alone on the beach, though why it was looking for him remained a mystery. He was having a difficult time with his own inner conversation, since the second voice which had tormented him for so long was finally gone. It was a pity that Kuruharan had left so early – he had considered recruiting the capsulized capitalist and his fiery friend for the wars against the Eunuchs of the Pea Sea. But being a reformed bad-guy means not only having to say you’re sorry, but rethinking things like absolute power and might-makes-right.

The wars would have to cease, there was no question. The soft wares he created would have to become friendlier to those who used them. But, loathe to give up his high-spending lifestyle, he had to contemplate whether there was a souce of profit that could be as successful as the threatening and extortion with which he had hawked his Great Window. It was time to do a 360 and find new vistas, though he found taking advantage of the hype odd without those impy three players with whom he once associated back at the Networkgaard of Dorktank. But he’d severed all connections with the jobs and the buffets of days gone by, and there was no way to reset his way thru the tangled net of the ether of his past. He would have to shift, to escape, to enter a new line and rid himself of the numb lock that prevented him scrolling to a new page. In short, he would have to delete his past and find the key to getting himself home in CTRL of a new destiny. And then it came to him like a politician to a fundraiser – he could make people happy and make money at the same time by offering music on demand from Mantoes’ gift!

And so, The Gateskeeper was awaiting the assembling adventurous associates, now awakened and arisen from lying awhile abed. Having rid himself of oversupply of the letter ‘a’, the transformed thaumaturge was eager to begin his new life of profiting from good. The new Mr. and Mrs. Gravlox stepped into the new day, and the light of their magnificent coifs rivaled the light of the late-arriving sun. Truly they belonged together. “To the happy couples,” Gateskeeper effused. “I know I’ve not been officially reformed for long, but I’d be honored if you’d accept a token of my gratitude.” He then produced a small, thin box for each of them. “It contains a memento of our adventures together – with a press of this button you will be able to listen to all the songs which we composed, encountered, or mangled in our travels. Unfortunately, it does nothing to improve vocal quality, but perhaps I can do something about that in a later release.” Merisu smiled as she took the musical gift, then leaned in and gave him a quick and perfectly platonic kiss on his boyish cheek. Gravlox shook his hand warmly, thanking him for the gift and for his help in making sure that Merisu accomplished the quest. “And besides,” Gravlox continued, “this will give me some inkling of the things that happened on your noble way. Is there anything that we can do for you to express our gratitude?”

“I could use a ride back to Muddled-Mirth when you go,” Gateskeeper proffered, “and if you could, you know, talk up those little boxes, and let people know where you got them...”

Merisu and Gravlox both rolled their eyes, thinking in unison that the more things change, the more they stay the same. It had indeed been a long and very strange road, but home was awaiting. And who was to say that there were no more adventures to be had…

[Mithadan]

As the celebration stretched on, Sueim happened upon a group of Velour congregating about a punch bowl made of pure mithril. The punch steamed golden vapours as they dipped their mugs into the concoction over and over again. This they had to do because the ladle had been lost and the bowl was too shallow to fill their mugs fully. Thus, as they were half in their cups, they spoke to Sueim.

"Duuude!" cried Manuel. "Good job out there taking on Mogul and his Loyers!"

"Yes", added Mantoes. "You swamped him like a rogue wave."

"Thank you," replied Sueim.

"So, what are you going to do now, dude?" asked Manuel.

"Well," responded Sueim with a grin. "I'd rather hoped that you would take me back as general counsel now that my stint in Muddled Mirth is done."

"No way!" cried Manuel. "Now that Mogul's toast, we don't need no stinkin' Loyers. Actually, we're thinking about banning them in Vallyum."

"Alright then," said Sueim with a hint of a grin. "But you like the work that I did on behalf of Valleyum, right?"

"Yes," answered Manuel. "You were smooth, like the bay on a flat-top morning."

"Them I guess all that's left is to settle up my bill," said Sueim. With that, he produced a weighty scroll which he handed to Manuel. And Velour though he was, Manuel could barely hold the great scroll. "It's itemized," said Sueim. "It covers three ages of work."

