The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Estelyn Telcontar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is time, it said.

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

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

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

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

“How?” she asked, puzzled.

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

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

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

[The Saucepan Man]

Of Melvin Bluenote and the Flight of the Noodlar

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

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

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

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

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

Of Môgul Bildûr and the Redevelopment of Dairyland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[The Barrow-Wight]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mithadan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Thenamir]

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

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

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

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

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

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

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

(Review – Vogonwë was not unhappy, dratit!)

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

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

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

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

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's cheating if your girlfriend helps.

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

Here Slim interjected:

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Where is Lord Earnur Etceteron?'

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, it’s you again! How are you?'

With such mighty words do great workings begin.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Very Secret Diary of Falafel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kuruharan]

Meanwhile and Elsewhere…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a momentary pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The monster pounced down upon the dwarf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dragon then obligingly pulled the hydra off the dwarf.

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

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

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

"Whatever," said the dragon apathetically.

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

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

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

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

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

Back on the surface…

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

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

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

[Thenamir]

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

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

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

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

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

[Mithadan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

“Where oh where is Merisuwyniel today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gladly!” Vogonwë replied without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pimpi blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That would be a tragedy.”

“Indeed.”

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

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

[The Barrow-Wight]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denimthor stood looking, but did not reply.

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

[The Saucepan Man]

The Tale of Môgul Bildûr (Part II)

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

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

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

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

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

“Kafka Esque!”

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Estelyn Telcontar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eight eyes turned expectantly to her.

“Group hug!” she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

[Lush]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kuruharan]

Meanwhile, back in the barn, I mean stable…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Greetings Grundorians!"

[applause from the crowd]

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

[more enthusiastic applause from crowd]

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

[wild applause and cheering from the crowd]

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

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

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

"What?" said Vogonwë.

"But…" said Pimpi.

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

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

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

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

"What’s in it?" asked the man.

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes suddenly bulged out of his head.

"How is it?" asked Chrysophylax.

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

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

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

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

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

"Eh-?" said Kuruharan.

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

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

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

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

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

{gulp}

"*AACCKK!!!*" choked Earnur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ooopsie!" said a suddenly sheepish Chrysophylax.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Note-

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

[Diamond18]

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

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

“Why?” she asked stickily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So c’mon Flossy light on FIRE!!!

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

[Thenamir]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can call me Falafel."

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

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

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

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

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'"Bruise", dear?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

'Hail Etceteron, lord of Stoats Deranged!'

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

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

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

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

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

[Birdland]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[The Barrow-Wight]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whaaa,” mumbled Earnur before dozing off again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Orie,

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

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

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

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

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

[Estelyn Telcontar]

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

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

[Mithadan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, what?" he replied eloquently.

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

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

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

Birdland's Post:

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

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

“Dohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

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

“Prrrrrrrttttttt?”

“Aaaawwwwwppppp?”

“Nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu?”

And of course “Meep?”

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

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

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

[Kuruharan]

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

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

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

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

Rrralph!!!

"What’s that?" asked Pimpi nervously.

Rrralph!!!

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

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

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

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

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

Rrralph!!!

*sniff* *sniff* went Vogonwë.

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

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

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

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

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

Rrralph!!!

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

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

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

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

"What’s that?" asked Merisuwyniel nervously.

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

"Why?" asked a dubious Merisuwyniel.

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

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

"Why?" asked Merisuwyniel.

"Because," replied Kuruharan.

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

"But…" said Earnur.

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

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

"For whatever," said Chrysophylax.

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

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

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

"Guuuhhhh…" said Kuruharan.

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

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

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

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

"Wait a minute," shouted Pimpi.

Everyone else stood there rooted to the ground.

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

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

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

The Nazgul suddenly checked and looked down at Grrralph.

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

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

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

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

"That’s too bad," said Brrrrobert.

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

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

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

"What?" said Grrralph.

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

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

"Later," interrupted Kuruharan.

"But…," began Earnur.

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

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

"Here we are," announced Kuruharan.

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

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

"Yes," said Kuruharan.

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

Kuruharan just blinked at her.

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

"Indeed," said Kuruharan darkly.

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

[Thenamir]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Away, away, away down South in Pea Sea!

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

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

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

Away, away, away down Sssouth in Pea Sssea!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[The Saucepan Man]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And …

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

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

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

And …

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

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

And …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Behold the Gorilla-ship!”

“Er, Gallow-ship, sire,” he ventured.

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

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

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

“Gallow-ship, sire.”

“What?”

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

Breathing a sigh of relief, Soregum turned to leave.

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

His heart sank.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orie, oh!

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

[Estelyn Telcontar]

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

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

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

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

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

The Half-Halfling shook her head regretfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mithadan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Birdland]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are such a liar!“

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

“Chrysi? Here? OH-MY-EMUUUUUUUU!”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care! I‘m doing it!”

“I am too!”

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

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

[Kuruharan]

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

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

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

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

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

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

"EEEEEeeeeeewwww!!!" went Pimpi.

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

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!"

Kuruharan and Vogonwë cowered down and covered their ears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mithadan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Half,” Pimpi added helpfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrysophylax snorted derisively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was ignored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“FOOD FIGHT!!!”

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

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

[Estelyn Telcontar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Birdland]

“Food fighhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttttttttttt….”

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

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

“That nasty man is fighting again, Preciousssss,“

“That bad, bad man, Snookums!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Thenamir]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Diamond18]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why—”

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

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

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

“Oh. Quite:

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

Earnur felt dizzy, and suddenly very thirsty, Orogarn Two’s hair curled, and Merisu’s brow knit and pearled. But the Troll stood fast. Does the scribe have to laboriously scratch out the worthless stuff, or can you just imagine?

The blackbird was assured that the password
Would save him from being massacred,
But it went unheard,
Which was absurd,
So that is what occurred.
WORD!

“Uuuuh…” Kuruharan fell to the ground with a thud.

The Troll sneered, and said, “Iz tht al u got?”

Vogonwë dug in and proclaimed majestically:

To be sleepy
In a teepee,
Is creepy,
And can make you feel weepy!

Merisu retreated to a Happy Place, and Pimpi longed for the days before Lopitoff had exploded, when she had found slight respite from the kind of esoteric magical vibes that one can only get from dead, gold-encrusted horseflesh. The Troll laughed long and raucously, and the sound was like unto that of an epileptic pterodactyl.

Vogonwë’s expression turned fey, and he bellowed as much as one with Elven blood can bellow:

I know some butterflies with pretty eyes,
Which hypnotize and paralyze lots of guys,
Who are spies and wear a guise of being wise,
And like to sing lullabies to fireflies,
And chastise those who have large thighs,
But wear tight Levi’s;
Who in turn do them despise and ostracize,
And finally,
Victimize!

And lo! the Troll began to weep.

“No…” The Gateskeeper moaned, unplugging his ears. “Don’t make it mad…”

But Vogonwë was well warmed up by now, and he paid the gloved man no heed:

It is a crime not to rhyme,
If you’ve got the time to mountain climb,
And if you want to pantomime
While eating lime in grime and slime,
And I know these poems of mine
Aren’t worth a dime,
But writing them was sublime,
And she’s in love with me and I feel fiiiiiine!

“U make me soooooooo mad!!!!!” the Troll bawled.

“By the Loyers, this is the end,” the Gateskeeper swore deeply. “He’s going to start a—”

“FLAME WAR!!!!!!” the Troll screamed.

“Uh-oh,” Vogonwë stated eloquently.

Then, something unexpected happened. Chrysophylax came waddling back from a foraging foray, observed the gangly Troll and harkened unto his proclamation, then shrugged and belched out a great ball of fire in the general direction of the nuisance. The Troll’s greasy hair lit up like a firecracker, his glasses melted onto his face, his volcanoes erupted, and he screamed in one last dying spasm of bad taste, “Fry mah hide!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“So, he was a Redneck Troll,” Kuruharan remarked darkly from his spot on the ground, for among the Ugly Peoples of Muddled Mirth, Redneck Trolls are the most feared, especially the ones who play banjoes.

Chrysophylax ambled up to his victim and digested him in a cacophony of crunching, regretted it, and then promptly darted off to the bushes to retch violently.

Earnur’s sword could be heard muttering something about the whole episode exhibiting a deplorable lack of class.

[ August 17, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Mithadan]

The Redneck Troll having been duly dispatched, the Gallowship, being exhausted by the soon-to-be legendary Battle of Bacon-Binge (and the subsequent orgiastic eating-binge), returned to its camp. Another day had passed, bringing the total time that the dedicated group had been wandering aimlessly to eight days. Perhaps the dawn would bring with it purpose and a worthy destination. Or perhaps dawn would only bring sun in the morning, with clouds and a 30% chance of rain during the afternoon (winds north, northwest at 10 knots)*.

Stars shone on this moonless evening as the members of the Gallowship snored, whistled, wheezed and muttered their way through a night's sleep. But something else shone as well. Two red lights, close together as if they were beady little eyes of...red light, shone at the edge of the campsite. Grrralph sat on a log unnoticed, while the others lay slumbering.

His eyes (burning red) swept the countryside as he pretended to keep watch. No one had asked him to do so and there seemed no need for such caution, so he pretended in an effort to amuse himself. Boredom soon set in, and he drew a pale dagger and began drawing designs in the dirt. However, he soon discovered that it was too dark for him to see what he was doing so he put the knife away with a sigh. He rose and tiptoed away from the camp as quietly as he could out of consideration for his companions.

Looking up at the stars, he began swaying from side to side, as if he were striving against some force within him that was urging him to act. The urge grew stronger and stronger. He raised his hands in an attempt to cover his mouth, but failed because he, as usual, could not find his lips. Bowing his head in defeat, he began to sing.

Midnight,
and the Gallowship's sleeping,
and Grrralph is creeping,
because Thingwraiths don't sleep.
There's no moon,
but there's stars up above him,
from the birds there's not even a peep.

A worn boot flew through the air, striking Grrralph in the back. "Shaddup, whazamattawityouyaidjit" hissed a voice from the campsite. Must be that Gatekeeper character, thought Grrralph, admiring the skillful use of Troll-speak.

So, with another sigh, he wandered away from the camp until he reached a small hill. He climbed the slope and found a burned out hut at the top. Peeking inside, he found that the hut had been tastefully decorated with a skeleton and a variety of bones. Then, harkening to some keen inner sense, or perhaps it was the rushing of wings and the cry of a leathery prehistoric beast that attracted his attention, he backed out from the hut and looked up as a Nazcool dropped from the sky.

"Geeeeeorge!" cried Grrralph. "How've you been?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," answered Geeeeeorge. "I heard that you ran into Brrrobert so I thought I'd look you up. How you fixed for work Grrralph?"

"I've got an informal gig, right now," he answered. "Doesn't pay much, but the people are alright. You?"

"I'm working with Brrrobert and Ssssam," answered Geeeeeorge. "Doing some general mayhem and search and destroy for a real up and comer over Mordough way. You should join us! The pay's alright."

Grrralph hesitated before responding reluctantly. "I'm kind of committed right now. I might finally get those medical benefits I've been looking for."

"Your call," answered Geeeeeorge. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me. You were really coming along when everything fell apart last time. Imagine! Getting you in exchange for three Elves and a minor leaguer to be named later! You made us into a contender! Too bad it didn't work out."

Grrralph nodded as Geeeeeorge mounted his Nazcool steed. "You working with those Trolls down there?" Geeeeeorge asked. "They're sure going somewhere in a hurry! CYA as they say."

Grrralph looked down the hill at the horde of Trolls as the Nazcool took off. He ran back toward the camp as fast as his long legs would carry him. Oh man! There go my benefits! he thought as he went to the rescue of the Gallowship...

*This Muddled-Mirth weather forecast brought to you by your friends at Weathertop.com, where we're partly right some of the time.

[ August 18, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

A piercing shriek, mournful and forlorn, echoed about the camp. Various gals and fellows awoke with the icy chill of fear in their veins as the same voice then launched into a jaunty ragtime piece about fear, fire and foes, which tripped along with the ghastly cheeriness of a clown pretending not to have a coronary. Grrralph had alerted his companions.

Leaping from his blankets, and conveniently fully dressed, the Lord of Dun Sóbrin whipped out his mighty weapon and prepared to do battle. All around him were the sounds of hurried movement as his companions grabbed their arms and their price lists, and made ready for the coming fray. Already they could hear the reedy cries of the trolls as they advanced: 'Wot u flame Kewld00d 4??!!1 u is al facists!' they whined in their uncouth tongue, their voices cracking into squeaks of indignation. 'U r so gonna dye!!!111'

Etceteron's manly respect for intelligibility could withstand no further battering. He leaped forward, sword scything at a pallid neck, even as it vainly protested his unceasing combat. Its voice echoed about his heroically empty cranium, which paid it the attention it deserved.
Wait a minute! No, wait, wait: can't we talk about this a bit first? Perhaps we can negotiate. Here, you haven't even cleaned me since the last time yet!.

Reluctant or no, the blade was of Noodlarian make, and its edge was keen. It sliced through boil-studded flesh and all but severed a stick-like arm as Lord Etceteron berated the degraded creatures in strident tones. 'Thy uncouth speech displeaseth mine ears, foul spawn of the unfortunate!' he cried. 'Be silent, for thy words are unworthy of utterance!'

But some dark magic was woven about their unwashed foe. Even as axes and swords bit the undead flesh it healed again, strings of matter binding and re-attaching limbs and heads; and all the while from foetid mouths poured a torrent of empty words, their sound and fury signifying nothing: 'lol!111! I Rulz! u is lame!1!. u b tost tonite!' cried one.
'**** u u ******* ******* ******* ******** and ******** until u skweel!' screamed another, in a voice that would not be heard again in Muddled Mirth until the advent of the cult television convention. The Politically-Semi-Correct-ship fell back before the fury of this assault, muttering to one another about the cosmic folly that had given voices to these foolish creatures.

'Can you buy me some time?' muttered Kuruharan.

'Do you have a plan?' asked Merisuwyniel in breathless hope.

'No,' replied the Dwarven lord. 'But I do have six gallons of Nurse McCready's Extra-Strong Boil and Wart Ointment that I've been trying to unload. I...er...we could still come out of this ahead.'

'How I hate to hear language tortured so! It brings tears to my eyes!' This from Vogonwë, with whom nobody had the heart to debate the issue under these circumstances.

'I think I smell anchovies' announced Pimpiowyn, stabbing with a short-sword at a red-faced troll. Further along the line, Grrralph wailed ghoulishly as his blade sliced effortlessly through clammy torsos (apparently cutting before it touched them) only for the accursed flesh to heal without a mark as his steel passed through.

Only the Gateskeeper had been silent, stroking his chin as he pondered the situation. In one hand he held the message they had received, and at his feet was the stone around which it had been wrapped. He knew full well how to achieve their victory, but could not decide which suited his purpose the better: to gain the confidence, or better yet utter dependence, of his companions with an effortless rescue, or to watch them die horribly then finish off the victorious trolls. Complete user dependency on the one hand; the theft of vital magical items on the other: the ultimate win-win situation. He was inclined towards spectating until a high-pitched voice broke through his Macchiavellian reverie.

'Oi 4 eyez! U is so a geek! lol!1! thoze glases r so rubish! Wots a litl ******** like you doin on the supa hiwae?' Again a line of asterisks was pronounced with an ease that only a troll long steeped in low-grade evil can achieve. A small stone accompanied this verbal missile, and it struck him on the head, knocking his glasses from his face. At that moment the Gallowship pressed between the two adversaries, and as he scrabbled for his spectacles the Gateskeeper's decision was made. Having found his eyeglasses, he took up the stone and began to work his way around the knot of fighters.

SupaKool, alias Walter, was a troll of great might. Many were the kicks he had received that his bone-hard flesh had scarcely felt, and many was the fellowship that he had disrupted and scattered during his long and pointless career. Even now he looked forward to squashing this collection of obvious literati once he had amused himself with the inefficacy of their weapons. Of course, those are my words, not his: all that SupaKool was thinking at this moment was 'They is so gonna dy (sp?)! I rool!1! lol!!1' and much mirth did this somewhat unoriginal thought afford him.

Suddenly a large rectangular red stone flew out of nowhere to strike SupaKool in the centre of his broad back. Turning in rage he took up the parchment in which it had been swathed, and his brows knit in concentration as he read the original message received by the Gallowship.

'Oo frew vis?!' he wailed, almost apoplectic with rage. 'I iz not lame! I iz kewl!1!1'

Picking on the first fellow troll he saw (for who else would carry the secret rocks of br'ik that they use for communication, and who else would speak their secret tongue?) he began to slap it in a pathetic parody of violent rage. Soon all of the trolls had become involved in the argument, and our heroic whatever-ship were being treated to a free demonstration of a true Trollish flame-war. No words were uttered now, only gutteral grunts and amorphous howls of rage that could only be translated as strings of exotic punctuation marks. Merisuwyniel put away her nocked arrow with an air of relief; The Gateskeeper polished his glasses; Etceteron finally cleaned his sword, glad of the opportunity to shut it up; Pimpiowyn munched idly on an undisclosed snack item and Vogonwë tried to find a rhyme for 'unbelievably stupid'. Grralph's wail was definitely on the cheery side of blood-curdling misery and Orogarn sheathed his oddly greasy sword. Even the horses were looking on in bored curiosity.

The fighting went on for some hours. Lord Etceteron found some herbal tea in one of his saddlebags, and they sat around sipping the fragrant liquid as their enemies battered each other and vomited floods of unformed syllables for several hours. Eventually, though, the sun clomb above the horizon, and all was silence once more. Where the Trolls had stood there was only a stack of crumpled flat cardboard boxes filled with discs of what looked like bread covered in congealed cheese.

'So it is as the bards of Grundor tell it!' Cried Orogarn. 'Even as the sunlight touched them they have returned to the stuff of which they were made!'

'Good.' grunted Chrysophylax, finally emerging from slumber. 'I'm quite partial to pîtsar'

'That is the fabled laze-bread, on which one may sit completely still for two days and more?' asked the Elven bard unbelievingly. 'Much have I heard of it, but never have I tasted its like.'

'Well, yes. But a bit cold and manky' replied the dragon, warming up some of the residue with a well-aimed jet of flame.

And so the mighty combat was over, and once more it ended in a binge; and so it is that some heroic noblemen receive names like "The Fat". And so we shall leave our heroic heroes, as they man (and woman)-fully devour the mystic laze-bread of the Trolls. If nothing else, they will not go hungry for a good long time.

[Lush]

"This thing must be brocken!!!" A terrible, high-pitched, sing-song voice echoed through the dim passageways of Marrow Bones Studios.

"What's brocken, Mother?" A pitiful, hoarse, wearied voice answered. "Let's see, it couldn't possibly be your heart, because you don't have one.'

Leninia was too distracted by the frankly shocking images on her Cell- antír to bother with reacting to the Entish Guitar's brazen insult with her usual threats of torture and death.

"This Fellow...This Gal...This thing," she finally managed to say, "they're all...they're all..."

"Idiots?" The Entish Guitar supplied helpfully.

"I don't believe it," Leninia gasped. "I wanted a real adversary. I'm the most talented dark manipulator since Phil Whack'd-her, I deserve better than this! They carry on arguments with their swords, they engage in food-fights and flame-wars, they get stuck in witty-yet-annoyingly-distracting-from-my-glorious-persona sub-plots! They..."

"Well, what did you expect from a parody, Mother? In-depth discussions of Muddled Mirth for the lithe and the cunning? Some tall dude with a long name, cool sword and a manly countenance?" The Entish Guitar interrupted.

Leninia did not answer. She was deep in thought. She could not deny that as the group of the "gallivantin' village idiots" got closer, her grip on the Entish Guitar continued to slip. Not that she was worried, naturally, but why needlessly worry the already strung-out poor piece of talking wood?

For all her insults, Leninia had grown fond of the little piece of lumber. It's wry sense of humour sometimes reminded her of her last husband, John Lemmon. A tasty thing that one was, it was only too bad that...

But Leninia was not about to give over to regretting the past. There were things to be done today, such as deciding which sort of subliminal messages to be woven into which particular song, and other regular duties of the head of Marrow Bonea Studios.

Leninia stroked the Entish Guitar's strings and cooed nonsense to it in her magical voice (the voice was like the equivalent of a dangerous dose of cough medicine), and soon enough the hapless E.G. had fallen into a deep, drug-induced slumber, like everyone else in that dark, dreary and yet no longer so distant place.

[ August 19, 2003: Message edited by: Lush ]

[The Saucepan Man]

“What do your Goblin eyes see, Snigga?”

Soregum was addressing an Orc of small breed, black-skinned, with wide bulging bloodshot eyes. The Goblin Tracker giggled nervously and gazed at the vista before them, his eyes straining such that they seemed to be in the final stages of taking leave of their sockets.

“Hehe … er … Foodfight!” he exclaimed in a thin, high-pitched snigger, gesturing in the direction of the sun, which was cautiously peering over the crimson horizon as if afraid to look for fear of what antics the day might hold.*

“And how do you figure that out?”

“Er … hehe … um ... A red sun arises. Food has been spilt this night. Hehe”

“Yeah, foodfight.” piped up a second diminutive Orc who was hunched over on the ground before them snuffling in the undergrowth. As he stood up, he sniffed and wiped away the detritus that had become attached to his huge, dripping nose, a nose that was of such enormous proportions that his remaining features gave the appearance of struggling to maintain their rightful place on his face.

“Bacon bits, pie crusts, tomatoes, cheesë-whíz, fish sticks, tartar sauce, bran flakes, spaghetti, meatballs, Jell-ô-Squares, rice pudding, cream of wheat, Caesar salad, hamburger casserole, ice cream, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, onion soup, barbecued ribs, and chocolate fondue are just a few of the foodstuffs that went flying through the air last night. I can smell ‘em all.”

And with that, he proudly hoisted his prodigious proboscis into the air and let out an almighty snort, showering Soregum with an unpleasant green gue.

“Yes. Thank you Schnozza”, muttered Soregum sarcastically, wiping the gunk from his cowled face. “What say you, Sedric?”

Soregum turned to the third Tracker, an ancient and emaciated Goblin tottering precariously on the edge of the low hill on which they stood. Predictably he sported two enormous ears, which he was absent-mindedly drilling with his gnarled fingers.

“Eh? You’ll have to speak up, sonny,” replied Sedric, raising a battered brass trumpet to one of his elephantine auditory organs. “All I can hear is the sound of seven mouths and one reptilian snout munching on a combination of bread, cheese, tomato paste, mushrooms and pepperoni ... oh, and a mournful keening.”

Soregum had had enough. Turning on the Goblins in rage, he exclaimed “Fools! May I remind you that we are on the trail of a crack team of hardened adventurers, quite the most dangerous enemies of the Red Nostril ever to have been assembled in a non-gender-specific grouping. They are unbendingly dedicated toward the Quest that they have set out upon. Do you really think that they are likely to engage in such food-related frippery?”

He shook his head, reflecting sadly on the fact that, of all the Orcs in Mordough, the only Trackers with any hint of a reputation that he had been able to find had been these three sorry specimens. And they had proved utterly useless and, as matters had turned out, quite unnecessary. Tracking the His-and-Hers-Ship had in fact proved astonishingly easy. It had simply been a matter of following the trail of apple-cores, sweet wrappers, chicken bones, half-eaten doughnuts and countless other discarded comestibles, not to mention the odd hairball. Then there was the flattened and scorched shrubbery, punctuated by various swooning adolescent lizards, which unmistakably marked the passing of a Dragon of ancient and imperial lineage. Soregum was beginning to wonder whether there really was any need for his three rather irritating and undoubtedly repulsive companions.

But it was the abundant references to mouth-watering foodstuffs that had really provoked Soregum’s anger. For seven days now they had followed the non-route-specific trail of the Non-Gender-Specific-Ship with nothing to fill their bellies but depressingly bland and alarmingly sugar-free Mordough rations. Indeed, so desperate had Soregum’s predicament become that he had been compelled to consume many of the discarded eatables that marked out their route. Worse, his pipeweed pouch was beginning to run dangerously low. Once again, his mind began to wander back to a time that now seemed so very long ago, replete with well-stocked pantries and …

All of a sudden, his thoughts were scattered by an insistent rumbling, gurgling sound. Immediately, he looked around in alarm and his hand reached for the short sword at his side, before realising that the ominous sound had in fact issued forth from his own poor unfulfilled stomach.

“Pardon me!” he apologised, although his companions were far more concerned with scratching their armpits, picking their noses and sniggering and gibbering inanely than with the affairs of his bowels.

Soregum turned to his steed, which provided yet another reminder of his miserable predicament. To his utter shame, he had to suffer the humiliation of riding on perhaps the least fearsome beast imaginable. Granted, the mount with which he had been furnished came with all the standard Mordough features – jet black hide, piercing red eyes, flaring nostrils – but when all was said and done she was still a pony. And a tiny one at that, he thought to himself, named Twinkle, of all things! Hardly a beast fit for an emissary of the greatest Dark Lord ever to have cut a cunning deal.

Sighing in resignation, Soregum mounted the dishearteningly cute beast and spurred her on with as much enthusiasm as he was able to muster in the circumstances. Whinnying in complaint, for her rider was just as much a disappointment to her as she to him, Twinkle began to trot delicately in the direction of the He-She-and It-Ship, following a line of Gil-Bar wrappers. After some hours, Snigga, Schnozza and Sedric roused themselves from their earnest bodily crevice investigations and set off on foot in pursuit, quickly overtaking Soregum and the daintily treading pony.

Thus continued the journey of the small, dark, cloaked figure, his little pony and the three misshapen Trackers.

* Astute readers may have noticed that the foodfight in fact took place to the west of the position of Soregum and his companions, rather than in the direction of the rising sun to the east, but does such trivial detail really matter in a tale of such epic proportions as that which is relayed in these documents?

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[Birdland]

SAVE - H.O.U.S.es (Hyenas of Unusual Size) show up to scavenge the battlefield, drawn by the scent of wasted bacon and flamed troll.

(Actually, I think that says it all, don't you? I mean, I may never actually need to fill in this "save", y'know? Just let your imaginations fill in the blanks... well, except for the H.O.U.S.es, of course. We all know what those look like...what WAS Peter Jackson thinking, anyway!?...Ah, but I digress. So, without further ado - Cue the scavengers. Stage Left.)

The effects of the Trollen (Trollish? Trollesque?) laze-bread on the This-And-That-Ship was everything that was promised, so it is not surprising that even the sharp but shapely Elven orbs of Merisuwyniel were slow to detect the arrival of certain skulking forms flitting through the trees and silently soaring overhead. Even the sound of a couple of firkins being rolled into place and tapped failed to distract the party from their post-troll feast stupor.

But as lovely Pimpiowyn reached and lanquidly pluck a mushroom from the congealed remains of Suprakool, a dark, gliding shadow fell across the sodden box. With the greatest of effort she tipped her glistening chin to the sky and commented, to no one in particular "Huh. Vultures."

At that same moment a polite cough from behind drew her attention to the pack of H.O.U.S.es (Hyenas Of Unusual Size) which now surrounded the Gallowship. The largest H.O.U.S. of them all then stepped forward, nodded towards the stack of laze-bread and asked politely, "Uh, were you going to finish that?"

[ August 20, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Before Pimpiowyn could answer in the affirmative, Merisuwyniel hastened to speak. “I think we have had all that we care for,” she said, matching the polite tone of the leader’s voice. “You are welcome to help yourself to the rest.”

“Thank you!” he replied, motioning his followers to approach with a turn of his mighty head.

“Noooooooooo!” the half-hobbit maiden cried out, unwilling to give up the foodstuffs, difficult as they might be to digest.

Her betrothed awoke and, seeing her being threatened, as he thought, by wild beasts, reached out for his arrows. The ensuing scuffle aroused the others of the Itship, and thus the peaceful cooperation of different races which could have been sealed at their first contact was ruined by a misunderstanding, as has so often happened in the history of man/Elf/Dwarf/Hobbit-kind. (Oops, sorry, Chrys – Dragonkind too)

Arrows flew, swords flashed, axe swung, teeth were bared (yes, those of the H.O.U.S.es as well) and it was a wonder that none of the companions was killed in the fray. Fortunately, the following flight was in the direction of their intended journey, thus providing some forward action for the plot, finally! It would not have been entirely clear to onlookers, had there been any (whatever happened to all of the people at the Bacon-Binge? Chrys? Chrysophylax Dives, do you know anything about that?? Isn’t it enough that Orogarn lost his city without losing his people as well???), which side was fleeing and which pursuing.

In a mad attempt to do something, whether it made sense or not, Orogarn jumped onto the back of one of the H.O.U.S.es; it ran even faster, trying to shake him off. He clung tightly, though it headed for a cliff which appeared mysteriously before them. In the struggle, the chain with his crystal pendant loosened and fell off, just before the beast plunged over the edge of the cliff, into a river below. This raging water was marked on no map of the country and indeed there was no one who knew its name.

Those of the Itship who had thought practically (yet femininely, as Merisuwyniel did) had mounted their horses and were close behind. They gasped in distress upon seeing the son of the leader of Grundor disappear before their very eyes. Vogonwë vaulted off Tweedledum’s back with a double somersault combined with a flip around the animal’s neck and ran to the edge of the cliff. There lay the crystal pendant of Orogarn; he picked it up with a mournful expression on his face and tucked it into his pocket. Perhaps it would provide him with the necessary inspiration for a funeral ode.

Since none of them had ever paid attention to Orogarn’s steed (indeed, did anyone even know its name? It might have been Brego… ) no one noticed that it had left the group to search for its master. Who knows why it had developed such a sudden liking for him, leading to that devout loyalty?

“We must try to save him!” Merisuwyniel exclaimed. “But how shall we find him? Which direction should we take? And how can we cross yon river?”

She turned an untypically helpless gaze to the man who would have been her stepfather, had her mother lived. Earnur Etceteron paused, lost in deep thought before proclaiming, “We must go down-stream! The current will carry him in that direction.”

“Nonsense!” Kuruharan objected. “No fully-armed warrior can float on water!”

“It’s possible,” Pimpiowyn piped up. “This is, after all, a fantasy quest, so you can expect willing suspension of disbelief from those participating.”

The Gateskeeper said nothing. He was familiar with the principle of willing suspension of disbelief, since he expected that of customers who bought his soft wares, trusting the full-blown promises that he made.

Vogonwë was contemplating rhymes for the funeral ode he planned, so he obviously did not agree with his beloved’s theory.

In the meantime, what had happened to their newly-found foes, you ask? Well, the H.O.U.S.es, apparently a race with strong suicidal instincts, had followed their leader over the cliff in gross overestimation of their swimming skills and so found an untimely end.

Thus was the Fellow/Galship unhindered as its members rode in search of their comrade and of a continuing plotline.

[Diamond18]

As they rode slowly along (as the Itship was quite incapable of doing anything in a timely manner) Vogonwë lifted his voice in a melancholy dirge, extolling the virtues of Orogarn Two and lamenting his untimely demise (as, being a member of the Itship, his demise could not be timely):

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy hair was so unchanging
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy hair was so unchanging

It was big, in 80’s style, no matter
If that’s been out of style, for a while

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy hair was so unchanging

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You did not need a horsey
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You did not need a horsey

You stood so tall and noble
You always walked but never hobbled

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You did not need a horsey

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You stood in Grungy beauty
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You stood in Grungy beauty

To your father you did your duty
While the girls admired thy blue clad booty

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
You stood in Grungy beauty

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy fashion was trend setting
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy fashion was trend setting

Your shirt was green like a tree bough
And the sword on it did glow

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy fashion was trend setting

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy life was snuffed out cruelly
O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy life was snuffed out cruelly

You showed a certain lack of wit,
By taking that lemming-thing by the bit

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
Thy life was snuffed out cruelly

O Orogarn, O Orogarn
We will miss you truly
O Orogarn, O Orogarn,
We will miss you truly

We will remember you always, pal
While we use your nifty crystal

O Orogarn, O Orogarn,
We will miss you truly

“Vogonwë,” Merisu said, “don’t you think that singing a funeral lament before we are assured of our friend’s death is, perhaps, not in the best taste?”

“Perhaps not, but I cannot wash this lazey taste from my mouth,” Vogonwë replied, “and it is certainly not the best taste.”

“Whatever,” Pimpi commented, and they rode on in silence.

[Kuruharan]

Translator’s Note
The writings of Deeproot the Ent are interrupted at this point by a interesting treatise written by none other than Chrysophylax Dives. Thus far, this is the only known statement by a participant in these events written in response to this famous tome. Evidently, when Chrysophylax read this history he felt that in a matter or two his honor had been besmirched. Here in its (sort of) entirety is the statement of Chrysophylax Dives.

To Whom it May Concern:

Upon learning of the august efforts of the noble and scholarly Deeproot the Ent to record the magnificent deeds of the loose association of various hero-type persons, known in short as the Gallowship, I was delighted that my selfless acts of daring-do would be remembered throughout all time. However, it has come to my attention that the learned Deeproot (undoubtedly the result of deep-rooted prejudices against my fire-breathing and wood-burning nature) has cast a few aspersions in the general direction of my ancient and imperial person.

whatever happened to all of the people at the Bacon-Binge? Chrys? Chrysophylax Dives, do you know anything about that?? Isn’t it enough that Orogarn lost his city without losing his people as well???

In this particular matter I believe that an unfair accusation has been made against me. There are a few points to be made that I believe will reveal matters in their true light.

1) I should like to point out that the reference in question occurred in the aftermath of a bloody riot where large numbers of unarmed Grundorians were massacred at the instigation of a half-halfling and her weedy boyfriend. This incident was hardly my fault. It also sufficiently explains the subsequent absence of onlookers, spectators, witnesses, bystanders, sightseers, rubber-neckers, and Peeping Toms. Everyone in the general area had been ruthlessly butchered by the gallant and intrepid Questers.

Translator’s Note
A long discourse on various courageous and underappreciated acts by Chrysophylax Dives is omitted in this manuscript. It contained many references that proved difficult to verify, and there are some authorities who feel that much of the information contained in the omitted section flirts with the nether-regions of dishonesty. The statement resumes with Chrysophylax’s second point.

2) With regards to the unfortunate destruction of Minus Teeth, I have stated in many different places that it was a most regrettable accident that was not entirely my responsibility. I more than made up for this particular mishap with my glorious Twenty-four Labors, which included financing the rebuilding of the Citibank.

Translator’s Note
The reference to Chrysophylax’s bankrolling the reconstruction of the Citibank is murky at best. Unfortunately, the records of the rebuilding of Minus Teeth are such a morass of red tape, committee reports, contractor’s excuses, demands for payment, death threats, various members of the Board of Directors loudly accusing each other of all sorts of depravity, hidden legislation to defraud the merchants of the New Great Mall of Missing Dentures, litigation from the merchants of the New Great Mall of Missing Dentures when they found out about the Government’s little scheme, the gleeful gloating of the honorable Judge who heard the case because it gave him an opportunity to stick it to some of the politicians who had given him a great deal of trouble back in the days of his confirmation hearings, the obituary for the unfortunate Judge whose body was found the next day in a sack in the river, the desperate fumblings of the Proctor in an attempt to appear to be "doing something" about the woeful lack of progress being made in the construction, tabloid articles regarding the embarrassing incident when the Proctor was caught in flagrante delicto with his secretary, the impeachment proceedings of the Proctor by the Board of Directors, the hilarious accounts of the disgrace of the Board of Directors when a late-night panty raid went horribly awry (which generally proved the earlier accusations that the members of the Board of Directors had made against each other), the documented evidence of an understanding reached between the contractors and the merchants of the New Great Mall of Missing Dentures to make the government pay through the nose for the rebuilding, *deep gasp for air*, the execution notices for the contractors and the merchants after the Proctor found out about it, strikes by the workers because they were not getting paid, strikes by the military because they were not getting paid for suppressing the workers, bills at posh restaurants to the account of the Proctor for $15,000 martini lunches, numerous secret payments to a mysterious "Madame X" (the significance of which is still debated in most circles), reports by the police of sightings of a winged lizard-like monster raiding the bank vaults in the middle of the night, and complaints by the city manager that while the new Palace of the Proctor was finished the rest of the city languished in a general state of dilapidation, that it is really impossible to discern what happened, or indeed, how the city was rebuilt at all.

The remainder of Chrysophylax’s statement is an elegy on his own heroics during his dubious Labors, which has little to do with the story at hand. Said story will now be resumed forthwith.

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Fellow/Galship rode alongside the unknown river for days, always looking for signs that Orogarn might have survived his fall, but they found nothing. It was fortuitous that the river flowed westwards, so that they were able to travel in the direction for which they were bound while still keeping up the illusion of searching for their comrade.

“We draw nigh to the land of your father,” Merisuwyniel remarked to Pimpiowyn. “Are you familiar with it?”

“I was last there as a child,” she replied. “I remember nothing of it, yet I long to see it and to dig for taters – I mean, for my roots.”

They stopped riding, for the river took a bend and now obstructed their path. Wide it flowed before them, and it was impossible to fathom its depth. No bridge nor ford (nor general motor boat) could be seen, nor was there a ferrary nearby.

“Alas, that Orogarn is not with us!” exclaimed Merisuwyniel. “He, being trained in the arts of dental construction in Minus Teeth, would certainly have known how to build a bridge over this river.”

“What we need is a boat,” Etceteron offered with his usual perceptiveness.

“But there is no boat here,” said Pimpiowyn, expert at stating the obvious succinctly.

“‘Boat’ rhymes with ‘float’,” mused Vogonwë helpfully.

“Chrysophylax and I could fly to the harbour of Missland, where the expert shipbuilders live,” Kuruharan suggested suddenly. “We could purchase plans for building a chip – I mean, ship - there.”

“No need to spend money on plans,” interrupted Gateskeeper. “I can search for them on-a-line for free.” He proceeded to rummage through his baggage, finding a string which bound documents together. “I’m sure there is something… Ah, here it is! ‘The Guaranteed Unsinkable Ship!’”

Eagerly the others gathered around him, thankful for his apparently unselfish help.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Weeks later, with many setbacks, crashes and costs for materials that they hadn’t expected at the planning stage, their boat was finished. It looked good, thanks to the nice surface, so they boarded without any doubts. If it seemed a bit wobbly, what with luggage, horses and other paraphernalia, they attributed that to their lack of knowledge of seafaring ways. Kuruharan refused to join them, choosing rather to fly across on Chrysophylax. Soon they were on the other side, waiting for their companions to arrive.

At first they revelled in the luxury deck, enjoying the food and telling entertaining tales. But after some time, Pimpiowyn became impatient, wanting a glimpse of their goal. She ran to the front of the boat, leaning over the railing and spreading her arms wide in a gesture of welcome to the land that lay before them. Vogonwë, fearing for her safety, rushed to hold her. That was too much for the craft – it began to lean forwards, then to sink slowly but inexorably.

The members of the Itship rushed about helplessly, seeking for lifeboats or at least life vests. They now realized that there had been only one, and it was already in the water, with the Gateskeeper rowing toward the shore. Merisuwyniel kept her wits about her, but though she knew the Entish Bow would float, she doubted that it could hold her above water, much less the others as well. Her clothing was practical (yet feminine) on land, but not at all suitable for water sports. Would their quest come to an untimely end? Would she and her comrades drown in the murky floods? Could the horses swim? Would the Bow become water-logged and sink? And would she ever get the mudstains out of her blouse?

Just as she thought that her life was over, she heard someone cry, “The Sea-Gulls are coming!” Chrysophylax had finally aroused himself to save them, at an exorbitant price, of course, but before he could do so, huge birds came flying low, grasping them in their claws and carrying them to the shore. There they lay, gasping for breath and hardly able to thank their unexpected saviours. The fair fowls had flown away with nary a thought for reward, leaving Merisuwyniel and her companions grateful, though Chrysophylax and Kuruharan were disappointed at the lost opportunity for monetary gain. The Gateskeeper used the moment of confusion to rejoin them as if nothing had happened.

There they sat, as dirty as the earth upon which they had taken place, thereby almost invisible to all but the keenest eyes. The sound of thunder prompted them to look up at the sky, hoping for a welcome shower, but not a cloud could be seen. By the time they realized that the only cloud near them was made of dust and approaching rapidly, the riders were almost upon them.

Merisuwyniel stood bravely and proudly, despite her bedraggled appearance, and shouted, “What news of the Mike, Riders of Soreham?”

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

When Earnur had mentioned boats he had never envisaged the weeks of construction that had gone into their ill-fated cruise liner. He had, of course, meant the pencil-thin coxed twelves that he had first encountered on the turgid waters of the Tame River in distant Morbîrsluv*, city of knowledge.

Naturally he had hoped that his many years behind the oar, during which he had developed his fine sword-arm and high alcoholic tolerance, would finally come in useful. The plans, however, made no mention of oars, manned womaned or even Elved; although they did appear to include two bars and a section labelled Dûtî Frë. On the face of it this seemed more than a little superfluous for a fifteen-minute journey, but according to Harlindon and Wolf's design it was essential if vehicles or horses were to be carried. True to his new-found sobriety he stocked the bars with water, various flavours of lemonade and some alcohol-free horse linament that Kuruharan had sold him, before rewarding himself with a nice cup of scented herbal tea.

The crossing had been mostly uneventful. The usual massive orange whirlpools and swirling fractals had sported delicately with periwigged Nereids in the limpid purple waters of the river. The sky had rung with the gentle close-harmony singing of countless badgers, and although at one point the unsinkable boat had appeared to founder like a lump of granite he was certain that this had been an hallucination. Why would giant seagulls rescue him from drowning? How, indeed, could they lift a man in full armour? No, only the wrong sort of herbs in one's tea or an undigested nocturnal feast could cause such bizarre visions. He felt a brief stab of pity for anyone who could be convinced by so feeble a device as he wrung out his hauberk.