Mantoes took the scroll from Manuel and unrolled it. This took some time, and it was nearly morning when he reached the end of the parchment. "One hundred twenty five million gold pieces?" sputtered Mantoes.

"That includes a ten percent courtesy discount," Sueim replied with an even broader grin.

"We don't have that kind of bread," cried Manuel.

"Unfortunate..." said Sueim with a frown. "I suppose I could sue. Maybe get a judgment and execute upon, say the southern half of Valleyum."

"We're all reasonable dudes," whimpered Mantoes. "Maybe we can reach some accomodation. You know. Cut a deal..."

Sueim's grin grew even larger.

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

In later times, the legend of how Chief Justice Sueim received his appointment to preside over the High Court of Muddled Mirth was memorialized in a mighty lay that went as follows:

Mogul went down to Valleyum,
He was looking for an Ent to steal.
He was in a bind
'Cause he was way behind,
And he was willing to make a deal.

He came upon a Loyer
with a legal pad and Mont Blanc,
So Mogul jumped up to the podium
and said "Boy let me tell you what."

"I bet you didn't know it,
but I've got Loyers too.
And if you care to take a dare
I'll make a bet with you."

"Now you're a pretty good Loyer,
But give the Mogul his due.
I'll bet an Orc with hair of gold
Against that Entish soul,
'Cause I think we're better than you."

The Loyer said "My name's Sueim,
And it may be a sin,
But I'll take your bet and you're going to regret,
'Cause I'm the best that's ever been."

Round the Mountain, run Elves run!
Mogul's in the House of Valleyum.
Loyers in the courthouse,
Making lots of dough,
Ready if you are now,
Litigate, go!

So Mogul opened up his case,
and said "I'll start this show."
And Loyers crowded around as he sized up his foe.
Then the Loyers opened their briefcases and it made an evil hiss.
And a band of paralegals joined in and it sounded something like this:

Ipsi dixit, quid pro quo!
Habeas corpus, do si do!*

The Mogul bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat,
And he laid himself on the ground at the Ent's wooden feet.
Sueim said "Mogul just come on back if you ever want to try again!
I told you once you son of a gun, I'm the best that's ever been!"

*The meaning of this last weighty legal term has been lost in the mists of time. Some say it means "Justice shall be done." Others say it means "Pay up, Suckah!"

In still later days, the legend of Chief Justice Sueim grew. Until one day he decided a dispute between some Dwarves and an Elvish King over the damage caused by a dragon after the Elves failed to pay a casino bill. Among the Elves, it is said that Sueim retired under a cloud of scandal after he awarded Dairyland to the Dwarves. But among the Dwarves, he is praised and it is said that he went into the East and and there still, waiting for his next big case... and bill.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Leninia sat at a corner table alone, morosely downing one glass of the excellent wine after another. She had only nipped at the delicious food and all in all, found little reason to rejoice despite the so festive occasion. Sure, a marriage was something wonderful, she supposed, but gazing at one newlywed couple, to say nothing of the other happy twosome (which acted even more the part, though there had been no official ceremony of any kind) only made her feel more lonely than ever – when she wasn’t feeling nauseous.

It was all good and well to have accomplished the Quest, and they were sitting in the most paradisiacal location she had ever seen, but what good was it to have romantic surroundings without someone to share them with her? A longing stirred within her heart, a feeling she had never before known. She wanted to feel a hand in hers, perhaps strong and calloused, perhaps small and grimy – or better yet, both, she thought. She wanted to knit a baby sweater, to cook a stew, to bake bread, to grow vegetables – and when she discovered what was going through her mind, she shrank back in horror.

What thoughts were these?! She wasn’t a housewife, she was a rock star! She couldn’t be tied down to a home, she had to go on tour! She needed the spotlights, the applause, the admiring groupies, the ...