Fortunately the oilskin wrappings and Pinkjin's extraordinary aquatic ability had saved the priceless herbs of Dun Sóbrin, and some freak eddies in the current had taken care of the larger bar. He had time to fill his pipe from a random pouch and grab the ersatz Martini he had saved from the titanic wreck before the advent of the Riders of the Mike and the next phase of the trip.

~~~~~~~~~~~
* The location of this ancient city of learning and culture is unclear. Indeed in many accounts the name appears to refer to two distinct places. The literal modern English translation is 'Bridge of the Oxen'

[Mister Underhill]

The Riders of the Mike thundered down upon the Itship, the pounding hooves now deafening, the billowing dust raised by their stamping choking the air, the very ground trembling with the force of their passage. The Riders galloped past the bedraggled adventurers, then looped around, enclosing them in an ever-tightening circle.

The Lord of Dun Sóbrin swayed on his feet as he watched the circling horsemen. Closing one eye and squinting the other down tight in an attempt to restore equilibrium, he suspiciously eyed the half-empty cocktail glass which he had heroically managed to rescue even in the confusion of the shipwreck and the airlift of the Gulls. Not a single drop had been spilt, and a colorful miniature parasol was still cocked at a jaunty angle on the rim of the glass.

‘Where’s that music coming from?’ asked Pimpi.

‘You hear it too?’ asked Grrralph.

A dramatic orchestral swell rose above the thunder, complementing it, lending it an air of grandeur and portentousness where it might otherwise have seemed as threatening as a mounted Springle-ring at a First Planting fair. Without realizing it, the members of the Gallowship were suddenly gripped by the aching loneliness of the plain, the simple joys and daily pains of a hard life carved out of a rugged country. They felt the freedom of the wind in their hair at full gallop, became drunk on the smell of sweaty, lathered horseflesh and the rich tang of equine droppings returned to feed the wild green fields in a cycle that had repeated itself for Ages of Man and Elf. They felt the inexorable bowing of their knee joints, and their quadriceps and hamstrings throbbed with the soreness of long hours spent in the saddle, day after day, week after week, year after endless year.

It soon was clear that many of the Riders of the Mike were playing instruments as they rode – cellos and Fraûg horns, violins and violas, drums and cymbals. Those not playing chanted in a strange, unintelligible, but nonetheless pleasing tongue. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled by a rather thin bass arrangement, but then the Itship noted three riderless horses to which the smashed and broken remains of two double-basses and a tuba had been lashed, and the mournful effect of the music was redoubled.

The Riders tightened the circle as the melody built towards a crescendo. One hapless cellist grew dizzy and tumbled from his mount with a twang of snapping strings, but his fellow Riders, all battle-hardened troupers, never paused or missed a beat. The music climaxed with a ringing smash of cymbals, and on cue the Riders checked their mounts and faced them in towards the surrounded Itship.

A haunting soprano voice soared in the sudden silence. Its somber call was answered by a solo violin from somewhere in the back. The Riders lapsed into a low chanting, and the front rank of horsemen lowered their weapons at Merisuwyniel and her companions. These weapons consisted of a thin steel shaft tipped with three long prongs bent outwards at sharp angles. Each Rider gripped the shaft of his weapon with one hand, while his other held a handgrip set at a slanted angle at its base. These handgrips were held cocked near the mouths of the men, almost as if they were chanting into them. Many a foe had felt the bite of this peculiar weapon of the Sorethighhim, known as a mikestand.

One Rider, taller than the rest, edged his mount forward. A long crest of peacock feathers fanned from the top of his helm. Merisuwyniel felt a brief pang of envy and admiration for his rather glamorous headdress. The Rider lowered his mikestand, from which long colorful scarves flowed, and spoke forcefully into the handgrip in the Common Speech, ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?’

Merisuwyniel absently brushed back a lock of hair which had fallen quite fetchingly across one eye and opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word in edgewise, a low roar like the sound of a floodwater blasting through a narrow gorge arose. There was a dark blur of motion from the back, and almost before their eyes could register what was happening, a thickly built Rider drove straight at the horseman who had spoken. The charging Rider leapt from his horse and exploded into the speaker with a square, hard hit that sent both rider and mount flying. They flipped over twice, rebounded off a nearby boulder, and flopped violently onto the hardpacked earth in a sprawl of limbs, feathers, and harness.

‘Whoooo!’ whooped the new Rider. He was powerfully built, and his thick, long legs were so bowed that he was able to straddle both horse and rider as they cringed in the dirt. ‘Whoooo!’ he added for good measure. He wagged a thick finger in their faces. ‘Yoman, you know you can’t come up in here greetin’ these fools in Westestosterone, *****!¹ You know it’s the will of Théboleggen King that don’t nobody, I mean NOBODY, enter the gates of Improvas if they ain’t down with how we rap in our house! That ain’t new, baby!’

Merisuwyniel demurely cleared her throat, and the giant spun on the Itship. Black eyes blazed out of the Rider’s wide face. A glistening sheen of sweat coated his hairless head and thick, muscular arms. Two thick strokes of black warpaint were smeared under each eye, and a bandage was fixed across the bridge of his nose. He had the look of a man who had recently seen battle, or maybe who was just always ready for battle. He was clad in a tunic of fine steel mesh woven with glittering rhînestones which seemed barely able to contain his bulk. The rhînestones were artfully arranged in the pattern of two curious sigils:
http://www.barrowdowns.com/underhill/pics/rune.jpg
Vogonwë cocked his head. ‘Quickly, what rhymes with “freight train”?’ But before anyone could answer, he did it himself. ‘Migraine! Of course!’ He groped for his quill and a dry scrap of parchment.

‘Who are you?’ asked Merisuwyniel, allowing a rippling golden forelock to fall fetchingly across her eye once more. Few mortal men could meet those sparkling eyes for long without feeling it in their scabbard, but the Rider seemed focused and unaffected.

‘Who am I? Who AM I? I’m Érry son of Tait the Terrible, Middle Lhinebhacker of the Quexchinmike, man, that’s who I am. Who the **** are you? You can’t come tippy-toein’ up here heckling me in my kitchen! You just entered Érry’s Equestrian Event of Pain! Your ***** must be crazy!’

Etceteron sipped at his cocktail. ‘This, I guess, is the speech of the Sorethighhim, for it is like to this land itself, wild, untamed, and full of dirt.’

‘But does anyone here speak it?’ asked Merisuwyniel.

‘I never bothered,’ replied Kuruharan. ‘Why should I? These Horse Lords never have more than two pennies to rub together. Always looking to trade chickens or “special fertilizer” for good merchandise. It likes to make me sick.’

‘A few more of these and I can do a rough approximation of it,’ said Etceteron, draining his glass. ‘But under the circumstances...’

The Lord of Dun Sóbrin threw down the empty glass and gripped the haft of his blade. A low growl began to build in Érry’s throat. The chanting of the Riders grew louder and more urgent. Things might have gone ill then, but the Gateskeeper sprang between them, adjusting his spectacles, and said, ‘I think I can help.’

He raised his staff to his lips and began to speak into it in the manner of the Sorethighhim.

___________________________
¹ The language of the Mike is a strange and salty tongue which may sound harsh and violent to modern ears. As in other parts of this translation, asterisks have been used to shield the Innocence of young and impressionable readers.

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper, as in the incident of the trolls, was knowledgeable in many languages ancient and current. From the common languages of Muddled-Mirth he seldom strayed, but could at need negotiate in the cryptic Sea Language of the Eunuchs he had long battled. He was even versant in the ancient dinosaurian dialect of Kho'bal, for their kind was not then extinct, nor were the main of their frames yet decayed unto the dust.

"Yo, don' be talkin' that **** to my posse, dawg!" said Gateskeeper to the Middle Lhinebhacker in a voice laced with a healthy dose of bad attitude, pronouncing the asterisks with just the right amount of flying spittle. "Yo' don' know pain 'till yo' dis deez bad homeys. Dey'd knock yo' head clean off if yo' could just stan' up strait on yo bo-legs!" The music of the riders, which had been sounding an ominous melody rising to a crescendo, was suddenly silent, in shock that so small a man would dare challenge...him.

Érry son of Tait the Terrible had never had anyone address him thus. Even the leaders of the Mike had fearful respect for Érry. His job was to keep even the mighty among the Sorethighhim from straying from the laws of the land and the will of their king, and many were the bruiséd among this Sorhéd of the Mike because Érry had caught them in some minor misdeed with a flying tackle. One rider, his arm in a sling, was the victim of Érry's gentle correction when he tried to clean his spear without the required spear-mint polish.

When the music resumed after a couple of beats of silence, it was subtly changed -- no less triumphant and sad than before, but with a thumping rhythm that seemed to shake the ground, and odd noises that sounded much like the spasmodic screetches of a drowning cat -- Érry's favorite music to tackle by. Érry's eyes grew narrow as he regarded Gateskeeper up and down, seeing in him only a skinny n'erd, the Sorthighhim term for the weak and craven souls with poor fashion taste. "Yo' could'n even clean my stable, white-trash geek-boy. Don' make me op'n up a fresh can o' medieval on yo butt, 'cause when Érry's th'name, pain's th'game! Whooooo!!" Érry finished with a flourish, finger in the face of the bespectacled man with the bad haircut. Gateskeeper did not flinch, but the chanting of the riders subsided a bit, in a musical embodiment of the phrase, "Guess he done tol' you, sucka!"

Vogonwe listened carefully to the challenge unfolding before him, trying furiously to write down all the new words he was hearing, in case any of them might provide a rhyme when he was otherwise stuck, marvelling at the Gateskeeper's command of language. The Lord of Dun Sobrin kept his hand to his sword in pretense of being ready to attack, when all he fervently wished was for Érry to use that bulging bicep to punch Gateskeeper's pimply face. Still, he had to give Gateskeeper points for courage, even though Érry was about to squash him to jelly -- this was the second time in as many subplots that Gateskeeper had intervened to save the It-ship from destruction, and Earnur knew he owed him big time. Even Merisu looked with fresh awe (for she had none left over from the last time) at the skinny geek kid, and though her pure heart was still pining for the loss of her beloved Gravlox it skipped a beat beholding the raw bravery before her.

Gateskeeper, of course, was nothing of the sort. Though the It-ship still did not know it, he was a wizard of some power, and knew he had the upper hand (and the lower one too for that matter). The very air that filled the distance between their locked eyes seemed to smoulder as he quietly folded his glasses and placed them in their case in his shirt-pocket, next to his three quills in their leather pocket-protector. Gripping his staff, he allowed a tense beat to pass before he spoke his challenge, "Well c'mon, then, girly-man, bring it!" There was collective gasp among both the Sorethighhim and the It-ship as they backed up a few paces. Érry uttered a loud growl as by blind instinct he dropped to a three-point stance, and Gateskeeper matched the motion, keeping the staff balanced in his free hand.

One of the riders called out, "Down!" "Set!" "Hut HUT!" Upon hearing the second "hut" Érry detonated from his position towards the Gateskeeper in a rush of muscles and chainmail. Gateskeeper too streamed out from his stance with a quickness born of outrunning disgruntled armed customers. The second before the two contestants converged seemed to slow to a crawl, each step hanging in the air like a dream-sequence of a slow-motion replay of a geriatric footrace. Yet Gateskeeper awaited his opportune moment, and just before the two of them were actually to collide, when Érry's huge bulk would cover the flash-that-always-accompanies-magic he lowered his shoulder and muttered a Word of Command-line, "firewall.exe!"

The effect was astounding. Érry bounced off Gateskeeper's momentary shoulder-mounted magic firewall as if he'd run face first into a granite monolith, flying 6 feet through the air and landing in an undignified manner on his rump, dazed. The It-ship immeidiately broke into cheers and whoops of joy as Gateskeeper did an odd dance of celebration, screaming "Uh-HUH! Who's yo' daddy?! Pain awaits, beware the Gates! Whoooo!!" The riders of Soreham looked vexed and sullen on their side, and their music became sad and defeated.

Érry shook his head to clear the effects of the sacking. Though the world was still spinning like a lazy corkscrew he saw Gateskeeper standing over him in token of conciliation, extending his hand to help him up. Upon rather unsteadily regaining his feet, Érry looked at Gateskeeper, smiled, and slapped him on the rump, saying, "nice hit, dawg. C'mon over to Improvas, lemme buy yo' an' yo' posse a drink." "I be down wi' dat," Gateskeeper grinned in return, then rejoined the It-ship on the sidelines, who welcomed him with much backslapping and dumping of cold water upon his head.

[Mithadan]

Following the musical arrival of the Quexchinmike (which he had enjoyed thoroughly, it was all so...musical), Grrralph had moved forward to the front of the Gallowship to stand beside Merisu. None of the Riders bore weapons which might harm him and he had no intention of allowing the ranks of his friends... errr... acquaintances... err... colleagues to be further reduced ("...accrued benefits, including medical, dental or pension are forfeit in the event that all members of an adventuring group are slain..." Standard Form Adventurers Contract, Paragraph 122(b)(17)(ix)(d)).

Thus, he was nonplussed by Érry's testosterone-tainted challenge, and was quietly debating the merits of using a combination of his morningstar and his whip (very effective when dealing with mounted foes) in the apparently upcoming battle when the Gateskeeper threw down and dissed the Rider. He quickly threw Kuruharan a fiver, taking the odds on Érry and stepped back to watch the mayhem. It had been some time since he'd witnessed a suicide...

What followed was surprising. Not only did he lose his bet, but he heard the Gateskeeper utter a phrase of a type he had heard before. But where? Then, he was struck by a flash of insight. Ignoring the pain, he reviewed his memory of a scene on a battlefield from not long ago. His former employer had backed a group of up-and-comers in a brief war against a mysterious force. The Eunuchs of Pea-Sea had performed admirably, multitasking their way through the battle which had ended in a draw. But during the battle he had heard a cry like the phrase Gateskeeper had whispered.

Moreover, it had seemed familiar even then. His faulty memory had failed him, but he had seemed to recall from his pre-wraith past...something. Something about an anti-trust and breach of contract suit against the International Brotherhood of Môgul (yes, IBM) a subsidiary of Môgul Enterprises, LLC. Not that he had any idea what "anti-trust" meant. A suit was, of course something you wore.

Here, unsurprisingly, his memory failed him again and he filed the insight away in the "miscellaneous" folder, along with the vague memories of a rubber duck in a bathtub and a breakfast of rice crispies. Returning to the here and now after his brief detour, Grrralph found the members of the Gallowship cheering, jumping and clapping the Gateskeeper on the back. Merisu in particular seemed exhilarated, leaping about vigorously with her luxurious hair seeming to flow rather than wave in the wind. She did not notice that her bow had fallen off her shoulder.

Grrralph bent and picked it up. It seemed to vibrate in a peculiar manner. Then, to his surprise, it spoke. "Here now, are you just going to admire me or are you going to to give me back?"

He caressed the wood gently and turned reluctantly to return it to Merisu. Even as he handed it over, he recalled the words of his fellow ThingWraith from several days before. "Damn volcano, there goes our free ride.." No, not those words. Wrong story. How about: "he told me to be on the lookout for some missing blocks of wood..." Grrralph looked at the bow on the Elf's shoulder for a moment, then looked away to the east...towards Moredough...

[The Saucepan Man]

As Grrralph gazed East, a baleful eye or three gazed darkly back at him and his companions from the depths of the Land of Shadowy Deals.

A peculiar, strangled, gurgling sound issued forth from the leather armchair where Môgul Bildûr sat intently watching the images flickering on the Sate-lantir before him and gently stroking the fluffy ball of mangy white fur on his lap. The sound gradually increased in intensity until it became a hoarse, rasping roar laden with malice. Strangely enough, it turned out to be a laugh.

“It goes well, my friends”, cackled Môgul, addressing no-one in particular.

“Indeed it doesss, my Lord”, hissed Greedhog, sensing that a reply was required and happy to provide it seeing as he charged by the hour and was keen to prolong the usefulness of his presence in the chamber for as long as was able. In any event, the only other occupants of the room were three off-duty Nazgûl and, since they were frolicking in the background practising a new dance routine that they had just worked out, it was clear to Greedhog that it was up to him to play the sidekick role in the exposition of the Dread Developer’s machinations that he sensed was imminent.

“It is clear that this company of witless fools is no match for my power,” gloated Môgul. “When the time comes, I will crush each one of them like so many non-gender specific ants.” As a Dark Lord, it was, of course, Môgul’s unassailable right to assume with unshakeable confidence that his victory would prevail, despite all precedent to the contrary. “But for now, Greedhog,” he continued “we have them well and truly ensnared. They cannot make a move but that we know of it.”

“Yesss. The ssspies of Moredough are everywhere, my liege”, replied Greedhog darkly.

“What news of Minus Teeth?”

Greedhog smiled a smug and self-satisfied smile. “The Proctor had no choice but to take the loan offered to him by our agentsss. And thanks to the dark cloud of Lítig-aî-Shön with which we have enveloped the city, his finances are ssstretched to the limit.”

“Ah yes, Lítig-aî-Shön,” purred Môgul reflecting with twisted pleasure on the power of the Black Art, known mockingly in the Common Tongue as Dispute Resolution, which had been developed and perfected over many years by the Amber Lance Chasers, the most cruel and depraved of the Loyers who worked within the deepest dungeons of the Dark Tower Block. The people of Minus Teeth, their sense of grievance heightened to the full, had been powerless to resist the evil force as it swept through their city, turning neighbour against neighbour, servant against master and citizen against governor, indeed anyone on the lookout to make a quick buck from their misfortune against anyone else that they could pin it on and who appeared to have the means to pay. The Proctor had of course presented the most obvious target for their frenzy, since it was generally assumed (albeit wrongly) by all and sundry that he was loaded and that it was all probably covered by insurance anyway.*

“Soon it shall be ours, Greedhog,” continued Môgul. “And, with it, the lands of Ethyline, Listerine and Dol Amstel. The hapless citizens will have no choice but to bow down to me as their Overlord. lol! i is so kool1 **** i rOol!!!!!!!!” he exclaimed, lapsing into the Black Speech of Slangbad in his enthusiasm.

A cacophonous clamour barely recognisable as laughter rang round the chamber again as Môgul contemplated with satisfaction the other deals that were currently in the pipeline. The Loyers of Gul-Duldor were on the verge of closing a lucrative Sale and Leaseback Deal with the Elves of Topfloorien who, judging that their time in Muddled-Mirth was coming to an end, were quite content to relinquish permanent ownership of their lands in return for handsome reward, notwithstanding its source. Môgul shivered with devilish delight in anticipation of gaining title to the luxury shopping malls and high-rent apartments of the Salad Realm. And messengers had been dispatched to the Dwarven Kingdom of Trebor, with its rich sherbet mines. Môgul fancied that the Dwarves of that land would have few qualms over accepting Moredough’s (literally) filthy lucre in return for a quick deal.

And all the while preparations were underway for the charm offensive that was to follow in the wake Môgul Enterprises’ hostile take-over of the lands of Muddled-Mirth. On the six hundred and sixty-sixth floor of the Dark Tower Block, an army of I-Mage Consultants and Gurus of the ancient art of Pé-Är (an art which some said was first practised in Valleyum itself) had joined with the dreaded Whirling Physicians of S’pín to fulfil the brief given to them by the Dread Developer: to make evil the new good. And in the grog-soaked and pipeweed-stained gloom of their offices, they faithfully toiled away, devising slogans, poster campaigns, free-gift promotions and irritating Cell-antir messages, labouring to achieve leading brand status for the Red Nostril (ahead even of McDonelds, Pûkel-Cola and Mireboro pipeweed). Môgul himself was particularly pleased with a series of portraits which had been produced depicting him as a devilishly attractive man with a smart goatee beard and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, tagged “Môgul: the acceptable face of evil”.

Soon the negotiations would be over. The battle for the advertising space of Muddled-Mirth would begin.

Still chuckling to himself, Môgul turned his attention back to the Satel-antir, watching as the His-and-Hers-Ship bonded with the Sorethighim. As the Gateskeeper came into view, a thought occurred to him and he waved a nebulous pseudopodium over the flickering orb. Instantaneously, consternation spread over the Gateskeeper’s face as he withdrew from the company and reached surreptitiously for his Cell-antir.

“Hello, Gatesy,” snarled Môgul menacingly.

“You shouldn’t be calling me at work,” the Gateskeeper hissed back. “What do you want?” Then, belatedly remembering the correct etiquette for addressing a Dark Lord, he continued “Er … I mean it’s a pleasure to hear from you, O Mighty Embodiment of Evil. How may this humble servant be of service to your Majectic Malignant Maleficence?”

“I see that you have hooked up with the Men of the Mike. You will no doubt be aware that the land Soreham is one of my intended acquisitions.”

“Well … er …”

“My agent has the ear of Théboleggen King and bends him to my will as we speak. Soon, the empty plains will be replete with row upon row of soulless semi-detached suburban dwellings.” Môgul’s rasping voice lapsed into a rasping chuckle, as it always did when he was recounting his evil plans for the listening pleasure of anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot. “I have been breeding Orcs with Golfing-Men for the very purpose of selling off these highly desirable residences. They are the Dês-Res, the Agents of the Estate. Ten thousand strong they are. An army bred for a single purpose: to misdescribe properties to the Race of Man."

“Sounds good, O Damnable and Despicable One,” chipped in the Gateskeeper, adding hopefully “Will they have need of my soft wares?”

“All you have to do, my four-eyed friend, is to ensure the safe passage of the Whatever-Ship. Things could get messy. I want you to make sure that they don’t get caught up in it. Your efforts have pleased me so far, but it is imperative that every single piece of this accursed Broken Ent be found … just to make certain that there are no … ah … unfortunate developments.”

“I’m right on it.”

“Oh and Gatesy?”

“Yes”

“Should you fail in this task, you will find yourself making the acquaintance of the SoBig Wyrms of the Master-Blaster’d Heath.”

The colour drained from the Gateskeeper’s face. “I shall not fail you, Most Illustrious Prince of Perdition.”

“Good. This Cell-antir will self-destruct in five seconds …”

“Eh?”

“Just kidding. My new counsellors tell me that the use of humour is a key weapon in the art of selling oneself. I’m not sure that I’ve quite got the hang of it yet, though. Goodbye.”
_____________________________________________

* The small-print in the Wight City’s fire insurance policy had in fact contained an Urulóki Exclusion Clause which excluded all cover in respect of “any loss, damage, cost or expense occurring in any way whatsoever, whether directly or indirectly, in consequence of the presence in the City (hereinbefore defined), with or without the knowledge of the Policyholder, of any monstrous fire-breathing creature, whether winged or otherwise, including without prejudice to generality of the foregoing any Dragon, Fire-Drake, Fire-Serpent, Fire-Wyrm, Salamander, Hydra or Wyvern”.

[ September 02, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[ September 03, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

May the gravy of the Valium protect you.
~~ Shut up, mom! I’m trying to sleep…. ~~

What gravy is given me, let it pass to him. Let him be spared. Save him.
~~ Come on… just ten more minutes…. ~~

Orgarn, wake up already!
~~ Two! It’s Orogarn Two. How many times do I have to say it? ~~

I give up! Go ahead and drown!

* * * * * * *

Hay! You can lead a Morosa to water, but you can’t make him drink, so what in the name of Fellofftheroof are you doing floating around in the river, Oatie? There’s a wallet to be found.

* * * * * * *

Orogarn Two opened his eyes onto a cloudless blue sky blocked almost entirely by the slobbering muzzle of Singéd, the mini-Morosa sent by his father to aid him on his journey. The creature gave him an affection nudge that would have been endearing had it not pushed him beneath the surface of the body of water he was lying in. With a violent sputter, a spray of frothing bubbles, and a few colorful expletives, Orogarn Two twisted around onto his knees and gasped for breath. The frightened little horse bolted into a nearby stand of cattails where it stood shivering.

“What in the name of wonder?” he shouted to the hiding beast. A shadow came over his face, and he closed his eyes. “Of course, I remember! The Hyenas came on us, and I was worsted.” He clutched as his neck. “Ah! My crystal is gone.”

He turned his head to see that he was kneeling at the edge of a narrow river that flowed quickly by. Upstream was a rocky rapids, above which was a familiar cliff. He attempted to stand, but his legs would not hold him and he fell splashing into the water where he lay exhausted.

“Ai,” he muttered.

After a while, the friendly muzzle again prodded him, this time with less force and more care. Orogarn Two opened his eyes into the fuzzy face of his horse who stood quietly waiting, as if offering him assistance. Sensing that the little Morosa was trying to help him, Orogarn Two reached up and took a handful of its mane. Slowly and painfully he dragged himself upward until he was leaning against the horse, but when it became obvious that he would not be able to climb onto its back, Singéd laid himself down so that the Grundorian could pull himself up. With a grunt, the creature rose to its full height and plodded off away from the river with its master’s feet dangling nearly to the ground.

* * * * * * *

Hours or maybe days later, who could tell?, Orogarn Two woke to find Singéd wandering across a landscape of rolling hills and high grasses. Everywhere he looked, the view was the same, but it seemed as if the small Morosa was following a trail of some kind, so the Grundorian decided to wait and see what happened. To pass the time he, he studied one of the records he had discovered in the Citibank archives.
WESTEMNET POLICE DEPARTMENT
Arrest Report

Arrest #: 96-07-043

Date/Time Reported: 07/06/2696 @ 2103
Arrest Date/Time: 07/06/2696 @ 2109
Booking Date/Time 07/06/2696 @ 2210
Involves: Theft
Reporting Officer: Lorgal of Bredel

Bail for the Court: WESTEMNET DISTRICT COURT Set 07/06/2696 @ 2310 BSPR: 400 silver pennies
Personal Recognizance Set
-------------------------------------------
Defendant: Skinflint (Ent - Birch)
-------------------------------------------
Victim: Ecthelion I
-------------------------------------------
NARRATIVE FOR PATROLMAN LORGAL

On 7/7/96, AT APPROXIMATELY 1103, MR ECTHELION CAME TO THE STATION TO REPORT THAT HE HAD BEEN THE VICTIM OF A PICKPOCKET. THE INCIDENT IS ALLEGED TO HAVE OCCURRED IN FANGORN FOREST NEAR THE BEEF WELLINGTON ESTABLISHMENT. MR ECTHELION STATED THAT HE HAD STOPPED BY THE ESTABLISHMENT FOR A QUICK DRAUGHT AND WAS JUST LEAVING WHEN HE WAS FORCIBLY RAN INTO BY THE DEFENDANT, MR SKINFLINT. MINUTES LATER, MR ECTHELION REALIZED THAT HIS WALLET WAS MISSING AND HE SUSPECTED THE ENT WAS RESPONSIBLE. WHEN MR ECTHELION RETURNED TO THE BEEF WELLINGTON HE FOUND THE DEFENDANT BUYING ROUNDS OF STRANGEREEKS FOR EVERYONE. HE APPROACHED THE ENT AND AN ARGUMENT ENSUED THAT RESULTED IN BOTH THE DEFENDANT AND THE VICTIM TO BE DETAINED BY OTHER PATRONS. WHEN OFFICER LORGAL ARRIVED AND DID A PROBABLE CAUSE SEARCH ON MR SKINFLINT, HE DISCOVERED A WALLET BELONGING TO MR ECTHELION. MR SKINFLINT WAS IMMEDIATELY ARRESTED.

He looked up from to document to see that he had come to the ever-present swath of destruction that followed the It-ship.

"Hurry, Singéd! We've made up a lot of ground. We can't be far behind now."

[ August 28, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Diamond18]

“Merrily the Itship rode along,
Rode along, rode along,
Merrily they rode along,
Along on great big steeds.

Pimpi had her green garters on,
Garters on, garters on,
Pimpi had her garters on,
Underneath her divided skirts.”

“Vogonwë?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, dear.”

[ September 04, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel rode amidst the Fellow/Galship and the Sorethighhim, her eyes shining with excitement. Despite being an emancipated shieldmaiden, she had found the recent display of male prowess extremely exhilarating. Now that the groups had become friends, the level of Westestosterone conversation that surrounded her was quite stimulating – or perhaps the wave of feelings that came over her was encouraged by the music still being played by the Riders’ Big Band?

Ah, the music! She listened enraptured, wishing that she too could take part in creating something so wonderful. She fingered the Entish Bow, wondering if more strings could be added to make a harp of it. The agitated vibrations with which it responded to that thought caused her to abandon the notion, but the idea continued to nag at the back of her mind.

She had been trained in all of the arts a shieldmaiden needed, except music! How could it be that this important area had been neglected? All Elves, of course, can sing, for they begin to learn the art before their letters. Snatches of a song long forgotten came back to her memory:

Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk,
She says I began to sing long before I could talk…

…I have a talent, a wonderful thing,
’cause everyone listens when I start to sing…

I’ve been so lucky, I am the girl with golden hair,
I wanna sing it out to everybody:
What a joy, what a life, what a chance!

So I say:
Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing,
Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing.
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty,
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music,
For giving it to me.

Nevertheless, the fact remained – she had never learned to play a musical instrument. The knowledge rankled, and she resolved that it was imperative to fill this gap in the long list of her abilities as soon as possible.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Thus occupied, she was startled to find that they were already approaching the city of Improvas. Proudly it stood upon the crest of a rocky hill, and a glint of gold from the roof of a hall at the very top seemed to flash a greeting to them. The leader with the magnificent feathered plume, whom the others had respectfully called “Yoman” – or was it spelled “Éyoman” in their language? – guided them to a hospitable looking inn. A horse’s head upon a background which almost looked like a bed (too strange to be possible, Merisu decided, and hoped for an explanation later) swung above the open door, and its lettering pronounced this to be the Horse Head Inn.

“Here you shall find accommodations for staying in our city,” Yoman told them, “and for your horses as well – Sethamir’s Stable and Instrument Repair Shop next door will lodge your steeds. We shall come to join you as promised for welcoming drinks when we have taken care of our own mounts. The Innkeeper, Dêthderrydol, (‘a half-enigma’, he added in a whisper) will welcome you in the meantime.”

[Kuruharan]

It was late that night. So late that even the obligatory late-night partying of the Sorethighhim, and the even later-night partying of the Gallowship, had finally subsided into silence. All was quiet, except for a soothing melody that drifted through Improvas from an undisclosed location.

All slept in the city. The music continued. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the music shifted. It took on a note of unease, almost of growing danger. Perhaps not all the city slept after all.

A small but rather stout shadow slipped behind a building. A moment later a much larger shadow slunk (actually trundled is probably a better word) past. This second shadow took several moments to pass by. The tempo of the music picked up just a bit.

With almost depressing predictability someone’s greed had become inflamed at the sight of the golden roof of the hall on the hill and they were determined to filch a few tiles. Late that night they stole out of the inn (and stole is the right word for it because somebody stuck his claws into the till before they left, while out in the stables somebody else was carefully lifting some of the valuables of the inn’s other customers) and they started sneaking up the hill.

Now there was a decided note of menace in the music and the tempo continued to increase.

The two shadows reached the wall at the top of the hill that protected the Golden Music Hall. The larger shadow leaned against the wall and the small shadow climbed up the large shadow and over the wall. The bigger shadow followed.

The music became downright threatening.

A few minutes later the two shadows were on the roof of the hall looking for a likely spot to begin their operation. They huddled together for a moment to confer. The music brought to mind an image of a great predator about to pounce on its helpless prey.

There was a pause, almost as if the music was holding its breath waiting for the worst to happen.

The air was split by a furious cry…

"GOLD-PAINTED TILES!!!!" shrieked a voice.

A massive choir suddenly erupted in full-throat, howling out a horrifying piece of music calculated to raise goosebumps and twist the spine.

"AYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!" yelped the two shadows on the roof, scared into next week.

"Oh Great!!!" yelled one voice. "Now I have to change my pants!!!"

"I could have lived my entire life without knowing that!!" shouted another.

*CRASH* *BOOM* went the roof as it collapsed under their weight.

"Pawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh, Hawh…" went the choir (and from the sound of things most of the orchestra too.)

[Mithadan]

The noise of the Golden Roof's collapse and its accompanying music woke the Gallowship. They ran to the door of the Inn and watched as men ran to and fro assessing damage, carrying poles to prop up the roof and chasing shadows in an attempt to capture the perpetrators of this vile deed. In the midst of the commotion, Chrysolphylax flew in, bearing a dusty and bruised Kuruharan.
"Where have you been?" asked Etceteron suspiciously.

"Oh, just flying about, scouting out the neighboring lands," answered Kuruharan as he nonchalantly brushed masonry dust from his trousers.

"You didn't have anything to do with the collapse of the Golden Roof, did you?" asked Merisuwyniel as the Dwarf picked pieces of mortar from his beard.

"Painted!" he cried. "I mean, no! Not at all. What would I be doing with a roof anyway?" He yawned mightily. "Well, time to turn in." He turned and swept dramatically through the doors of the Inn.

The Gallowship followed, and walked through the hall towards their rooms. Suddenly, Pimpiowyn stopped. "Hungry?" asked Etceteron without much interest. "Yes!" she replied. "But where is Grrralph?" Indeed, Grrralph was nowhere to be found...

---------------------------------

...unless you happened to be on a hilltop several miles away, which was exactly where Grrralph was. He had sat quietly as the Gallowship had drunk its way through a hogshead of ale that evening and watched as they devoured platter after platter of spicy Balfrog wings. He, of course, ate and drank nothing. His...malady precluded such activities. But throughout the evening, his gaze had been drawn over and again to Merisu and the bow which was slung upon her shapely shoulder.

When the Gallowship retired to their rooms, Grrralph found that he could not sleep. He slipped out from his room and wandered down the hall until he reached Merisu's quarters. He examined the lock and then drew out a long dagger which he inserted into the keyhole. After some fiddling, he was rewarded with a click. He stood there for a moment, then sheathed the dagger and walked off into the night. He entered the stable, saddled his horse and rode off towards the east.

The hill he climbed was bare and rocky. The hilltop was cold, just like he liked it. A wind rushed from the west and the skies were clear. He tilted his head back and emitted a long drawn out wail which the wind promptly seized and carried off towards the distant Mountains of Moredough. Then he sat down and waited.

Perhaps an hour passed before the rushing of great leathery wings roused him. A Nazgul landed on the hilltop and its rider jumped down. "Oh, it's you," said the Thingwraith. "You rang Lurch?"

Grrralph bristled at the words of the Wraith and his hand...black glove, almost of its own volition reached toward the hilts of his sword. Then he stopped and stood straight before the wraith as he answered. "Ssssam," he said as pleasantly as he could manage. "How's Tricks?"

"She's fine," answered Ssssam. "But what do you want, Tall, Dark and Gruesome?"

Grrralph's breath hissed between invisible teeth. "You still haven't foregiven me I see..."

Ssssam responded in a mocking voice. "'Just go on up to the Gates of the City, Jjjjohn. Knock and maybe they'll let you in.' 'Oh don't worry about the Shieldmaiden, Jjjjohn, she can't hurt you.' 'Whoops, there goes Jjjjohn.' He was the captain of our team and you talked him into that fight."

"I thought the prophecy referred to Man as a race, not man as in a male..." snapped Grrralph.

"You thought?" hissed Ssssam. "That was your first mistake... yoooow!"

Grrralph, who stood about 2.5 meters tall, grabbed Ssssam, who was maybe 1.3 meters in platform hob-nailed boots and lifted him into the air with one...glove. The Nazgul hissed until Grrralph swatted its snout with his free glove.

"Listen screwhead," growled Grrralph. "I'm here on business! Geeeeorge told me you guys and your boss are looking for some hunks of wood. Why?"

"The Boss says they're magical and he wants 'em," squeeked the suddenly much more polite Wraith.

"What do they look like?" demanded Grrralph.

"All different shapes and sizes," whined Ssssam. "They've been crafted into bows, guitars, artificial limbs and such. Look, I'm sorry. Put me down Grrralphie, would ya?"

Grrralph dropped the very contrite Sssam into a puddle that had been created by the nervous Nazgul. "Who's your boss?" asked Grrralph.

"A cockroach, aaaaiiii!" Grrralph had placed his red spike-heeled boot onto Ssssam's chest and pressed him down into the puddle. "C'mon Grrralph, I can't take the uniform off you know. OK! It's Môgul, Môgul Bildûr!"

Grrralph stepped back. "The name's familiar, but I can't place it," he muttered.

"Why do you want to know, Grrralph?" asked Ssssam as he stood up and tried to brush the dampness off his cloak.

"I'm...thinking of changing jobs," he replied. "I thought maybe if I could find some of this wood, maybe I might be able to cut a sweet deal."

"Sure, Grrralph," said the Wraith as he backed slowly away towards his Nazgul. "We'd love to have ya!"

Grrralph stepped forward and grabbed Ssssam again. "Do something for me, junior. Find Grrruff. She's hanging out in the Gloomy Mountains, on the south side of Moredough. Send her to me."

"Sure, sure!" whispered Ssssam as the taller Wraith released him. "Right away!"

Grrralph turned and walked back to his horse. Then he stopped and called over his shoulder. "Ssssam..."

"Yeah Grrralph?" answered the second Wraith as he mounted his Nazgul.

"Don't ever call me 'Lurch'...."

[ September 04, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel had retired to her room relatively early. The males of various races, both His-and-Hers-Ship and Sorethighhim, were still vying with one another to demonstrate the degree of their friendship by consuming large amounts of intoxicating beverages. The Elven maiden had no objection to invigorating liquids, but she preferred daintily sipping miruvor or châm-pägne to guzzling ale. However, such specialties were not on stock in the common room of the Horse Head Inn; she had resorted to nibbling peppermint patties and drinking PeppermintPatty™ tea until she was weary from so much refreshment and wanted to sleep.

It seemed to her that she had just closed her eyes when spotlights went on, illuminating a stage. A dancer appeared, wearing a headpiece plumed with peacock feathers. She gasped as she recognized the face – it was her own! Other dancers joined her, music sounded, and as legs were kicked high, she realized that she was dressed only in a few feathers. That was certainly not practical, though it was undeniably feminine. Embarrassed to be seen with such minimalistic attire, she frantically looked about for a place to hide, but the music went on and on, and she could not stop dancing.

Suddenly her pointed Elven ears heard a sharp click and she awoke with a start. Breathless, she listened for further sounds, but there were none. Her hand reached for the beautiful and deadly dagger that she always kept under her pillow – a necessary precaution for a shieldmaiden, since the Bow was a bit unwieldy in close combat. When she heard no more noises, sleep again overwhelmed her.

A bright light blinded her; she was sitting on a barstool in the middle of a stage. Expectant faces looked up at her as she began to sing. Her gentle voice filled the room, accompanied by the soft strumming of an instrument. Looking down, she saw that she herself was the musician, fingers plucking the strings of a wooden object that rested on her crossed legs. She could play!

Her delight was short-lived, for she suddenly realized that the faces looking at her were leering, all of them male. She was wearing only the instrument, nothing else. And they were calling for it to be removed! She longed to be rescued, but the faces came closer, becoming more and more threatening. They crowded the stage, the boards began to tremble, and with a loud crash, the platform collapsed.

Panting, she sat upright in her bed. It took a moment for her to realize that the crash had been real, not merely a part of her dream. Voices sounded in the hallway, feet rushed past her door, and she hurried to join them, not without taking the precaution of robing herself in a modest yet very becoming wrapper. Bewildered, she watched the rescue action and wondered what had happened, vaguely aware that there was something strange about the coinciding appearance of Kuruharan and Chrysophylax. But she was too tired to pursue that thought and happy to return to her bed as soon as possible. She slept deeply and soundly, and if any more dreams troubled her, they are not recorded here…

[ September 08, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

The swaybacked little horse trudged along steadily, eyes to the ground and nose hanging low. On his tired back, the son of Denimthor rocked precariously from side to side as he sat perched in a semblance of sleep, occasionally startled into semi-consciousness when a blue sueded shoe collided with a small rock or tangle of prairie grass. For more than 24 hours since awakening his master in the cold waters of the Contrived River, the tiny horse had carried the heavy Grundorian along the food-strewn trail of the Itship.

Slowly, the inky blackness of night gave way to the muddled watercolor grey of impending dawn, and the devastation of the Whatevership’s passing began to become more painfully apparent. What had seemed as only a wide swath of trampled grass and discarded candy wrappers soon became a deep, wide, ugly gouge in earth coated in a morass of bacon bits, ranch dressing, and molted dragon scales. Worse yet, all along the disgusting highway of filth, great billboards had been hastily erected touting various unfamiliar products and services.

Orogarn Two, suddenly awake at the sight of such vulgar promotionalism, read some of the signs aloud.

“Dude, yer getting’ a Dale.”
“Mike – Just do it!”
“Feed a Woozie for only 19sp a day.”

Orogarn Two was flabbergasted. Never before had he seen such blatant advertising, not even in the Denturian’s Quarter during ‘Brush Your Teeth Week’. Though he did not recognize most of the products, it was obvious that they were wicked, subversive items that would surely undermine the rules of common decency and good behavior. Who had erected the monstrosities, and how had they done it so fast? Where were the Proctor’s legions of inspectors and regulators?

He kicked Singéd, who was munching on a crumbled package of Pûkel Pop Rocks, and the little horse picked up speed and trotted away from the offending eyesores. With his mouth fizzing and foaming, the midget Morosa soon carried its master past the most offensive poster (“Mantoes – The Freshmaker!”), over a high ridge, and down the trail toward the imposing fortress of Improvas, which had conveniently come into view. With a shout of triumph and a last look backwards, Orogarn Two forced his mount into an all-out gallop but soon had to stop because his shoes were getting gunked up with all of the little white flowers they were running through.

“Odd place for flower gardens, I’d say,” muttered the Grundorian as he noted the dozen or so mounds covered in tiny white, star-like blooms. He swung a leg over the beast and stood beside it, leaning down to brush his shoes off. “Let’s enter this place to see where our companions are.”

The two strode forward, and as he entered the gates of the fortress, a flag bearing the symbol of a horse’s head fluttered over the wall and landed near his feet. He picked it up, folded it neatly, and put it carefully into one of Singéd’s saddlebags.

[ September 07, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Mister Underhill]

It is perhaps not so strange a thing that nights which are filled with the imbibing of large quantities of mead, the singing of raucous songs, and competitions of manly virtue are good to spend, but difficult to remember afterwards and generally not much to listen to in any case; the jokes and shenanigans which seem best in the throes of a drunken stupor are usually less entertaining in the cold grim light of sobriety. Nevertheless, more events of that eventful evening are here recorded.

Dêthderrydol the Innkeeper made a game attempt to minimize irrelevant side chatter and guide the evening’s activities, which consisted mostly of long sets of music from the House of Band (various Men of the Mike sitting in to jam as the opportunity and desire arose), interspersed with bouts of such testosterone-laden games as “Pin the Tail on the (Living) Horse”, “Pin the Man on Your Left”, and, as the evening drew on, “Pin Yourself to Yourself”. These competitions were accompanied by the running commentary of Ale Mikells and Jøn Maddâun, two of the Sorethighhim who were particularly skilled in the art, and by a rousing soundtrack which made the games more entertaining and emotionally involving than they had any right to be. Dêthderrydol, finding her efforts misunderstood, misconstrued, or just plain ignored, finally gave up and shuffled off to a back room, muttering something suitably half-enigmatic about having to “answer her PMs”.

Pimpiowyn had of course been raised by a Man of the Mike and eagerly joined in the fun, making an especially good showing in a sausage eating contest early in the evening, but Merisuwyniel eventually convinced her that it was unseemly for an aspiring Shieldmaiden to wrestle with sweaty men unless she was either throwing herself at a hunk of a future King or else properly disguised as a man herself. They both retired early to their rooms, though Pimpi lay long awake as thoughts of baked beans, sauerkraut, mashed taters, ribeye steaks, cornbread, and other traditional foods of the Mike danced through her head. The large mass of undigested sausage turning over restlessly in her stomach may also have contributed to her sleeplessness.

The men of the Itship, being naturally heroic and eminently skilled in all manner of manly arts (including but not limited to cleaving orcs in twain, the general hewing of limbs, the guzzling of vast quantities of spirits, and the melting of average and above average females) soon won the respect and admiration of their new friends the Sorethighhim. The Itship quickly perceived that each of the Men of the Mike nurtured a passion for some particular performing art, and dreamed of one day becoming famed as the greatest in all the land in the practice of his chosen discipline. Though he never spoke of it aloud, it was clear that Yoman yearned to be the prima donna of a dancing chorus line. Some Riders had memorized monologues or worked out comedy routines between them, others had perfected complex but queerly expressive gymnastic routines, and all were eager for news of the latest fashions in armor and leather harness in distant lands.

Vogonwë was easily swept up in the spirit of performance and machismo and took advantage of one of the breaks of the House of Band to grab a mikestand from a drunken Rider and recite an impromptu bit of verse:

I think that I shall never see
anyone as good as me
at slayíng foes and cracking heads
or taking maidens to their beds.

This prompted first stunned silence, then much hooting and cheering and many a congratulatory slap on the half-elf’s heroically taut rump. Vogonwë was at first much dismayed by this strange ritual of the Sorethighhim, but then took to the practice with such enthusiasm that before the night was done he was given the honorary name “Hándanurâz” by the Men of the Mike and officially adopted into the Yoyurded commanded by Érry.

Érry encouraged the men of the Itship to join with him in disciplining other Riders as the need arose (which it did with alarming frequency). When it was discovered after one such unfortunate incident that Chrysophylax could breathe fire, the party moved outside for a spell, where the ancient wyrm was asked to set ablaze all manner of objects: a park bench, a wagon wheel, an armoire scavenged from a carpenter’s shop, a scarecrow “liberated” from the fields of Hámmerhed (a local farmer), even a stray dog. The pained shrieks of this last as it burned threatened to spoil the fun of the evening, but Chrysophylax saved the day by swallowing the crisped hound whole, and the party moved back inside by general unspoken agreement. Kuruharan, beard and eyebrows singed and smoking, had managed to do a brisk business in “beer helms” – steel helmets designed to hold six mugs of ale which could be drunk simultaneously through a tube by the wearer, novelty hand mitts holding up a giant index finger in a “We’re #1” gesture, hastily done up “Riders Rool, Orcs Drool” doublets, and skewers and marshmallows.