Suddenly she realized the import of the Quest’s success – she no longer had her guitar! The Entish Guitar, that had been her constant companion, that had accompanied both her singing and her travels, was no longer. She had no one with whom she could carry on those endless, bickering conversations, no background music for her singing, and no inspiration for new lyrics and tunes.

Her head sank onto the table and for the first time in her self-determined life, she wept helpessly and hopelessly. Where should she go now? The Marrow-Bones studios would have no use for her anymore. Her fans had probably already forgotten all about her and voted for new idols and superstars. There was no one who cared whether she came back to Muddled-Mirth or not.

A gentle hand touched her on the shoulder. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose defiantly before donning a professional smile to face – Chanessa and Vairsacë. They smiled back, tactfully ignoring the blurred mascara and smeared lipstick.

“We don’t normally, like, do business talk at parties,” Chanessa said, “but it looks like some of your friends are heading home already, and we wanted to be sure we could talk to you before you decide to go.”

Leninia raised a finely-chiseled, questioning eyebrow.

The demi-goddess continued. “We have a groovy proposition for you; of course you can refuse it, but perhaps you will at least consider what we have to say.”

“You see,” Vairsacë explained, “our life isn’t just partying, surfing, tanning and all that; our husbands are often gone on their own business, so we wanted something to give our life purpose and meaning. I’m into fabrics, designing and weaving beautiful material, and then making gorgeous fashions of it. And Chanessa is a wonderful model; she does the catwalk presentation and choreography and selling part of it.”

“Yeah,” Chanessa added, “it’s just the two of us, ‘cause Prada’s so busy with her star promotion agency, and Yawanna with her landscaping business – and Estë-Lynn is way too restful for a competitive business like fashion. She does some therapeutic artsy-craftsy stuff, but there’s really no money in it, at least not the kind we want to make.”

“Anyway,” she went on, “we have some boutiques here in Valleyum, and they do pretty well, but we’ve been thinking about expanding to Muddled-Mirth. You see, there aren’t a lot of new customers here, except for those who go to Vair’s husband’s halls, and it takes awhile before they have a body and want some new clothes again.”

Vairsacë nodded. “We noticed that you have a good fashion sense and a great figure – bit short, perhaps, but definitely thin enough – and wondered if you’d stay here for a bit, learn the business, and then set up some chain stores in Muddled-Mirth for us. You see, we’re not allowed to go into business there ourselves, so we need a franchise taker. What do you think?”

Leninia’s sharp mind worked at top speed, and she realized what was offered her even before they spoke. Yet she was acute enough not to sell herself too easily, and so hesitated strategically.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about the possibility of a more permanent relationship, maybe even a family sometime...” Her voice trailed off with a well-calculated touch of yearning.

Now Chanessa’s eyebrow raised. She looked around at the wedding guests and asked, “I don’t suppose you have someone specific in mind?”

Leninia was constrained to shake her head regretfully. As always, the only good ones, if there were any, were taken.

“That’s no problem,” Vairsacë contributed. “After all, we have husbands. The modern female can have both, her wedding cake and business too. How about letting us show you our boutiques and deciding then?”

Leninia’s spirits lifted. Perhaps her future did not look so bleak after all. Who knew what might come later? At any rate, she had something to do and someplace to go now. She waved a pale, languid hand in the direction of anyone who might take notice, and left the festivities.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The morning after the wedding dawned, as mornings are wont to do. Had the festivities taken place at any other location than the Blessed Lands of Valleyum, the site would have been wreaked with havoc. But either Manuël had waved his pipe over the scene and removed all signs of debauchery, or whatever was in that pipe caused the sight of those present to blur – and if they did see any mess, they no longer cared.

The list of guests had grown thin – the Velour, who were immune to any aftereffects of carousing, had put on their water attire, shouldered their sürfbôrds, and gone to enjoy a fine day at the beach. The newlyweds were nowhere to be seen, and it must be assumed that they were out checking the real estate possibilities for a nice cottage in Valleyum’s suburbs.

Merisuwyniel and Gravlox had packed their belongings for the journey back to Muddled-Mirth, and Squire Windsor was attempting, more eagerly than skilfully, to assist them. Now the Elven couple stood before Yawanna, conversing earnestly with the Green Goddess.