In short a good time was had by all – all save the Gateskeeper, who drank only sodâpaup and peered through his spectacles with unblinking eyes at all that passed, quietly noting demographic patterns and absently formulating marketing schemes. Though there was much to observe, he did not fear missing anything important: he knew that he could later review his magic log, which recorded all that occurred down to the smallest detail, if he needed to refresh his memory or fill in any gaps in his knowledge.

The Gateskeeper in his detachment noted many strange things. One was quite obvious to anyone with eyes in his head: that these Riders, as dedicated as they were to the Arts, were even by the low standards of Muddled-Mirth raging chauvinists. Women of the Mike ran the inn and worked in the kitchen, but participated in none of the entertainments performed by the Riders. This was painfully apparent during the performance by two Riders of a passionate scene from Rummyo and Havewemet, a play by Shakesbeere, a local poet of some repute.

But the Gateskeeper also noted a subtle subtext of fear amongst the Men of the Mike early in the evening when the impromptu performances began. It was communicated in worried looks and tense faces, but the Riders seemed unwilling to acknowledge it openly in front of their guests.

“Grimy Hasbéen won’t be happy—” one Rider finally started to say, but he was silenced by a flying check from Érry, who straddled him, yelling, “I don’t wanna hear no jibber-jabber about Hamstrung, son! I’m built for this, G! It’s gonna be a long night, a long night if you come up in here talkin’ ‘bout Hamstrung said this or that! You’re auditioning for a lead role in Érry’s Musical Pain Comedy, and you will get the part!”

And that was the last mention of the mysterious Hamstrung that evening. Later, as the copious amounts of liquor and the thrill of performance began to take hold, the subtext of fear gradually disappeared.

Lastly, and most interestingly, the Gateskeeper noticed many an oath sworn by the “Thighs of the Sorethighhim”, or the “Wood of the Thighs”, or the “Shanks That Do Not Grow Weary”, or, in the tongue of the Mike, “Those Mean **********ing Legs”. At first he thought these phrases a peculiar idiom of the Mike, a metaphorical reference only, but he eventually surmised that the Riders referred to actual thighs, apparently housed in the Goldlamé Hall, which were considered the spiritual backbone of the Sorethighhim.

The evening ended abruptly when Etceteron smashed a gëetar to top off a rousing rendition of “She’s an Orc, Baby”. The instrument was dropped next door at Sethamir’s for repair. The Riders who had passed out stayed where they lay; those who could still walk bid their new friends farewell with many a pat on the behind and the traditional Sorethighhim valediction, “Good night! You’ve been a great audience!”, and staggered off to their homes. Yet even as the inn settled in for the evening, the Gateskeeper continued to observe – he had noticed Grrralph slip away after the last of the Riders had gone, and later noted when Kuruharan left his room and opened a port in a serving wall for Chrysophylax when they thought the rest of the Itship were all abed. The Gateskeeper saw it all, and filed it all away, wondering how he might use it to his advantage later.

[ September 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

[Mithadan]

As Grrralph rode back towards Improvas, something was troubling him. He had ridden nearly three miles before he realized what it was. Whereas yesterday the Itship had ridden over broad green plains and through forests and fields, the rising sun was revealing a slightly different landscape. It seemed that a billboard had been erected every 100 meters or so. He slowed his pace to take in the colorful signs and catchy slogans.

A sign for a chain of steakhouses read "Where's the Beef?" He chuckled at the outraged look of the customer as he ran his sword through the waiter.

A sign for Sethamir's Stables, Inc. (trademark pending) showed a patron throttling the equerry while screaming "I'm not gonna pay a lot for this horse!" Apparently, the Itship had made a good choice when stabling their steeds.

Yet another, advertising low rent housing, portrayed huts with two-horse stables. The slogan there read "Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun!" Odd that all of these advertisements ended in explamation marks, he mused.

An image of a dragon wallowing in a swimming pool behind a group of slightly higher rent townhouses caught his attention next. A puff of smoke from the dragon's mouth formed words which read "They're Grrrreat!" Grrralph particularly liked this slogan and wondered at the cost of these fine residences and whether he could afford them.

As if to answer this question, the next billboard promoted Mogûl's Mortgages. An honorable and serious looking banker sat behind a desk in this advertisement. The caption read, "We make our money the old-fashioned way, we EARN it!"

The next billboard was in the process of being erected. A massive cart sat at the side of the road. It was filled with billboards and was drawn by four very unhappy looking horses, each of which had been painted bright red. The sign on the cart read "Bildûr's Boards, A Little Dab Will Do Ya!" Grrralph didn't think much of this slogan. First, the boards were not "little". Second, the hundreds of signs that he had seen hardly constituted a "dab".

This sign was being erected by several Orcs. The subject was Achilles' Armouries. A smiling hero had run his foe through with a spear. The dying warrior was saying, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" Grrralph approached the Orcs to compliment the advertising agency. As he drew near, he could hear them singing.

"O Muddled Mirth,
O Muddled Mirth,
We spread our waste on thee!
And hide the pines
With billboard signs,
from sea to oily sea!"

One of the Orcs looked up in surprise as the sound of hooves was heard over their song. Their initial reaction was to draw their swords. Then they relaxed when the saw the black cloaked figure. "It's only a Wraith," the leader cried and his fellows resumed their labor.

The Orc Captain approached Grrralph with a toothy smile. "The boss wants us to put these up at night, but we wanted to do one more before heading home."

"Home?" asked Grrralph.

"Yeah," said the Orc. "Back to Moredough. Soon we'll have fortresses everywhere, but for now the Boss wants us to maintain a low profile."

"Where will your fortresses be?" asked the Wraith.

"We'll probably have one here at Improvas," answered the grungy and feral looking Uruk. "And soon we'll take over Grundor and Topfloorien and Trebor. Soon after that, this name will be everywhere!"

He pointed to a line of small print on the billboard which read, "Achilles' Armouries is a subsidiary of Mogûl Enterprises, LLC." Grrralph nodded, recalling Sssam's words about his employer. "Looks like Mogûl is taking over everywhere," Grrralph mused as he rode on towards Improvas. "...and Mogûl wants the wood..."

[ September 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Mister Underhill]

Many a curious stare followed Orogarn Two and Singéd as they trudged through the muddy streets of Improvas. Dirty-faced, tow-headed children, legs already beginning to bow, laughed and pointed as they passed. Men nudged their neighbors and tipped their chins towards the pair. ‘Hey, nice dog!’ someone called out.

Orogarn paused, meeting the eyes of the onlookers, and gestured grandly.

‘Behold!’ he cried. ‘Here is Singéd the Great, whom no other hand can tame.’

‘We have leash laws in Soreham, Grundorian.’

Orogarn ignored the taunt and continued on. Singéd shot him a thankful glance for at least making the effort.

Men of the Mike were busily repairing a large hole in the glinting roof of the distant hall, a sure sign that his companions were near. Drifting smoke which still lingered from the previous night’s party soon led the two trail-stained travelers to the courtyard in front of the Horse Head Inn. Inside, the Whatchacallitship was just finishing up breakfast.

The sudden reappearance of Orogarn was met with great wonder by his fellow adventurers, who had long since given him up for dead, divided up some of his gear, and written off their debts to him. Nevertheless, they greeted him enthusiastically. Merisu almost went in for a hug, but at the last moment gracefully opted instead for a comfortable distance and air-kisses on either cheek – the Tower of Dorktank to the north had recently begun dumping industrial sludge into the Contrived River, and Orogarn smelled none too clean.

Vogonwë returned Orogarn’s crystal locket and gave him a swift slap on the rump in the Soreham style, which nearly led to a duel until the custom was patiently explained by Etceteron and cooler heads – for once – prevailed.

Just as Orogarn got caught up on all that had transpired during his absence (the retelling accompanied in four part harmony by a few Riders who had roused from their slumber), a horseman who had not been at the previous night’s party – and who had a decidedly shady cast to his narrow eyes – arrived to summon them at once to an audience with Théboleggen King. The time was full ripe for the Itship to move on to the next scene, so, gathering their gear, they followed the messenger without question.

* * * * *

Bypassing all description of the quaint homes of the Sorethighhim and the clear, clattering stream flowing beside the path and suchlike, the Uniship soon found themselves at the top of a high green terrace where two guards sat on stools with naked mikestands laid across their knees. Their golden hair was plaited and arranged on their shoulders just so, and blazed fetchingly in the early morning sun. One of the guards stepped forward and spoke to them in Westestosterone.

‘I am the Bouncer of Théboleggen. Hámanchese is my name. Here I must bid you lay aside your weapons before you enter.’

Hands strayed towards scabbards and into the folds of cloaks. Handles lovingly bound in tooled leather were fingered, morningstars hefted, twin axes clicked against one another. A rumble from Chrysophylax spoke of searing fires stoked deep within the wyrm’s belly.

Hámanchese coughed into his fist.

‘...or, or you could just promise not to use them. Without provocation. Unnecessarily. You look like good people, I’ll trust you on that.’

The adventurers began to move past the Bouncer, but he spoke up again.

‘Also, I’m supposed to check to make sure that you’re not sworn enemies of Théboleggen King, the Mike, and/or the good people of Soreham over which he rules etc., etc. And that you’re all over twenty-one.’

Twin puffs of smoke escaped Chrysophylax’s nostrils.

‘Right, but of course we’re all square on that. Except these ladies here, if I didn’t know better, I’d never guess you were a day over eighteen. Thirty-three at most in Elf years. I mean that.’ Then he continued in a lowered voice, ‘Listen, this is just a day job for me. I’m really an actor.’

The Bouncer carefully stamped the hands, claws, and mailed fists of the Itship, each in turn, then pushed open the tall doors so that they could enter the Goldlamé Hall. Sounds of music and desultory laughter drifted out of the dark opening.

As they passed inside, the voice of Hámanchese followed them in an afterthought.

‘Entering the Hall also implies agreement to the two drink min—’

But he was abruptly cut off as Grrralph swept the doors closed.

Inside it was close and dark after the wind and bright sunshine upon the hill. As their eyes changed, the travelers saw that tables were arrayed on the main floor of the hall. Golden cloths were hung upon the walls, and at the far end of the house, beyond the tables, was a raised stage. Most of the damage from the previous evening had been repaired, and only one thin shaft of light shone in through the nearly patched hole in the hall’s great roof. It was made of decidedly cheap materials and was rather shoddily constructed, and so was quickly and easily repaired.

The place stank of cheap booze, and a thick haze of pipeweed smoke filled the chamber even at this early hour. A general pall of disreputability hung like a shroud over the audience seated at the tables. They seemed restless and sullen, and when they laughed or applauded, no trace of sincerity could be found in the gestures.

‘That isn’t golden cloth, right?’ asked Merisu in a hushed voice.

‘Gold lamé,’ said Kuruhuran, then added quickly and a bit too casually, ‘At least, that’s what it looks like from here.’

‘It looks smaller than I thought,’ whispered Pimpi, who had heard many a tale of the glory days of Improvas from her father.

‘And tackier,’ added Vogonwë.

The reason the hall had not completely collapsed was immediately evident: two mighty pillars sprang from the flagstone floor and soared in gently bowing arcs to the roof. The pillars were stout, almost muscular, shaped from beautiful, intricately carved wood which gleamed with a rich golden hue that a thin film of nicotine only enhanced. The Gallowship perceived that these must be none other than the fabled Thighs of Soreham. Despite their great age, the wooden pillars seemed to throb with life and a certain impalpable earthy wisdom.

Beyond the Thighs, on the left side of the stage, was a bandstand. A pale man in a suit of extravagantly bright purple cloth stood at the head of a group of Riders who clearly had been handpicked not for their talent with their instruments, but for their brawn and their dumb, brute loyalty to the bandleader, Grimy Hasbéen.

On the right side of the stage was a plain desk, behind which sat a bent old man. He was clad in a golden sansabelt jumpsuit which must once have been dazzling, but now seemed shabby and dull with years. A rakish ascot was nearly hidden under a frizzy white beard, and his face was as seamed and wrinkled as an old adventurer’s codpiece. A line of drool depended from his lower lip and glistened in his beard like dew in a spider web.

‘So, a funny thing happened,’ mumbled Théboleggen King in a cracked old man’s voice. ‘Uh, the roof fell in.’

‘The roof fell in?’ Grimy asked loudly.

‘The roof. Fell in. We got a big hole up there. Men working. The whole thing. What’s up with that?’

One of the Riders rolled off a lackluster BA DUM PSHHH! on his drum kit. The audience, under a heavy glare from Grimy, laughed and clapped in insincere appreciation. The old king seemed not to notice.

‘It’s crazy!’

The Itship was milling about in the back of the room, wondering if it was possible to fade back out the door or maybe just pick a fight, when a haggard young woman approached them.

‘I’m Éowhine of the Mike and I’ll be your serving wench this morning. There’s a two drink minimum. What can I get you?’

But before they could even react, the crowd quieted and Grimy’s eyes were upon them.

‘Now, your lordship,’ he said in a loud voice that dripped with menace and contempt, ‘I understand we have some guests with us today.’

‘Yes, yes. They’ve come all the way from... somewhere else to be with us. Ladies and gents, please put your hands together and give a big Soreham welcome to... those people back there. Yes, you. Come on.’

The audience clapped lightly, and all eyes in the room turned to the Itship.

[ September 11, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]

[Birdland]

the ancient wyrm was asked to set ablaze all manner of objects: a park bench, a wagon wheel, an armoire scavenged from a carpenter’s shop, a scarecrow “liberated” from the fields of Hámmerhed (a local farmer), even a ...STRAY DOG! - “The Reunification of the Entish Bow” post 62

The rosy rays of dawn reached out to warm the staves of a lowly straw-filled barrel that lay behind Sethamir's Stable and Instrument Repair Shop, lightly caressing the brow of its sole occupant. Bärky, Puppy Hound of the Mike, opened his wide, liquid brown eyes, twitched his adorable button puppy nose, and stuck out his sweet, lil pink puppy tongue in a prodigious yawn. Poking his nose out of his lowly but cozy home, he panted with delight as he prepared to enjoy the sights, smells and songs of his beloved city, Improvas.

But one thing was missing to make his puppy-happiness complete. "Mother?" he whined, and receiving no answer, he decided that his dear mother must be playing some wonderful new game. So Bärky, Puppy Hound of the Mike, set out prancing down the street one his little puppy toes, wagging his plume-like fluffy puppy tail, all the while calling "Mother! Oh, dear Mother! Where are you?"

It was Snoggert, the wise, old sewer rat, who finally could bear it no longer. Poking his grey, grizzled snout out of a discarded pile of used mead jars and sodden oboe reeds, he called softly but firmly to Bärky. "C'mere, kid. I got somethin' to tell ya..."

***************

"MOTHERRRRRRRR! NNNNNNOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

The piercing yelps leaped across the plains of Soreham, pulled a bank shot off the Ecru Mountains, dawdled along the Pretty Good River and finally slouched towards the Forest of Canned Corn.

"Precioussss! They have violated the sacred rule of tale-telling!"

Never off dogs or small children! This is sacrilege, Fluffy!"

"The Itship must die!"

[ September 11, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Thenamir]

Grimy Hasbéen, son of Washtup, motioned the Itship forward with a hand the color and liveliness of flour paste. As their eyes adjusted to the strange lighting they could make out (through the pipeweed haze) Hasbeen outfitted in the traditional black ptôcksǽdo of the court of Improvas, accented beneath with a white tunic and a small black cravat tied in odd fashion around the throat. He would have been a dashing figure except that he had no figure to speak of. Had a corpse already liquid with decay arisen from the grave, arrayed itself in party finery, and splashed on some aftershave, the effect could not have been more hideous. *

The Itship had little choice but to obey the ghastly summons to the stage, as the massively built and nattily-dressed bouncer-corps outnumbered them 3 to 1. The half-lit, half-empty hall half-heartedly applauded the strangers as they shuffled forward with all the enthusiasm of a young child ordered to bed. Gateskeeper in the midst of the group kept his eye on Grimy, something familiar in his look, his manner…then he remembered.

Grimy had been a groupie of Sauerkraut, a hanger-on back at Dorktank who never quite got the hang of wizardry, either on or off the stage. But ol’ cabbage-head (as they used to refer to Sauerkraut during meetings because it made his eyes bulge) appeared to have found a use for him as a low-level Têch support assistant for Networkgaard (or “the Net” for short), making sure packets of information were correctly routed to destinations within the influence of the Net.

But what was he doing here? Was this the agent Môgul Bildûr mentioned who “had the King’s ear”? Gateskeeper continued to ponder, wishing he could surreptitiously make a call on his Cell-antir as the quest-ians mounted the stage and assembled beside King Théboleggen. Grimy Hasbéen joined them on the stage in seeming gesture of welcome and glaring at those in the audience whose appreciation seemed somewhat unenthusiastic.

At close range the King looked to Gateskeeper as more than haggard and old. He appeared as though something had drawn all the strength and vitality from him, as though his life had not worn away gracefully but had been systematically sucked dry like the kegs of ale from last night’s party. It looked like the work of his old mentor Sauerkraut, but the Dorktank of Networkgaard was many leagues away, and Sauerkraut was supposed to be in league with Môgul. Besides, there wasn’t a cell-antir antenna large enough to carry the image over the Ecru Mountains. Unless…it was then that Gateskeeper noticed a pair of small black lines that protruded out from under the King’s desk, leading away towards…the thighs.

King Théboleggen attempted to stand, but merely achieved a different slouch in his chair, shifting to look up at the newcomers. Looking out at the crowd he muttered, “What a great group, eh?” the old King wheezed, “Troupers. That’s what I say. Every one of them. And we’ll see how they do here on Sorethighhim Idol, right after this.” The little band that accompanied the drummer in the corner played a short tune as the stage light shifted to a very animated troupe of players who bounded onto the other side of the stage and began extolling the excellence of a brand of sodâpaup, Dorka-Cola, in a short skit.

Gatekeeper's mind was working at high speed now, for Dorka-Cola had never been seen outside the confines of Dorktank by him before. In the vast and putrid manufactories of Moredough the minions of Mogul turned out the #1 brand in Muddled-Mirth, Pukel-Cola. His monopolistic schemes had driven all competitors off the market, then driven up the price of the addictive caffeine-laden beverage. There could be only one conclusion: Sauerkraut was trying to undermine Mogul's plans to overrun Soreham. It all began to make sense now. Mogul, only recently escaped from his erstwhile prison had no idea of the advances Sauerkraut had made for reaching masses with the power of The Net. Mogul was mired in low-tech advertising such as billboards and such. With the power of the Great Thighs to carry his message, Sauerkraut would be a formidable advertising force to contend with, especially once he rediscovered the lost art of the pop-up. If Gateskeeper was to succeed in the task to which he was now bound by Mogul, Sauerkraut had to be stopped.

Meanwhile, the Itship was now quite taken aback (abackstage, that is). Grimy, an insincere smile upon his leering countenance, told them, “So you think you can perform up to the high standards of our Mike, do you? Nay, do not start, word has reached me of you poor players strutting and fretting your hour upon the stage last night. A tale told by an idiot! You were all so full of sound and fury, yet signifying nothing. Well now, you shall have your chance to prove your so-called talent before our panel of one – King Théboleggen himself shall judge you. And woe to you if you fail to please him.”

“Oh, lovely!!” cried Vogonwe in utter delight, “An audience with a king! I shall recite a new poem I just composed for the occasion, if only I can figure out a way to get the words “toast” and “pomposity” to fit in this last line…” Vogonwe’s final comments went unheard, for by unanimous agreement Earnur Etceteron conked him out cold with the butt of his sword (which complained loudly of the indignity) lest he seal their demise.

Merisuwyniel, who had seldom known fear in times past, now found herself trembling (with fear or excitement she unsettlingly could not tell), for she now realized that the hall of Improvas looked uncomfortably like the places she had “performed” in that strange dream she’d had the night before. “We don’t have anything prepared for a real performance, what shall we do?” Merisu cried in a somewhat less than practical (but quite feminine) tone. Earnur, after setting the now-unconscious Vogonwe aside on a small cot, drew himself up to his manly height, drew his manly sword (which complained in the , and said in a manly tone, “we have no choice but to fight our way out…”

“No, wait,” Gateskeeper interrupted, and for the third time Earnur found himself taking the back seat to this upstart four-eyed freak from who-knows-where who kept preventing him from winning renown and glory in manly battle. His arm almost started to swing of its own accord, and would have cloven Gateskeepers spectacles in twain had not Orogarn stayed his hand. Earnur gave Orogarn a dirty look. Orogarn said, “Just hear him out.”

“Do even you not trust the arms of your own people? You’re all too ready to trust this vagabond.”

“There is no strength in arms that will avail us in this situation,” Orogarn said. “Now hear him.”

Gateskeeper explained, “I have seen this malady before. The King’s life is being drained away by the power of ‘the Net.’”

“The Net? But that is leagues and leagues from here! How can it be so?” questioned Pimpiowyn from around a mouthful of hors d’oerves from the backstage catering table. “Yes,” agreed Orogarn, “his bratwurst has grown long indeed if he can affect the king here in Improvas.”

“It is true, but Sauerkraut is crafty, and the power of his kielbasa is great. They say he walks about here and there, dressed as an old hot-dog vendor in white. The Net draws you in with delusions of great knowledge and wealth to be had, and then drains your life away in endless hours of online chat and games of Neopets and Checkers. We must perform a…disconnection.”

Merisu blinked back a tear at the sad story of the king’s entrapment, and nodded her assent to Gateskeeper’s idea, as did the others. “The only way Sauerkraut could maintain a connection with this realm is through the power of the great thighs in the center of the room,” Gateskeeper continued. There are magic lines that connect the king's desk top to the thighs, but they cannot simply be cut – the disconnection cannot be too sudden, or the king might be killed outright. This means two things. We must stall for time, and one of us has to get close to those thigh-lines without being noticed.”

Grrrralph, in his voice of miserable cheer, volunteered to go first when Grimy came back to fetch the first kôntestant for the show. And then the rest of the group dissolved into discussions of comedy routines, songs they might sing, or snatches of old plays they could remember. Orogarn and Gateskeeper stepped aside to discuss how to distract the crowd from their approach to the Great Thighs, and Grrrralph followed Grimy back to the stage.

When the poorly-tuned band played the advertising troupe off the stage, Grimy announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen of Soreham, Sorethighhim Idol is pleased to present, from parts unknown, the inimitable Grrrralph!” There appeared to be some renewed interest from the crowd and a smattering of real applause as the patrons settled in for the first performance of an outsider upon their stage. Once the applause died away, Grrrralph motioned with one hand to the band, who began a mournful tune. Then, with a slow deliberate motion, Grrrralph did something completely unexpected: he removed his hood…

*with posthumous apologies to C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

[The Saucepan Man]

“Are we there, yet? I can smell burnt dog flesh.” whined Schnozza in a voice which seemed to emanate almost entirely from his bulbous nose, despite the constant stream of thick unpleasant gloop that should have blocked its passage.

“What’s that, sonny? I can’t hear a word yer saying for the racket of those darned hooves and that blessed music,” replied Sedric, his ears flapping in the soft breeze as he swayed unsteadily on his scrawny legs.

“Don’t be silly,” giggled Snigga as his bulging eyes scanned the horizon. “There’s the King’s Hall, look. Over there. They just went in. Hehe. We got miles to go yet.”

The group stood on the outskirts of Soreham regarding the wide plains and great open lands of the Mike, the dazzling view spoiled only by the detritus which marked the passing of their quarry. They were indeed at least a days’ ride from Improvas. The stubborn footfalls of Twinkle had proved no match for the sturdy mounts of the Riders of Soreham and the Guys’n Dolls-ship’s own steeds and so they had fallen somewhat behind in their pursuit.

“Who you callin’ silly, yer gibbering clown?” growled Schnozza.

“That would be you, big-nose.” tittered Snigga.

“Eh?” said Sedric.

“Why, you …” spluttered Schnozza, picking up a rock and hurling it at Snigga. The goggle-eyed Goblin ducked and the rock hit Sedric squarely on the forehead, knocking him to the ground. Snigga was by now giggling uncontrollably.

“Hey! Watch it, sonny. Or I’ll punch that fat hooter of yours clean through yer head!” exclaimed Sedric, his joints creaking as he slowly picked himself up.

“Oh yeah! You and whose army?”

“Barmy am I? Well, I can still show yer a thing or two, yer young whipper-snapper. That’s the problem with you young Orcs these days. No regard for yer elders. I am Sedric! I command …” he paused, groping for the right word “… respect!”

“You don’t even have command over yer own bladder.”

At this, the ancient Orc flew at Schnozza, displaying an agility which had previously been notably lacking. The two of them rolled around on the ground in a whirl of flying fists, flapping ears and droplets of goo.

“He he … tee hee … a-ha … a-ha … A-HAA HAA HAA!” howled Snigga, huge tears welling up in his enormous eyes as he too rolled around on the ground convulsing with laughter, until the two grappling Goblins grabbed him.

Some days previously, Soregum had taken the decision to ignore his companions. But now, as he sat on his dainty steed slightly apart from them, the sound of their bickering and the ensuing melee nurtured in him an intense desire to be rid of them. And gradually a plan emerged within his shrouded head.

“Come on,” he said, urging the reluctant Twinkle forward.

*****************************

Several hours later the gormless Goblins, noticing Soregum’s absence, curtailed their scrapping and set off after him. They found him lying on a low hill, surveying a Sorthighhim settlement that lay a short distance away. Twinkle stood at some distance grazing on the patchy grass.

“You stay here,” he commanded them. “I’ll scout ahead.” As he moved off stealthily, the grotesque trio took no time in resuming their squabble.

The settlement comprised a large grouping of covered wagons clustered around a low thatched building. The site was littered with burnt-out chariots, discarded wagon-wheels and other such rubbish and drab clothes hung from lines strung between the wagons. As Soregum approached, the place seemed deserted, although he could discern above the sound of dogs barking a low murmur, punctuated by the occasional howl, which seemed to come from the building in the centre. Slowly, he crept between the long wagons, which had clearly not moved in many a year, making for the building. Once there, he hid in the shadows at the side and peered through a grimy window.

Inside, he saw a large number of people, seemingly the entire population of the Wagon Park, sitting in rows facing a stage, chattering excitedly amongst themselves and letting off the odd enthusiastic whoop every now and then. They were rough and unkempt and presented a startling variety of shapes and sizes ranging from the clinically obese to the dangerously skeletal. Their hair was, without exception, a pale straw colour, the favoured style (for both men and women) being long at the back but cropped short on the top and sides. For some strange reason, the style put Soregum in mind of a fish of some description, although he could not place which one. But, despite their apparent modest means and poor fashion sense, they seemed a merry folk. And they certainly appeared to be enjoying their food and drink. Soregum’s heart leapt at the sight of the enormous portions of beefsteaks, chops, ribs, cutlets, beans and fried potatoes, and the copious quantities of ale, being served at the bar.

As he watched, a small bespectacled man clutching a mikestand sprang neatly onto the stage. Immediately, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, howls and catcalls, chanting at the tops of their voices: “JÉORRI! … JÉORRI! … JÉORRI! …”

“Thank you. You are most kind.” began Jéorri as the noise of the audience subsided. Adopting an earnest expression, he continued “Have you ever wondered whether your partner might be seeing someone else behind your back? Well that’s exactly what our next guest has been doing. And it wasn’t another man, or even a woman, she was seeing. Let’s meet her. Put your hands together for Léonora.”

The crowd went wild again as a plump woman with short cropped hair jumped out of her seat and ran on to the stage waving her arms wildly and screaming uncontrollably.

“Hello Léonora.”

“Hi Jéorri.”

“You’ve been seeing Éodmund for some months now, is that right?”

“Why, dat’s right, Jéorri. An’ ah do lurve him, Jéorri. Ah really do.”

“But you’ve got something to tell him, haven’t you.”

“Yeah, ah sure have, Jéorri … ah bin gone seein’ someone else on da side.”

Léonora sniffled and wiped non-existent tears from her eyes as the audience engaged in some good-natured booing and whistling.

“Well let’s bring Éoddi on so you can tell him yourself.”

Again, the crowd erupted as a mountain of a man, his head completely shaven save for a braided strand that resembled the tail of a rat hanging down at the rear, entered the room and took to the stage. He was apparently quite oblivious to what had been occurring up to now and waved and smiled to the audience as he made his way up to Léonora and embraced her. Then, egged on by Jéorri, she sat down and took his hands in hers, looking down at the floor in feigned embarrassment.

“Ya know ah lurve ya, Éoddi baby, dontcha …. but ah got somethin’ dat ah gotta say to ya …. um … well, it’s like dis, baby … ah bin seein’ someone else …”

Éoddi looked crestfallen. As the tears welled up in his eyes, all he could say was “But … who …?”

“It’s Dwain Hammerhand, baby…”

“Why dat *bleep*in’ midget! I’ll *bleep*in’ grind his *bleep*in’ bones to *bleep*! I’ll fry his *bleep*in’ beard!” exclaimed Éoddi, rising to his feet as his temper got the better of him. The bleeps came courtesy of a little old man with a loud tin whistle standing at the rear of the stage, whose job it was to drown out the most colourful of the expletives.

“He ain’t no *bleep*in’ midget, Éoddi! He’s a Dwaaarf, a *bleep*in’ Dwaaarf!” cried Léonora, as if the correction was likely to calm the distraught man down.

“Well, let’s meet him.” said Jéorri, helpfully.

Howls, whistles, jeers and whoops filled the room as a sturdy Dwarf with a long red beard, braided in the manner of his kind, entered and walked up to the group on stage. As Éoddi made a lunge for him, two burly fellows leapt on stage to restrain him and hold them apart. By now all three were cursing loudly at each other and the little old man with the tin whistle began to turn an alarming shade of red with the effort of keeping it clean.

Judging that the time was right, Soregum ran up to the door and burst into the room, feigning terror and shouting at the top of his voice “ORCS! ORCS ARE COMING! HELP!”

As one the crowd went silent and turned to look at Soregum.

“I’m being chased by a band of Orcs! Help me!” he cried.

This crowd erupted again, cheering, howling, whooping and whistling all at once.

“Where?” cried Éoddi, immediately forgetting his former woes in the excitement.

“Just outside town to the east.” replied Soregum.

“Well how d’ya like dat! Looks like we gonna hunt ourselves some Orc!” shouted Éoddi, making for the door. The entire room followed him, brandishing an assortment of crude wooden mikestands, banjos, mouth organs and wash-boards.

*****************************

The Goblin trackers, still thoroughly engrossed in their dispute, never stood a chance. Within no time, their three misshapen heads were proudly on display, impaled on wooden mikestands on the outskirts of the Wagon Park. And shortly thereafter, Soregum was sitting comfortably at the bar with a large mug of ale and drawing with satisfaction on his pipe, having just polished off six courses of assorted meat, fried vegetables and pastries, while a local poet, Éominem, entertained the crowd.

As he happily went on his way the following morning, Soregum stopped to smile cheerfully at his unfortunate former companions. Things were looking up. Even Twinkle was happier, having been comfortably stabled overnight and sharing his pleasure at the absence of the quarrelsome Orcs. As they rode off in the direction of Improvas, Soregum began to whistle.

Shortly after his departure, a dark horde appeared on the hills surrounding the Wagon Park and began to file inexorably towards the small settlement, brandishing cruel eviction notices and terrible redevelopment signs.

[ September 12, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[Kuruharan]

END OF DISK ONE!

TO CONTINUE THE REUNIFICATION OF THE ENTISH BOW PLEASE INSERT DISK TWO!

Thank You.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Translator's Note
Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings in the human mart?
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.John Keats was, of course, a great enthusiast of Entish literature, and took an active part in the four-year project to translate this section of the text. This project ended in disaster with the insanity of the Reverend Dr. Ernest Thrippshaw, head of the project, and the sudden descent into opium abuse of all thirteen of his colleagues. This was attributed to the influence of Keats himself until Professor Olaf Gundvarsson of the University of Oslo reported his team's findings that one sentence, which requires almost a full day to recite, is in fact an obscure tense of the verb to be. The translation into English via Norwegian is reportedly "I might be in the season when ancient roots course once more with youthful sap and leaves sprout forth, but shall not be in the cold, cold season in which leaves fall and frost bites the bough. Of late the ivy drinks too deep and axes are heard, yet nonetheless the acorn of hope puts out its tender shoots, and I am thankful for your interest." As one may readily observe, this sentence is a great deal more concise and memorable in modern English, albeit that the newer language would be considered obscenely hasty by Entish standards. The final word, I think, should go to Dr. Thrippshaw himself, whose tireless work on the following section has gone so woefully unrewarded, even among his fellow philologists: "Do not speak to me of Entish bows! I am at my wits' end with them, and had not the great Emperor Charlemagne lately appointed me Elector Palatine I should stand before you now a babbling lunatic! Begone from me, thou foul reptiles, for thou art tainted with the juice of the radish; and such are anathema to all who follow the Vole of Truth!" (Impromptu valedictory address to the University of Oxford, August 18th, 1819)
-----------------

Mithadan's Post:

Grrralph stepped up onto the stage and cleared his throat. Then he drew his sword. A grrrowl arose from the audience, but the wraith waved them away and began a dance, using his sword in place of a cane. Then he began to sing.

"What good is sitting
alone on your throne?
In your old robes, starched and pressed?
Life is an endless quest, old chum.
Come on and join our quest..."

Grrralph tapped and spun his way across the stage, then stopped directly before the King. With a deliberate motion, he raised a glove and yanked down his hood. In the dim light, it appeared that a shadow occupied the space between his cloak and a black steel helmet that rested upon his...shadow. Then, moving in time with the beat of a drum, the hood crept back into place, bit by bit, resembling a black slug crawling upon a rock.

The King laughed and clapped delightedly as Grrralph resumed his song and dance. The wraith began a bump and grind, then did the splits as he sang.

"Put down your knitting,
your sceptre, your crown.
Come have a holiday!
Life is an endless quest, old chum.
Come join our quest today!"

Grrralph again halted before the throne. This time he raised his sword and swung it like a baton. In its final twirl, it cut off his hood (Grrralph had ducked his head down into his cloak, turtle-fashion). The cloth fell to the ground and disappeared in a puff of smoke. But from his shoulders, threads crept up like a nest of snakes and, writhing in time with the music, wove themselves together into a new hood.

"Oh, he's good!" cried the King. "He's good! How do you do that, huh? C'mon, tell me how you do that!"

Grrralph bowed, then spoke in a deep and mournful voice. "I will tell you as much as I know, or at least, what I can recall," answered the wraith. "It's kind of a riddle, I think."

His eyes shone bright red as he continued:

"You've been traded to me,
for fair compensation.
For a reasonable fee,
you'll join our dark nation.

You'll wear my gear,
cloak, armor and hood,
now don't shed a tear,
but they're with you for good.

They'll weigh on your mind,
they ain't going away soon,
until potion you find,
made from light of the moon."

Then, with another bow, Grralph backed away and ceded the stage to the next entertainer.

******
Squatter's Continued Post:

There comes a time in the career of every great hero when he is compelled to hold conversation with inanimate objects. Perhaps this is in some way due to the action of the heroic metabolism, which enables them to hear and see that which is hidden from lesser men. Perhaps it is a property of the weapons they carry that they should possess the gift of speech. Then again, perhaps it is a sign that most heroes are stark raving bonkers and not to be trusted with any task more complicated than mucking out the stables. Whatever the reasons, Earnur was currently conversing with the dread blade Bystandr[1] that men now call Griper.

"Look, I don't see what's so difficult to grasp about this: you're a sword. Your entire purpose in existing at all is to maim and kill, to have oaths sworn on your blade and to look impressive for passing damosels. What's the point in being a sword if you hate fighting?"

I didn't ask to be a sword, you know: back when I was just an ingot I wanted to be a ploughshare. It was just my bad luck that I happened to fall into the hands of Dwarves just as they got a big order from the king of Dor Sumyewinion. I was a victim of society.

"That's what they all say," replied the implacable knight. "But no sword of mine is going to be a conscie. You'd better buck up and do a good job or I'll have you made into a shovel and give you Jethro the stable boy! Now be quiet: I have to think."

On the other side of the moth-eaten velvet curtain that separated them from the main hall, all was silence as Grrralph made his way to the stage. The unisex-ship dithered heroically, asking pointless questions about the king's connection to the net whilst hedging around the real issue of who was actually going to sever that link. It was now clear to all of them that as ill-luck would have it the great Thighs that appeared to hold up the roof of the Goldlamé Hall were parts of the Ent That Was Broken, and therefore fair game for theft. It was also clear that pinching them would be a lot more difficult in front of a hall full of people. Perhaps, then, it was just as well that at that moment, on the other side of the curtain, Grrralph removed his hood and launched into his act. As he spun and gyrated to the end of his eerie performance, all eyes other than those of the fuddled King were fixed on the dark figure in horror. Several people unfortunate enough to believe the evidence of their eyes sidled towards the exits and Grimy made as though to flee the stage. At that moment, as the success of their unrehearsed and rather shaky gambit hung in the balance, Kuruharan opened his hand, in which lay a small black box. From it, tinny yet perfectly audible, came the sound of fair Elven singing, and it slowly swelled to fill the entire hall.

*******

[1]In Quixotic, this name can mean either to be present or not to be present at a great event. Why this somewhat odd pun should be given as a name to a sword was a compete mystery before the translation of The Re-Unification of the Entish Bow, which has shed new light on this as on a number of other aspects of life in Muddled Mirth.

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Diamond18]

And lo! feathery light strains of music suddenly erupted delicately on the scene. The renowned Elven minstrel, Barrë Maníloe, smirked out a tune* that was catchy in much the same way a cold is catching.

Her name was Loléf, she was a half-elf
With Similars in her hair and pointy ears pointing... there!
She would sing and do the springle-ring
And while she tried to be a star,
Toní was imprisoned in Barad-dûr
In a dungeon full of gore,
They tortured him from 8 till 4
What is one limb when you have another?
Who could ask for more?

At the Barad (Ai!), Barad-dûr-a (or Barát-Höm-a)
The hottest spot east of Grundor-a
At the Barad (Ai!), Barad-dûr-a
Fire and pain was always the game
At the Barad....they wear gloves

(Barad Barad-dûr-a!)

Her name is Loléf, she was a half-elf
But that was a stanza or so ago,
When this used to be a poem
Now it's a ramble, but not for Loléf
Still pointing with her ears, Stones of Feeblnore in her hairs
She sips Strangeeks all the time, and drinks 'Mudwater till she's blind
She lost her immortality and she lost her Toní
Now she's lost her mind!

* Lyrics copyright Third Age by Vogonwë Brownbark and Muddy Music Records

[Kuruharan]

The music box tune was well received by the audience. The audience, that is, of the two crickets in the rafters who chirped their approval. The rest of the room was dead silent.

Kuruharan just stood there rather awkwardly for a minute. Then he turned bright red. The king scratched, Grimy looked lustfully at Merisuwyniel, and the audience started a growl of displeasure.

Seeing that things were going a bit pear-shaped, Chrysophylax jumped on the stage to exert his recently acquired star power to quiet the crowd. Alas, the stage was of rather shoddy construction, and even at the best of times Chrysophylax might have been too much dragon for any stage to sustain the blow.

*CREEEEEEK-BOOOOOM!!!!*

"BOOOOOOOO!!!!!" howled the crowd.

Things were starting to look grim for the Gallowship when who should come galloping to the rescue but Falafel, with a kazoo. Falafel burst into the hall, saw the desperate situation that the Questers were in, and started playing on the kazoo a peppy little tune guaranteed to lift the spirits of even the ugliest crowd. It was from the ancient lore of Monteé Pi-thon. Being versed in this archaic lore Kuruharan, Chrysophylax, and Vogonwë started dancing a happy jig that went with the tune.

When they finally got their dance steps in sync (no easy task because Chrysophylax kept stepping on everyone’s toes) they all burst forth into song.

We’re Questers in an Entish Fable,
We dance where ere we’re able!
We do routines and chorus scenes,
And footwork impeccable!
And though we tend to destroy a lot,
We eat tons of bacon and Spam a lot!!!

As the happy tune continued, the three revelers then leapt from the ruins of the stage and started prancing about the hall, bonking the guards on their helmets in time to the music.

"Now’s our chance," hissed Earnur. With that he and the Gateskeeper ran forward to the Thighs. The Gateskeeper pulled out a pair of hack-saws from…somewhere. Each of them took one and they began to saw on the bolts holding down one of the Thighs for all they were worth, in time to the music, of course.

Merisuwyniel realized that the time of greatest danger had come. She had to do something to get the rest of the crowd going to the music. Just as she was about to jump forward to join in conking everyone in the vicinity on the noggin she was grabbed by Grimy.

"Beautiful lady," oozed Grimy, with somewhat less charm than a rabid snake, "now we are alone at last."

"Uuuk," groaned Merisuwyniel, shuddering violently. "You should really do something about that oozing! Here’s a tissue."

Grimy tossed the hanky aside and grabbed Merisuwyniel’s hand. Merisuwyniel tried to escape but only succeeded in dragging Grimy across the floor.

Hámanchese saw what was going on and bellowed the traditional mating cry of the Mike.

"SPAM!!!"

We’re Questers in an Entish Fable,
Someday we may be on cable.

"Oh darling, OUCH!!" he intoned as he was dragged into a table leg. "I observe that your companions are familiar with the great lore of Monteé Pi-thon. Allow me to sing you one of their most touching love songs."

"Let go of me you little fungus!!!" screamed Merisuwyniel, beginning a series of savage kicks in the general direction of the clingy Grimy.

"SPAM!!!" shouted some of the Sorethighhim.

"OW!" said Grimy. "We always *OOF* hurt the ones we *HOICK* love," he sighed philosophically under the rain of blows.

The massive thud of the first Thigh falling to the ground was missed in the general confusion.

"SPAM!!! SPAM!!!" cried the Sorethighhim.

We’ll burn down towns, and loot your grounds,
And treasures if ere were able!

...crooned Chrysophylax, Kuruharan, and Vogonwë still prancing about like there was no tomorrow (and tomorrow wasn’t looking good).

Having just survived being trampled by a dancing Chrysophylax, Grimy launched into his own song from his vast store of Monteé Pi-thon knowledge.

Sit on my face,
And tell me that you love me!

"AAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!" screeched Merisuwyniel.

"SPAM!!!!!" bawled the Sorethighhim.

*BOP* went Vogonwë right on the head of Théboleggen King.

*PLOP* went Théboleggen King to the floor.

"GASP!!!" went the crowd.

"SPAM!!" shouted Hámanchese.

"I love to hear you moralize Yee-OUCH…" faltered Grimy as Merisuwyniel’s kick found his shoulder as silence mercifully fell on the hall.

Everyone stared at Théboleggen King.

Earnur and the Gateskeeper stopped in mid-stroke and tried to look like they were not engaged in a bizarre act of grand larceny.

"Uhhhhh…" said Vogonwë. He looked desperately in Falafel’s direction.

Falafel understood and began the tune again. Vogonwë nervously sang,

We’re Questers in an Entish Fable,
The King is now under the table!!!

Nobody moved, except Théboleggen King, who started to shake slightly to the music.

Everyone stared in disbelief. Orogarn Two’s crystal started jumping about in a rather odd fashion. He ignored it for a minute.

Suddenly, wonder of wonders, Théboleggen King sprang to his feet and started dancing about like a deranged marionette and walloping Grimy on the head, in time to the music (naturally).

"Cured!!" cried the Gallowship, as they joined him in bashing Grimy about the head and shoulders. "He’s CURED!!!"

"SPAM!!!!!" cried the Sorethighhim in joy.

"Free!!!" shouted Merisuwyniel as Grimy flopped limply on the floor. "I’m Free!!!"

"Done!!" shouted Earnur and the Gateskeeper as the other Thigh crashed to the ground. They seized it and started dragging it out the door.

"What is it?!!" snapped Orogarn Two at his crystal. He pulled out his "Crystal Translation Manual" to try to figure out the problem.

"SPAM!!!" cried the Sorethighhim for no particular reason.

"Let’s see here…" Orogarn began, as the rest of the Gallowship started battering everyone in the hall into unconsciousness. "Hmm…a diseased cow is about to drop her cud in my hoop-skirt?" The crystal leapt about in a distraught fashion. "No…ummm…Earnur is about to be impregnated by a blue elephant?" The crystal just sprang about all the more. "Uhhh…Kuruharan’s been sucking horseshoes when he thought that nobody was looking?" The crystal about jumped off Orogarn Two’s neck. "Oh, here it is, roof is about to fall on head!" The crystal came as close as it could to screaming "YES!" even though it did not have a mouth.

"RUM…darnit…I mean, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!" he yelled.

"SPAM!!!!" howled the surviving crowd in alarm.

The Gallowship grabbed the other Thigh and dragged it outside.

The Goldlamé Hall fell with a sound that is becoming rather stock in this chronicler’s particular series of postings, so we will spare you in the interest of easing off on the repetitiveness.

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Mithadan]

A cloud of dust arose from That-Which-Had-Been-Goldlamé-Hall-And-Now-Is-Rubble. The dustcloud formerly known as Goldlamé chased the Itship and Its woody burden down the hill. Accompanying the cloud in its puruit was a largish mob of Sorethighhim, led by a highly annoyed Érry. Burdened by the massive Thighs, it appeared that the Gallowship would soon be caught.

The Gateskeeper, arms windmilling wildly as he ran, pulled up next to Kuruharan and panted out a suggestion. "Firewall!" he cried. The Dwarf blinked and shouted to Chrysophylax who halted, spun and let forth a blast which halted the advancing mob in its tracks. "Great!" cried the Gateskeeper. "Now have the dragon pick up both of the Thighs and carry them off as we run!" The aforesaid dragon's eyes narrowed at these words and he pointed his snout at the bespectacled man and emitted a dark puff of smoke which, of course, in dragon language means "I am not amused."

"OK," said the Gateskeeper between coughs. "Bad idea. Have the dragon keep the Sorethighhim away while we think of something else." However, after the brilliant array of diversionary tactics which had been employed before Théboleggen King, the Itship was fresh out of ideas.

Suddenly, from high above them came a strident call which sounded like a cross between a foghorn and a trombone. Grrralph straightened at the sound and let loose a long and mournful wail in answer. His screech echoed until the air seemed to shake, and as it faded away a large shape plummeted from the sky and landed in their midst.