“It’s not quite a luxury liner,” she said, “but it will get you back to the Eastern lands safely enough. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here? You alone, my dear Merisuwyniel, uttered no wish, and I would gladly fulfil one if you so desire.”

The Elf shook her golden locks most becomingly. “I thank you,” she replied, “but my desire is to return to the lands of my people. I do have one wish though.” She hesitated, then, encouraged by Yawanna’s friendly smile, continued: “I have grown accustomed to leading others on this quest. I would like to have a realm of my own to rule, so that I can go on telling others what to do more conveniently. Of course it would be for their own good...” Her voice trailed off.

“Naturally!” the goddess exclaimed. “That would be just the thing for you! And it’s no problem to arrange – you see, Saladriel and Celery have no heir, and as the daughter of her sister, you are the next of kin to them. Are you willing to aid her in this task?” she asked, turning to Gravlox.

He stood tall and erect, his weapons gleaming at his side. “I will strengthen the defenses of Topfloorien with my military experience. Together, we shall see the Hidden Realm prosper and its malls expand. Our combined wisdom will make it a refuge for those who love the finer things of life.”

“There will be another task for you to fulfill,” Yawanna added. “For lo! the kingdom of Grundor lacks a king, and the only heir to the Lord Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor and Guardian of the Porcelain Throne of Minus Teeth, has perished in this most perilous quest. Denimthor is old, and when he is no longer, the people will be lost as sheep without a shepherd. And yet it is known to the Velour that the line of the kings of Grundor has not yet completely failed, and there is one who has the right to claim the throne.”

“Who is he?” Merisu exclaimed. “I would love to meet him.”

“Oh, you already have – he’s here,” the goddess replied.

Merisu and Gravlox both looked in the direction she showed them, but they could not see a potential king, only Hal, still stupored after the night’s carousing. Puzzled, they looked to Yawanna for explanation.

“All that is cold does not shiver,
Not all those who squander are posh.
One arrow is left in the quiver,
One garment returns from the wash.

From the gutter a king shall be woken,
The blight of his shadow shall flee,
Renewed shall be denture once broken,
and white crowns restored all shall be.”

Merisu and Gravlox were even more puzzled by those cryptic clues. “But what does that mean?” the Elf asked.

“The language is archaic and his character barbaric,” Yawanna said, “but there can be no doubt – that ancient poem promises the return of the king to the Wight City. And Halfemption is the last in the line of Noodleorian kings of old.”

Merisu gasped. “But he looks – well, not so fair as his brother looked, though he feels more...”

“But darling,” Gravlox rebuked her gently, “remember that I looked very foul when we first met, and yet you preferred me to the handsome Halfullion.”

“He does not yet appear kingly,” Yawanna admitted, “but that is where you come in. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to aid him – as a matter of fact, your first hurdle will be to get him back to Muddled-Mirth safely and soberly, then to train him for his task until you can find a way to introduce him to his people so that they will be willing to accept his kingship.”

Merisu’s beautiful violet eyes lit up with the religious fervour of a woman who is about to reform a prodigal. “We shall help him to rebuild the city of Minus Teeth,” she proclaimed, conveniently forgetting that its destruction was the work of the Shambles-Ship.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“What of you, my child?” Yawanna asked the Reunited Ent, who was standing nearby in unaccustomed silence. “Now that you have been restored to life and health, what is your desire – to accompany your friends back to Muddled-Mirth or to remain in these lands, undying and immortal, or at least as close to that as you can get?”

“Hoom, hrum!” the Ent answered, typically but not particularly informatively. “Long have I pondered this question, but my answer depends on your response to my deepest wish.”

“Name it,” the goddess replied. “If it is within my power and within reason, it shall be granted.”

“Though I am now whole, I still feel that part of me is missing,” the Ent continued, “for I lost my Entwife long ago. I wish to see her again, and perhaps we shall at last find somewhere a land where we can live together and both be content. Whether that be here or in Muddled-Mirth, I do not know, but can you tell me where to search?”