It was, of course, a Nazgul. A rather large, reddish-tinged Nazgul, complete with razor-sharp claws, dagger-like fangs and severe halitosis. "Grrruff!" cried Grrralph as he ran forward and, to the Itship's lasting shock, embraced the beast. "Good girl! You came!"

"Cooooo," answered Gruff, as she nuzzled Grrralph affectionately.

"Grrruff, sweety, could you help us carry one of these Thighs?" asked the wraith.

"Coooo!" answered Gruff. The Nazgul preened the leathery collar around its throat for a moment, then seized a Thigh in her claws and rose into the air.

"Dragon!" cried Grrralph. "Could you carry the other?" Chrysophylax rebuilt his firewall between the mob and the Gallowship, then turned and lifted the second Thigh and headed for the city limits.

Grrruff looked at the dragon rising into the air beside her, then batted her eyes and spread her leathery collar. "Cooooo?" she exclaimed as she followed Chrysophylax away from Improvas, perhaps a bit too closely.

"I've got a bad feeling about this..." grumbled Kuruharan as the Gallowship raced for the stables...

[Birdland]

She had never felt this way before. Oh sure, there had been others. You don‘t work for an outfit like Moredough without meeting your share of fell beasts on the make, (and she would never forget her first time at the sack of Ozfestiath). But all those others meant nothing now. For the first time in her long career of rampaging and terrorizing, Grrruff the Nazgrrl was in love.

“I never knew such perfection could exist”, she thought. He had the pear-shaped body and short forelegs of a dancer, and the sun shining through his wing membranes outlined every vein and tendon. And he belched flame! Grrruff thought of all the ichor-dripping clods who had tongued her in the past, and then wondered what it would feel like to have her neck tickled with gentle blasts from that internal inferno. Suddenly she felt a glorious tingle in her scaly nethers, and softly cooed his name to herself, rolling it off her forked, spotted tongue: “Chrrrrrysssssophphphphphylaxxxxxxxxxx…”

A high-pitched shriek brought Grrruff back to the present, and she glanced down to see the log she had been carrying had slipped from her distracted claws, and was pin wheeling towards earth. It plummeted towards the heads of the strange band of frozen questers below, all the time screaming “falling….falling….I’M FALLIIIIIING!!!”

Rolling her eyes and heaving a sigh, she languidly swooped down to snatch the worthless log in midair, wondering why her partner, Grrralph, (a goblin had once referred to Grrralph as her “pet”. Once.) wanted to lug this particular piece of firewood along. She gave it an irritated shake in order to stop its whimpering, and flapped her wings to catch up with Chrysophylax, who was by now far ahead.

The great section of Entish body part gave a heart-rending groan, squeezed shut its knothole eyes, and blew chips - right on the heads of the straggling Petship.

[Thenamir]

Sauerkraut sat in his luxurious home-office on the top floor of the tower of Dorktank, watching the talented It-Ship perform on the stage of Improvas through his Net connection on his new 42-inch flat-plasma-screen cell-antir. "An amusing group," mused the old wizard, "I must see if that Grrrralph is available for our next U-Rock-High musical production." He had been trying to decide between You're a Good Orc, Grizhnakh Brown and Seven Beasts for Seven Nazgul, but now he considered perhaps Burglar on the Roof might be more appropriate for that impish dwarf and his dragon.

Things seemed to be going well. Mogul had no idea that his advertising campaign was already being broadcast to the population of Soreham. Let Mogul have his billboards, hah, Sauerkraut thought, my persuasive ads are going directly into the homes of the Sorethighhim, into their living rooms, into their minds. My mole, that Hasbeen, has turned out to be a useful idiot, setting up my cell-antir connections to the power of those Ent pieces right under their very noses. I will rule with none to...

Sauerkraut's overconfident reverie was interrupted when his newfangled cell-antir screen went suddenly to static, then to a "Technical Difficulties, Please Stand By" display. He arose from his obsidian throne (with the hand-crocheted seat cover for those cold winter mornings) and pounded on the cell-antir with his wrinkled but hale fists in frustration. "Badlûk!" he called to his minion-in-waiting, who scampered into the room like an over-steroidal orangutan. "Send out a 'repair' team to check our Soreham base station, double-quick!" Badlûk high-tailed it out of the room at top speed. He had no intention of having his tail used for a broom.

"Grimy is going to have a lot to answer for if those thighs are damaged..."

[Thenamir]

[And now, a word from our sponsor.]

[FADE UP]



FIRST DWARF: [grumbling loudly]

SECOND DWARF: Hi, Gloom, son of Glum. What'cha grumblin' about? Not that you need an excuse...

FIRST DWARF: Oh, it's you, Gleam son of Beam. [sighs] It's just these mine-working clothes. Ever since I started digging for the mithril I just can't seem to get the grey out. My whites look like they've been washed in a pipeweed ashcan.

SECOND DWARF: [looking over FIRST DWARF's shoulder] That's because you're using that homemade soap alone.

FIRST DWARF: But I've [i]always used it! How do you get your grimy work clothes so clean after a day in the mines?

SECOND DWARF: You need the awesome whitening power of [Holds up bottle of] BALROX BLEACH!

FIRST DWARF: [quizzically] Balrox?

SECOND DWARF: [taking the cork from the bottle and pouring the contents librerally into the washtub] Sure!

ANNOUNCER: [voice over as FIRST DWARF begins scrubbing his clothes on a washboard in the washtub] Balrox Bleach is made from pure lake-water from the uttermost foundations of stone combined with only the finest demons of the ancient world! Guaranteed to make leech every bit of dirt (and color) from your clothes, leaving them their whitest!

FIRST DWARF: [holding up a gleaming white tunic] That's amazing!

ANNOUNCER: [voice over as THE TWO DWARVES admire the newly cleaned tunic] And Balrox is safe for sensitive hands, without leaving that disgusting "White-Hand" residue.

FIRST DWARF: [grinning, looking at his hands] And it leaves my hands soft and silky-smooth!

SECOND DWARF: Wow! Those look just like my wife's hands!

FIRST DWARF: [serious tone] I am your wife.

[A beat passes, then they both begin laughing]

ANNOUNCER: [voice over, close up picture of BALROX BLEACH bottle] Take it from Gandalf, Balrox whitens clothes clean. [DISCLAIMER, spoken very quickly] Balrox is a corrosive and should not be used for cleaning chainmail or leather products. Do not expose to sparks or open flames. Another fine product from Mogul Enterprises.]

[FADE OUT]

[And now, back to our quest]

After many miles of running, limping, flying and panting, interspersed with intervals of gumbling, panting, sweating and (manly) swearing, the Fello/Gallo/Non-specified/It-ship collapsed for the night, having left their pursuers far behind (and some of them lightly baked)....

[ September 30, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron, Laird of Dun Sóbrin, Master of the Dim Bar, Warden of the Oddly Shaped Disputed Bit and Knight of the Order of the Gilded Hedgehog, was engaged in vital affairs of state. At times such as this, with the soiled linen beneath his hands and the cold water of a virgin spring rippling over his manly laundry, he felt truly at one with nature, and free from the trammels of the habitually served.

In other words, Earnur was putting a brave face on the fact that, with his valet far off in the mists of distant Dun Sóbrin and quietly looting his wine cellar, he was having to clean Entish vomit from his own shirts. He had long ago ceased to feel his hands, and his spare outfit was becoming distinctly moist as he reflected on his good fortune in being born into a profligate and dissipated aristocracy; and just how little this high birth really meant to a man drenched in sap-soaked chippings in the middle of the picturesque Wild.

As he slapped a recalcitrant pair of britches one last time against a freezing block of granite, he sighed manfully, and not for the first time he longed for a warming draught of Strangereeks' Celebrated Pheasant, now proscribed for its tendency to make him impersonate Queen Badtüthiel and her Fabulous Flying Felines, whose brand of inept acrobatics had so dismally failed to enthral him as a boy. Perhaps, he reflected, this was not so great a trial as various dignitaries had suggested.

At this moment, as he was preparing to make a start on some stubborn resin stains to his doublet, he was roused from his reverie by a cheery voice, which fell upon his mood rather as an avian bowel movement falls on an unsuspecting bridal party.

'Morning, Squire. Luvly day fer it, if I may make so bold.'

The speaker was the sort of jovial peasant who is normally described as 'the salt of the earth', or in other words someone whose over-liberal presence ruins one's meals, and who is unconscionably bad for the heart. Earnur was preparing to greet him in kind when he noticed something interesting about the man's demeanour: he was leading by a halter a team of four horses, which were yoked to a conveniently large cart. The noble and manly Lord therefore changed tack very slightly.

'Good morrow, goodman Carter! And what brings you forth so early on this fine morning?'

If the haulier was at all surprised by this unwarranted good cheer he made no sign, although some might have noted that his eyebrows knit slightly from the healthy paranoia of the solid yeoman.

'Business, my Lord. A carter's work is never done, so they say.'

A look passed between the mighty steed Pinkjin and the carter's team that suggested otherwise, but it went unnoticed by their respective masters.

'Have you time to spare for some words and a little food? We are in need of news in our camp.'

The carter thought for a few moments, weighing the pressing business of overcharging farmers for his services against the obvious wealth and stupidity of his new acquaintance. The thought of a second breakfast swiftly won him over and he followed our noble hero back to the meadow in which the Neutership had made its weary camp on the previous evening.

Greeted fairly by the companions, and somehow persuaded against reason that Chrysophylax Dives, scourge of small businessmen, posed no immediate danger, the jolly countryman accepted a beaker full of the warm South (in the form of some 'rare herbal tea') and was soon conversing cheerfully about his love of games of chance. So it was that Kuruharan the Dwarf never finished brushing his beard, and that soon our valiant friends were under way once more, the mighty Thighs now lashed firmly to a sturdy wagon. Behind them, naked but for a shirt too filthy even to be sold as a herbal poultice, a simple country fellow sat and counted the jellyfish that sported between the roseate clouds of Dawn, lamenting the kindness of strangers in language only truly mastered by honest sons of the soil.

With constitutions as weak as ever the Thighs continued to emit clouds of sawdust and globs of resin, but in their cart-bound state these failed to bring about any further random acts of laundry. The company rode forth in triumph into a brave new Wold in a glorious dearth of epic verse.

[ October 03, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Diamond18]

The day was balmy and bright, and so also felt Vogonwë son of Geppettuil, third cousin of Throngduil, thrice removed, as he rode along on his stupid steed, Tweedledum the Twaddle-brained.

The half-elf paused to wonder if it would be more expeditious to announce himself as simply “Vogonwë Brownbark, third cousin of O Lando L’oréal Bloom thrice removed” (or was that “fourth” and “quadruple”?) for O Lando seemed to be considerably more popular and well known than his father. Saying “Throngduil” often got blank stares unless he remembered to tack on the “King of Workmud” bit, which felt rather tacky, because any King worth his lembas should need no clarification. On the other hand, everyone had heard of O Lando, and many females swooned at the very mention of the name. “I’m his cousin, you know,” was a most effective pickup line. And just so long as you never let your girlfriend actually meet the fellow in person, things could go smashingly from there.

Vogonwë pulled his mind from this aside and firmly returned it to the matter at hand—the day was nice. Sunny, a bit of a breeze blowing from the west, a few puffy white clouds drifting languidly across the jet stream. Somewhere off in the lush, distant lands they were headed for, a light midmorning spritz of life giving rain was pattering down. Vogonwë started to placidly hum an old Elvish ballad; “On th’ Ëroádà Gaín”, while brushing flies from the flanks of his horse with a whisk broom. If only, he mused, the animal could figure out how to flick its own tail.

Riding beside him, on Tweedledee the Twitty, Pimpi heaved a long, heavy, melodramatic sigh. After Vogonwë missed his cue (and continued to hum cheerfully) she took a deep, deep breath and expelled it so forcefully that his hairbow was swept off his head and trampled under the horses’ hooves.

“What did you do that for?” he inquired, glancing ruefully at the mangled gray accessory on the muddy ground. He thought about cartwheeling down to retrieve it, but seeing as how for the past few weeks he hadn’t been able to coax even the slightest hint of understanding from his horse, he was now struck with a sudden apathy for the so-called wonder of kevlar communication. Still, he was off-put by the pointed way Pimpi ignored his question. “I say, sweets, what’s the matter? Why did you blow my bow down?”

“Oh, I don’t expect you to understand,” Pimpi pouted.

Somewhere, a strangely metallic voice cried out ”Danger, Vogonwë Brownbark, Danger! but Vogonwë didn’t hear it, and he replied, “That’s ridiculous. I am half-elven, which makes me perceptive, wise, and uncannily understanding.”

Pinkjin, trotting along within hearing distance, uttered a soft snort which might have insulted Vogonwë if his hairbow had not been lying forlornly in a hoof print a few strides back.

“Then you don’t have to ask, do you?” Pimpi said, with a toss of her curls.

“Let’s say that I do, and blame it on my mother’s side of the gene pool.”

“That’s just it!” Pimpi exclaimed, “You’re always yammering on about your father, and your mother, and your gene pool, and your elvish side and your mannish side and your ancient elven heritage! Do we ever talk about my heritage?”

“Well, I do recall killing someone a while back and I think it had something to do with—”

“Don’t be a smart aleck with me! You know what I mean. And besides, you males always think that killing someone is all you have to do to be supportive.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. I’ll tell you why I’m feeling down today, Vogonwë—”

“Hey, that rhymed.”

She flashed him a “speak and die” look, and continued “—All that time we spent in my father’s homeland, the land where I spent the first few years of my life, I could not feel the slightest bit at home. I’ve forgotten how to speak and understand their dialect, and to be honest, they all looked the same to me. Tall, big boned, flowing blond hair, blue eyes… you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. And I could not find any close relatives. Yes, while you were getting drunk and slapping men on their hindquarters (don’t think I didn’t notice that) I was trying to get in touch with my family. But alas, no one seemed to have ever heard of Éohorse son of Needahorse. Can you believe that? I mean, you’d think they’d remember a man who brought a hobbit home as his wife, but nooooo. Could I find even one old aunt? Or any cousins, even ten times removed? Noooo! I have passed through Soreham, my homeland, and I feel more acutely than ever, that I am a foundling waif; my only heritage buried in a forgotten corner of the Elven Farm!”

“Oh. That’s too bad,” Vogonwë observed. “You’re a very pretty foundling waif, though.”

“And not only that, do you realize that all this time we’ve been questing, I have gotten to do any real sheildmaidening? Oh sure, there were the trolls, and that food fight, but I wanted to do something heroic, what’s so heroic about a food fight?”

“That whole thing was about defending your honor, you know.”

“Hmph. I think you just enjoyed it,” Pimpi begged to differ (though, really, there was nothing pleading about her tone whatsoever).

“It felt heroic at the time.”

“Well, I thought we were going to be doing big, important things on this Quest. So far we’ve done nothing but burn a city and steal a couple roof supports. And where are the legions of evil? Trolls are just, well, dull and stupid creatures. Where are the hosts of darkness with which to do glorious battle?”

“Darling, it’s a beautiful day, can we sing a travelling song or something?”

“No. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Look, sweetie-pie, I’ll admit that so far there hasn’t been much to write an epic poem about, but hasn’t it been the least bit fun? I think it’s been good for a few sonnets, at least. Well, limericks anyway. Bawdy doggerel. Something.”

“That’s right, it’s all about your ‘poetry’, in the end,” Pimpi rolled her eyes.

“I’m just trying to be positive.”

“And I don’t want to be positive. I want to slay hordes of Orcs and rescue people from dungeons, like last time.”

“I think both times last time the prisoner in question escaped before we had the chance to—”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” Pimpi cried, and urged Tweedledee on ahead. “I’m going to talk to Merisu, at least see listens to me! Hmph!” She and her horse trotted away, her curls bouncing and its tail flicking. Vogonwë watched them for a moment, then sulkily threw his whisk broom into the mud.

“Flick your own flies,” he muttered to Tweedledum, who of course did not understand him.

“Ah,” mused Etceteron, who had been eavesdropping along with Pinkjin the entire time. “Young love. Well I remember those days, bickering about various petty issues long into the night.” He paused, smiling at the memories of his and the fair Vinagrettial’s legendary differences of opinions over the dread sword Wylkynsion. “Those were the days….”

“Excuse me, Lord Etceteron, but I am not young. I am quite a bit older than you, at any rate, whatever age you are.”

“Well, yes, in years,” Earnur nodded. “But, since Elves mature at a slower rather than humans, if we want to talk about emotional maturity—”

“I don’t want to talk about emotional maturity!” Vogonwë snapped, and kicked his horse forward. “I’ve had enough talking, I’m going to go sulk.” And this he did for the better part of an hour, with all the diligence and passion of his elven nature. After a while, though, he fell to ruminating on which horse was stupider, Tweedledum or Tweedledee, and he composed short poem about it:

Tweedledum is dumb, we see,
What is that to Tweedledee?
Tweedledee can flicks its tail,
And at that Tweedledum does fail.
But yesterday Tweedledee ate a nail,
And Tweedledum didn’t.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Falafel and Tweedledee cantered in companionable silence - unfortunately, for Falafel was feeling rather lonely and wishing for a companionable conversation, a wish that remained unfulfilled, since Tweedledee was a mere rent-a-mare and not an heroic steed with the gift of speech. Their riders made up for the silence – well, mostly Pimpiowyn did, talking animatedly to Merisuwyniel without noticing that her sympathetic responses sounded somewhat mechanical. The Elven maiden was much too polite to just ignore the Half-Halfling’s words and too good-natured to show her dejected feelings, but a more observant listener might have noticed a wistfulness in her eyes when she thought no one was watching her.

Her mind wandered back to the Goldlamé Hall. She was, of course, much too modest to wish for the fame of stardom, and yet… The taste of stage performance that she had experienced was just enough to whet her appetite. She did not wish for the cheap publicity of a show like the ‘Sorethighhim Idol’; her taste was nobler, higher, perhaps too much so for the common people? But she could educate the masses to a higher cultural level, perhaps. Even the terror of her previous dreams and the unpleasant experience of Grimy Hasbeen’s amorous advances could not quench the tiny flame that grew steadily within her breast. (Translator’s note: Which breast is not specified in the manuscript.)

However, as the wise and observant leader of the Whatevership, she gradually took notice of the debate going on amongst the males of their company. They had lagged behind, ostensibly making sure that the heavy burden of the Entish Thighs was not too much for the cart. She had a suspicion that they wished to recreate the bonds of male companionship which they had experienced in Soreham, and listened to their conversation, tuning one Elven ear to its masculine tones while still listening to Pimpi’s tirade with the other. (Her eyes, by the way, were busy taking in the impressions of the massive advertising campaign on the newly erected billboards and trying to find something good in them – after all, the cheery colours – well, no, they were just garish… But the interesting messages? She sighed; sometimes being positive was so strenuous! …as was multi-tasking… )

“I should very much like to see the site of so many heroic manly deeds,” said Etceteron.

“Indeed, the Sorethighhim were ever courageous allies of the Grundorians, and their fortress, the Hornyburg, could not be taken while manned,” Orogarn (Two, of course) exclaimed.

“What wonderful lays must have been penned of their deeds,” mused Vogonwë. “Perhaps I could write an ode in memory…”

Kuruharan hastened to interrupt him. “Do you remember the Glitzy Caverns of Ham Steep, Chrysophylax?” he asked the dragon. “Such wonderful strobes and mirrorballs – there was an endless pilgrimage of hip people who came to dance there. Your Workmud parties, Vogonwë, are but provincial picnics compared with its vast discos – immeasurable dancefloors, filled with never-ending music played by the coolest disc-jockeys of Muddled-Mirth.”

Grrralph’s interest perked up noticeably at the mention of music; however, he remained silent as usual, waiting to see what the others would say and do.

The Gateskeeper agreed enthusiastically – he had his own reasons for wanting to visit the fortifications. Perhaps he could get away from the others just long enough to use his portable Cell-antír and call Mogûl with the news of the Entish Thighs. He will be pleased at my clever handling of the situation, he thought.

Oh no, Merisuwyniel groaned inwardly. More Sorethighhim men means there will be more drinking and rear-slapping male shenanigans – I must appear to grant their request, yet keep the Fe-Maleship together.

“I too desire to see this impressive union of strength and beauty,” she proclaimed. “It will scarcely take us out of our way, and perhaps it will inspire us to heroic deeds of our own,” she added, smiling at Pimpiowyn. “Take care that the wagon with the Entish Thighs is kept under control – the ascent is steep indeed.”

Chrysophylax flew ahead, the lovelorn Nazgrrl close behind him. Soon the rest of them saw the walls of ancient stone, within them a lofty tower. A mighty fortress indeed - indestructible, imperishable, incorruptible, inexterminable, inextinguishable, immutable, unalterable, unchangeable, perpetual, durable, enduring, lasting, permanent, unquenchable… (OK, I guess you get the idea.)

[Kuruharan]

By rounding a bend, cresting a rise, jumping a gorge, crossing a plain, fording a river, pausing for lunch, taking a nap, and spinning around three times the Gallowship came to of the great fortress of the Hornyburg. It was situated at the entrance of a gorge. One massive tower stood tall and strong on one side, and a great wall blocked the rest of the gorge. The gate was gained by means of a rising causeway. This proved to be a spot of bother because the cart they had "acquired" seemed to have a knack for finding every bump and crevice in the road and every jolt sent the Thighs flying out the back and rolling back down the ramp.

"$*#%!" shouted the Gateskeeper, falling into the uncouth language of Soreham, as the Thighs rolled down the hill for the fifteenth time. "This will take all day!"

"And probably most of the night," moaned Orogarn Two.

"We do have two dragons, or one dragon and one sort of dragon," muttered Vogonwë, "why don’t they do something to help us out?!"

This remark went completely unheeded by the great beasts in question. Grrruff was busy wafting her wings in Chrysophylax’s general direction and wondering if sometime next April would be good.

Chrysophylax, on the other hand, was thoroughly flustered. It had been a very long time and he was not sure what he was supposed to do. He decided to follow the worst of his options and stare off in the other direction with a goofy expression on his face. Grrruff inched a little closer and emit a hideous stench, which no dragon in his right mind could resist. Chrysophylax, in a spectacular fit of emotional constipation, made himself very busy staring at the ground. As a matter of fact, the ground was fascinating. There were two spiders down there expressing their deep and abiding love for each other. That made him feel even more uncomfortable (especially when he saw what happened to the male as soon as they were done). Left feeling a little woozy, Chrysophylax flopped down on the ground and tried to forget what he had just seen and all the other things that could possibly go wrong.

He sat there so long that he failed to notice when the Gallowship had reloaded the cart and started up the causeway.

It hardly mattered because ten minutes later there came a *THUMP* *BUMP* and both Thighs were down beside him again.

"$*#%!" shouted the Gateskeeper.

"That’s it!!!" shouted Orogarn Two. "Make the creatures carry them up!"

Grrruff flew down and picked up one of the Thighs, gently brushing Chrysophylax’s scaly side with one of her wings, and then flew up toward the gate. Chrysophylax just shuddered, trying to contain who knows what, had remained still.

Kuruharan ran up.

"What’s come over you, you horny old varmint?!!!!!" (The dwarf had no idea!) "I have some business to attend to inside Ham Steep!!" The dwarf kicked Chrysophylax in the side. "Now hurry up!!"

The kick steadied Chrysophylax somewhat. He picked up a Thigh and carried it up to the gate. Grrruff was waiting for him. Chrysophylax landed on the edge of the cliff, as far from Grrruff as possible. Grrruff inched nearer to him. Chrysophylax stared down the cliff and briefly wondered if it would hurt. The pause that ensued while the two of them waited for the rest of the Gallowship was anything but pregnant (or impregnating).