Yawanna pondered for a moment before replying. “This is a difficult matter,” she said slowly, “and will require thought and time. Remain here for awhile, and I shall take counsel with my breth/sistren to do what we can. Whether we succeed or fail, I cannot yet say, but when we have attempted, you may still go back to the Eastern Lands if you wish.”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

And so it came that Merisuwyniel, Gravlox, Windsor, Halfemption, and Gateskeeper, along with their various accoutrements and equine companions, boarded a vessel that looked foul yet felt fairly seaworthy for their return journey. Painted on its side were the letters “Sethamir’s Stable Boats and Shipping Services”, which might or might not have referred to the vessel’s stability but seemed reassuring at any rate.

None witnessed the last meeting between Merisuwyniel and the Ent, for they went apart and spoke long together, but hopeful was their parting, and they looked to the future with the expectation of meeting again.

Thus they sailed into the sunrise, and as they departed, the names of their now absent comrades, the friends they had made in the course of their adventures, and the foes they had vanquished passed before their minds’ eyes. From afar they heard Yawanna’s voice singing across the water, and for a time they could see her, beckoning to them from the white shore: her emerald hair was flying loose, and as it caught the sun it shone and shimmered. A light like the glint of water on dewy grass flashed from under her feet as she danced.

With a wave of her hand she bade them look round, and they gazed down from the ship’s deck over lands under the morning. Those were now as clear and far-seen as they had been veiled and misty when they had stood on the shore of Valleyum. The Blessed Lands were soon no more than a guess of blue and a remote white glimmer blending with the hem of the sky which spoke to them, out of memory and old tales, of its high and distant mountains. They took a deep draught of the sea air, and felt that a very short journey would bear them to their destination.

“Speed now, fair guests!” Yawanna’s voice called out to them. “And hold to your purpose! East with the wind in your sails and a blessing upon the waves! Make haste while the breeze blows! Farewell, Elves and Elf-friends, it was a merry meeting!” One last time they saw her, small and slender as a green reed against the shores, then she vanished and only her song accompanied them on their way back home.


Raise up
Your fair and noble head;
Day is dawning,
No time to stay in bed.
Wake now
And see what lies before;
Life is calling,
It’s knocking at your door.

Now you can laugh,
I see a smile upon your face.
Perils are past;
Wonderful future’s on its way.
Safe in his arms,
You’re dreaming.

What can you see
On the horizon?
Why does adventure call?
Across the sea
The bright sun rises;
The ship has come to carry you home.

And all is seen
As through a glass,
An image yet fleeting
Comes to pass.

Hope blooms
In the bright light of day;
The shadow’s fading
And only memories stay.
Say now: “Our quest has just begun.”
Green shores are waiting;
You sail into the sun.

And you’ll be there in his arms,
Just ruling.

What can you see
On the horizon?
Why does adventure call?
Across the sea
The bright sun rises;
The ship has come to carry you home.

And all is written,
Finished at last;
A story so lengthy -
Finally past:
This is

THE END

[The Saucepan Man]

“Blast!”

“Melvin? Is that you?”

“Hello Colin.”

“Wow, it is you! That’s great, dude. I was getting kinda lonely in here all on my own.”

“Yes, it’s me … *cough* … Blast!

“You OK, man?”

“They sprayed Raid under the Door of Doom.”

“Oh well. Never mind. You’ve got me to keep you company.”

“Whoopee do.”

“Yeah, isn’t it great? You and me, stuck here in the Void together for eternity with no one to talk to but each other. Man, there’s so much to catch up on, I don’t know where to start. Incidentally, have you noticed that the darkness over there is slightly less intense than the darkness back here. I was wondering why that is. It got me thinking about the physical properties of the Void. Do you want to hear my theory? Yes, I’m sure that you do. Well, the way I see it …”

“Aaaaaiiiii!”

[piosenniel]

For the time being, this game will be stashed safely in Elvenhome.

It may be resurrected upon request.

~*~ Pio