When the rest of the Gallowship reached the Gate, Merisuwyniel went forward and knocked on the door.

A little old man, mikestand in hand, stuck his head out.

"Go AWAY!!!" he screeched. "The line is full!"

"Are you sure?" asked Merisuwyniel, leaning forward.

Unfortunately, the little old man was too old to fall for that.

"What?!" he bawled. "Speak up!! I can’t hear you!! That’s the trouble with you young whipper-snappers these days!!! Always mumblin’ and mutterin’!!"

"Never mind," said Earnur. He strode forward and drew Griper. "Prepare to be diced and sliced!"

"Oh-no!" whimpered the blade.

Suddenly, the Gate flew open and it swarmed with a mass of Sorethighhim, all armed to the teeth with mikestands and fiddlesticks. Even the Gallowship might be daunted by the numbers now facing them. The Gallowship was about to give it a go anyway when Kuruharan stepped forward. He handed a card to the warden.

The warden gazed at it myopically for a moment.

"Oh!" he said. "Terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t see you." He waved his mikestand and a passage opened up in the ranks of the Sorethighhim. "Lord Dimli will be most pleased to see you!" He escorted Kuruharan through the ranks of the Sorethighhim, fawning over the dwarf pathetically. He was saying something about "putting in a good word with the boss."

As the Gallowship started to follow after the ranks closed and the Sorethighhim held their weapons at the ready. "That does not include you!" growled one of the guards.

The rest of the Gallowship, being now summarily abandoned to fend for themselves (and Chrysophylax feeling more flummoxed than ever without his master), Kuruharan went down into the fortress of Hornyburg and down toward the Glitzy Caverns of Ham Steep. As they went the warden told him how things were going down there.

"Lord Dimli has expanded the dance floors and the casinos. He has also added 200 rooms to the hotel. This has increased the profits of Ham Steep by 150%!" As they drew nearer the entrance to the Caverns, Kuruharan noticed that there was a large crowd outside the door. It was made of two distinctly different types of people. One group, the one that was heading into Ham Steep, was well dressed in the latest and trendiest of fashions (much of it conveniently provided by the clothing boutique that bore the name "Lord Dimli’s Haberdashery"). The line to enter the Caverns was blocked at the doors by burly, heavily-armed dwarves. The other group of people was coming out of a side entrance and their appearance was different in every way. Instead of being dressed in their best they were all wearing cheap barrels and many showed signs of having received a severe beating. This group was being shoved out of the Caverns by another group of armed dwarves, who seemed to be primarily concerned that the first group should not see the second.

Kuruharan was impressed. "I see that business has really picked up!" he said. "King Gain Lotso’moola was quite right when he said that there were big bucks to be made in exploiting the human’s addiction to fast living! This is going even better than he thought! There are a bunch of Elves from Topfloorien here! Apparently Lord Dimli has started importing some better brands of booze!"

"He has indeed," said the warden. They walked up to the bouncers at the door. "This is a special visitor for Lord Dimli," he announced. "He must be admitted at once!"

"Of course," said one of the dwarves. "This way please."

Kuruharan followed the bouncer into a lobby that was too posh for words. He could hear the sounds of raucous music coming from the dance halls, and even happier to his ears, the sound of fools being parted from their money in the casinos. He could barely suppress a giggle of delight.

Kuruharan followed the bouncer down an elegant staircase into the hotel area. Down a few more passages and they passed a sign that said "None but Dwarves Beyond this Point!" and thus entered the Executive Suites.

The bouncer led Kuruharan to one of the larger suites.

"Milord Dimli will be with you shortly," said the bouncer before he departed.

Kuruharan took a few minutes to explore the cavernous suite. He found it to be quite up to snuff.

After sitting down on a sofa that was ridiculously oversized for any dwarf, Kuruharan decided that it was high time to catch forty winks.

Seventy winks later, the door opened. Another dwarf, even more regally dressed than Kuruharan (if that were possible) entered. It was Lord Dimli, Director of the Glitzy Caverns Resort & Casino.

"Ahh, Milord Dimli," said Kuruharan, struggling to get up off the couch. "It is a *ooof* pleasure to see *hoik* you!" he stammered as he failed to rise and fell down among the cushions.

"Quite so," intoned Lord Dimli. "Come to pick up your share of the profits?" he inquired amiably.

"I thought (help me out here!) that I might," said Kuruharan, getting hopelessly tangled in one of the pillows. "How go *oy* things here?"

"Oh, well enough," sighed Lord Dimli. "Mogûl tried to run us out of here six months ago. Fortunately, he has no entertainment establishments that can compete with us and most of his troops come here on their leave. It nearly caused a mutiny in his own ranks. All that was required on our part was a few strong-armed tactics on a few of his business agents and some selective fire-bombings of certain choice properties and he backed down. It has been rather quiet of late."

"*AACCKKK*" croaked Kuruharan has he fell over the back of the sofa. "There, finally!" he sputtered. "Funny you should mention Mogûl, but there are some of his people standing outside the gates right now!" He told Lord Dimli all about the Quest of the Entish Bow.

"Don’t worry," said Lord Dimli. "By the time they get out of here none of them will have a dime to their names! And they certainly won’t have any pieces of a certain Ent that was Broken! Those will be much safer here with me!"

What do these two conniving swindlers have in store for our innocent and lovable heroes (well, maybe not so innocent)?! Will the Gallowship really leave Ham Steep without a dime to their names?! Will Kuruharan go weeping all the way to the bank?! What does Lord Dimli want to do with the Ent that was Broken?!!

Find out in our next exciting episode!!! Same bat time, same bat channel!!!

[ October 11, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Mithadan]

As the Dwarf entered the Hornyburg, Grrralph inspected the garish posters advertising the shows currently running in the Glitzy Caverns. Cabed-en-aras-aret he had already seen several times and he had commited its songs to memory long ago ("What good is sitting, alone on your throne?"). He also had little desire to see the animal show...something about the wild were-worms of the south and an animal tamer named Roy the Throatless. Even more threatening was the fine print on the bottom of the posters which read "three drink minimum". He shuddered at the thought, an action which made his mail jingle like a purse full of loose change.

He mounted his mighty steed and began to back away from the gate. Merisu noticed the wraith was preparing to depart and moved over to him. "Aren't you coming inside with us once the line gets smaller?" she asked as she removed her backpack and swung the Bow from her shoulder. Grrralph's glowing red eyes followed the Bow like a cat might follow a catnip mouse.

"Bow," he answered. "I mean, no! I think that I shall take a ride and enjoy the fresh air."

Merisu cocked her head prettily to one side and swung the bow back and forth in her hands. Watching Grrralph's head follow the motion of the bow, a Dwarf craftsman standing on the wall was suddenly inspired and ran to his workshop. One year later, Bali's Bobbleheads was a multi-million dollar a year business.

"Are you sure?" asked Merisu. "There'll be shows and singing."

Grrralph took a deep, ragged breath and shook his head. "No, Merisu," he responded. "I think that I need some time alone right now." The Elf nodded and turned away. No one else noticed as Grrralph rode off towards the east. Nor did anyone notice the dark speck flying high above which followed Grrralph as he went.

An hour later, Grrralph dismounted in the midst of a dusty prairie that had seen too little rain for too long. He waited silently next to a billboard advertising something called Mogûlball. He did not have to wait for long. A Nazgul dropped from the sky to land next to him and its rider dismounted. "Hey, Grrralph!" the wraith called.

"Hi Geeeorge," answered Grrralph.

"Mogûl's been following the progress of you and your friends with some interest," said Geeeeorge. "He has a real interest in the wood that your buddies have been carrying around. The Thighs and the Bow? He's very interested if you know what I mean."

"Very interested," repeated Grrralph vacantly.

"If you help him get the wood, there'll be a reward," commented the wraith as he examined the billboard.

"A reward? What kind of reward?" asked Grrralph.

"First, he'll make you vice-president of subsidiary operations. That's a plum position. You'll have your hands in all sorts of stuff and a corner office. Second... well, he wanted you to know that he bought up all of old Sourone's spells... including the Thingwraith spell."

"Does he know how to remove the spell?" demanded Grrralph, his interest piqued.

"Not yet," answered Geeeorge. "I'm as interested in that as you are. I used to be somebody. I could have been a contender. Instead of a wraith, which is what I am now. He'll work on it once his takeover bid is finished and I'll bet that he can figure out how to remove the spell."

"What does he want from me?" asked Grrralph.

"Just stay with the Itship or the Gallowship or whatever ship they call it," replied Geeeorge. "When the time comes and he moves on the wood, just step aside and let it happen. Or better yet, help out. I'll bet you'd love to lop the head of of one of those hoighty-toity Men, wouldn't you?"

Grrralph did not answer, but he thought back to when Orogarn (Two) had called him stupid, and when Earnur had called him stupid, and when Kuruharan had called him stupid, and...never mind. Though he could not recall Merisu ever calling him...

"Think about it," said Geeeorge as he mounted his Nazgul. "We don't need an answer now. Just think about it." The beast leapt into the air with its leathery wings outstretched and sped off towards the East.

Grrralph stood for a moment as dust billowed around him. Then he mounted his horse, Puff, and rode off towards the Hornyburg.

[Birdland]

Grrruff the Nazgrrl sat on the bottom step of the Glitzy Caverns, feeling both unimportant and unsatisfied. "Why did I come here? I am not wanted." she thought to herself gloomily. While she sat she played with the Entish Thigh that she had been carrying for what seemed like forever, idly dragging it back and forth up and down the steps while it muttered "Please, I wish you wouldn't do...OW!...now really, you could try to be a bit more careful...ooooph! I'm scratched!"

Grrralph had seemed so happy to see her! And yet, here he was ambling off on that miserable, misshapen equine, Puff. "Why didn't he want to fly? He used to love my flying!" She banged the Thigh hard on the steps, cracking the marble and causing the wood to give a most un-Ent-like squeal. Grrruff seriously considered eating Puff whenever Grrralph returned from whatever mysterious errand he was on, but knew that pony would just go straight to her hips.

"As if HE'D even notice." she sighed again. As if things were not bad enough, Chrysophylax was still directing his attention in every direction except her own. At this moment he had snaked his head through the casino door and was studiously watching a pair of Halfling croupiers happily fleece a down-on-his-luck Half-Elven at endless games of "Eleventy-One".

"What'swrong with me?" she whimpered to herself, wringing the sentient log in her claws. Green tears threatened to splash from her slitted eyes, which the Entish Thigh knew would leave a ring on his highly polished grain. He desperately tried to think of some way to stem the sticky flow.

"Perhaps you need to take a different approach with that one, young...uh...beastress?" he stammered.

"Coooooo?" Grrruff whimpered

"Well, find out what his interests are. What does he do for a living? Why does he hang out with a Dwarf? Does he like music? Why not write him a nice note telling him how glad you are to be sharing this adventure." - "And you might also ask why this motley collection of half-wits chose to remove me from The Goldlamé Hall in the first place" the log muttered under its breath.

Grrruff stared blankly at the Thigh for a moment, as if it suggested she take up rose gardening. Then, dropping the lumber, she bounded down the steps to the luggage still bundled on the Gallowship's cart. Flinging clothes, toiletries, and magic jewelry carelessly about, she dug through the backpacks until she found a piece of parchment, quill and ink. Then clambering back up the stairs, she laid these down in front of the Entish Thigh and impatiently tapped him with her claw, leaving a gouge.

"What, you want me to write the letter? But my dear young beastress, I have no hands". Grrruff immediately whirled and dashed off down the steps again.

Just as the Ent-part was congratulating himself on getting out of what he was sure would have been an uncomfortable and distasteful assignment, Grrruff came galumphing back with one of the Halfling croupiers clutched in her teeth. She dropped him on the steps and pinned him there with a talon, while gazing at the Log with pleading eyes.

The Entish Thigh heaved a martyred sigh. "You may as well give up struggling and pick up the quill, old chap," he said to the struggling hobbit, who was futilely swinging his fists at the towering fell beast. "You and I are about to compose a billet-doux".

[ October 13, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

After hours of waiting and wishing, the Togethership at last reached the head of the line and was allowed to pass between the pearly gates of the heavenly entrance to the Glitzy Caverns. Beautiful statues of various creatures, including angels, devils, and bearded lady dwarves, lined the long and brightly lit foyer that stretched for nearly the length of a REB-I Etceteron bar receipt and was traversed via a leisurely ride on a Topfloorien “People Mover” Sliding Sidewalk. Between each statue was a tall mirror in which each adventurer admired himself, herself, or itself as they sidled toward a growing barrage of peculiar sounds. Orogarn Two looked up from his handsome reflection just in time to avoid stumbling at the end of the trip.

“Slots!” he shouted, and rushed forward to push a little old Sorethighem lady away from the machine she had momentarily neglected. He looked back to the group. “Anyone have a coin?”

Everyone quickly coughed a lame excuse for not proffering any money and took off in different directions, leaving the smiling Grundorian standing alone with the disgruntled blue-haired horse lady.

“I’ll have my machine back, you big brute!” she shouted, and made to swing her hefty purse at him.

“Not today, madam,” replied Orogarn Two with a quick kick to her walker that sent her stumbling into another machine. He fished deeply into his front right pocket and produced a rusty copper Grundorian kabob. “I believe this game is mine!”

Ignoring the fallen gambler (who could not get up), he turned back to his machine triumphantly and slid the coin into its hungry maw.

---- Horse Head ---- Horse Head ---- Hunk of Rock ----

“Argh!” he cried and kicked the machine. “Am I ever cursed to suffer such misfortune?”

“Yes!” growled the old lady, finally hauling herself upward. “Now go suffer somewhere else!”

Not having another kabob and seeing no better alternative, Orogarn Two gave her the one fingered “good luck” sign and walked in the direction of an Automatic Moolah Machine he had spotted near the far end of the slot hall. Before he reached the machine he heard a loud siren go off behind him and he turned to see the old woman and her walker dancing in circles (very slow circles) under a great shining “$1,000,000” sign. She was shouting and singing, and when she noticed him she returned his good luck sign with both hands.

Sighing, he turned to the machine and slid his Citibank card into the reader.

For Instruction in Grundorian Press 1
Buz Gluzngub ne Moredough Grek 2

1

Please input your PIN and hit Enter.

Orogarn Two looked around carefully and shielded the keypad with his jacket to hide his actions from a nosy dwarf who had gotten in line behind him. He slyly punched his code number with four quick jabs of his good luck finger.

* * * *

ENTER

1 Quick-kabobs
2 Withdrawal
3 Deposit
4 Balance

2

How much do you wish to withdrawal?

GK 1,000

He waited while the machine steadily whirred and buzzed, finally spitting out 1,000 kabobs in crisp 50 kabob bills. He took the receipt and his card and walked away from the machine quickly, hoping the dwarf hadn’t seen how much he had withdrawn. With any luck, he’d be a rich man by morning.*

* For clarity’s sake, Orogarn Two and the entire family of the Steward are already stinking rich, but even the well-to-do love to win at gambling.

[ October 14, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper did not like waiting in long lines, even though he refused to hire more help to assist the long lines of people returning or needing assistance with his soft wares back at his headquarters on the shores of the Pea Sea. The fact that Kuruharan got in so quickly without having to wait with the rest of them was suspicious indeed. The covetous capitalist-dwarf was too wily to spend the required coin to bribe the guards, so why did they treat him with such deference? Once he saw the avaristic munchkin disappear past the guards, he retained the presence of mind to furtively toss a "trace" spell at the rapidly receeding backside of the dwarf so that he could listen in on the dwarf's activities. Within 15 minutes he had logged everything he needed to know.

At long last Gateskeeper and the others were admitted to the great Casinos and Dancefloors of Ham Steep, and even his jaded eyes were amazed at the facade of posh splendor, the gold-painted crown molding, the zircon-encrusted chandeliers, the long-bearded serving-wenches. But he did not head first to the dice games or the disc-jockeys, but to a secluded corner where he fired up his pocket cell-antir and entered the secret combination of symbols that would direct his image to the land of Moredough, and the topmost floor of the great Tower Block of Barát-Höm.

Môgul's cat, "Heslob" slept on his desk atop his private satel-antir, while he himself stretched his nebulous form out in his luxurious desk chair, smoky feet propped beside the cat, for a bit of entertainment and downtime. Môgul derived much pleasure from watching his favorite show, El Amon Lhaw, true stories of the Korprat-Loyers taken from the Journal of the Muddled-Mirth Bar Association (or was it Korprat-Loyers drinking at the Bar of the Muddled-Mirth Journal Association), and seldom allowed anything to interrupt. Nevertheless, when the jangling satel-antir sent the cat screetching and scampering from the room, he dutifully activated the device.

"Gatesssy."

"How did you know it was me, O Victorious Viceroy of Vileness?" Gateskeeper said in a clandestine whisper, remembering to string together alliterative titles and hoping none of the rest of the Whatevership was close enough to hear.

"Caller-ID. You have something to report? Make it fast, the Korprat-Loyers on El Amon Lhaw are just about to crush this poor widow out of her tumbledown shanty, and I want to see her weeping on the stand, and my video tape machine is broken."

"As you wish, O Excrable Evil Excellency. You are aware that we found a couple more pieces of the Ent-that-was-broken, are you not?"

"Yes, nice work on that by the way. You're at Ham Steep?"

"Yes, O Most Malfeascent Monstrosity. The Lord Dimli seems to be doing quite well here. Are the Loyers having trouble with the hostile takeovers?"

"How did you...never mind!" said Môgul in an annoyed huff. "What have you to report?"

Gateskeeper played his card. "One of our Nondescriptship is a partner with Dimli. For some extra...'consideration'... I could open a channel for you here..."

Môgul mused on this for a moment with a smoky hiss, followed by a hacking chuckle. "You never cease to amaze me, Gatesy. First Improvas, and now Ham Steep. You know what to do. I'll make sure you have your choice of office here at the Tower Block when this is all over. And the Entish Bow."

"Indeed, O Beastly Behemoth of Brutality," Gateskeeper said, trying to hear over the thumping disco inferno in the next room, "I'll begin right away."

The Dark and Somewhat Insubstantial Lord deactivated his satel-antir and sat back. El Amon Lhaw could be entertaining, but not as entertaining as the look he imagined on Sauerkraut's face when he would be told that Gatesey would replace him.

Back in Ham Steep, Gateskeeper tucked away his cell-antir into his robe, pulled his black glove a bit tighter over his marked hand, and walked lazily to a hotel balcony overlooking the grand casino area. There he could see the flying cards of the pœkhãř area, a table where he’d recognized Jack, a Black Noodleorean, dealing games of “twenty-one”, and evern a bleary-eyed Orogarn Two frustratedly dropping Grundorian coin into the cheap slots over on the side. Then he spied his game of choice. He ordered a Tipsy Balrog from the barkeeper and meandered over to the tables of rûë-léţ with its spiked spinning wheels, a game he’d learned from watching Sauerkraut on Casino Night back at the Annual Dorktank Office Party. And he’d learned well.

Seating himself at the table with his drink, he witnessed an interchange between a slightly-inebriated dwarf-waiter, sporting a natty tag that said “Hello, My Name is Sam!”, and one of the other patrons who was complaining about the dish which had been set before him.

“This is a Quiche Lorraine! I specifically ordered a bacon pie!

You lush, remember this!
A quiche is still a quiche,
A pie is still a pie!
The culinary terms apply
As time goes by!

Now bring it again, Sam!”

Gateskeeper smirked and turned to the numbered wheel and the board that matched the numbers. Fishing out a pocketful of gold coin, he tossed a handful to the dwarf behind the wheel, who dutifully bit each one before exchanging them for the gambling chips. He observed the board carefully, then placed a 3-inch stack of large-denomination chips on the double-zero square. There were some awed oohs and ahhs (and not a few knowing chuckles) from the crowd at this maneuver, but the dwarf merely said, “Very good, sir!” before setting the wheel in motion in one direction, while sending a small ball travelling around the rim of the wheel in the opposite direction. It was at that moment that Gateskeeper whispered over the table the words he’d heard Sauerkraut use that night at Dorktank so long ago – “www.cheatcode.com”.

As the wheel and the ball slowed, the ball fell from the rim onto one of the numbered slots on the wheel…double zero. There was an immediate burst of applause from the spectators (and a collective gasp from the chucklers), as the dwarf running the game pushed 4 massive stacks of chips towards Gateskeeper for his winnings. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he pushed them back, saying “let it ride.” There was an even greater gasp of awe as the dwarf nodded and sent the wheel and ball into motion again, the nervous tension growing as the rolling and whirling continued seemingly forever until the ball lost enough momentum to trip off the rim…and back into the double-zero slot.

As the gathering crowd looked on in stunned silence, Gateskeeper thought to himself, “I’ll own this entire complex inside of an hour…”

[ October 15, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë and Pimpi strolled along the glamorous walkways of the Glizty Caverns, taking in the sights and sounds of cold, hard cash (and the lack thereof). Any quibbling quarrels they’d had earlier in day were forgotten, as both parties were given to mood swings and emotional amnesia. Besides, a Casino/Arcade/Carnival/Amusement Park is no place to be at odds with one’s honey.

Pimpi’s blue eyes were wide as saucers as she surveyed the many wonders of Dwarven entertainment swirling around them. She cocked her head innocently at the bright lights, sales pitches, greedy drooling and subsequent rending of clothing and sprinkling of ashes as races from all over Muddled-Mirth were cajoled, fleeced, hustled, cheated, and shanghaied out of their money. Vogonwë walked with one hand holding his love’s, and the other holding onto his purse. (Yes, purse. A little leather pouch containing his livelihood in gold coins. What, you thought it was a handbag with powder and lipstick?)

“What should we do, Voggy?” Pimpi asked, her head fairly swirling with the glitz and glam calling out to her. Fortunately, this did not extend to the literal sense, otherwise she may have been forced to cough up the peas she’d eaten for afternoon snack.

“Strolling’s nice,” Vogonwë said, with a gulp as he witnessed a naked Elf being shaven by a pair of Dwarves running a kabob pawn stand (after V & P passed by, the Elf cashed in his hair to buy more kabobs. He lost them all within ten minutes, and the Dwarves began to debate what to cut off of him next).

“What, you mean we’re not going to do anything?” Pimpi pouted.

“We’re doing something, we’re window shopping.”

She sighed. Vogonwë realized that it would be in his best interests, perhaps, to find something to do. Something moderately safe, expenditure-wise, that is, something not guaranteed to suck his purse dry within ten minutes. Something that would restore the light in Pimpi’s eyes and not force him to go through another “you-are-boring-and-you-don’t-understand-me” conversation. Something he could win at, by Emu!

After a few more minutes of strolling along silently, observing the antics of the monetarily challenged and the desperation of the losing endowed, fortune smiled upon the Half-Elf and Half-Halfing. They came upon a game called “Spin the Dart-Board”, where contestant after contestant failed miserably at the task of throwing darts at designated spots on a circular spinning board. The aim was not so easy as getting a bull’s-eye, nay, for a bull’s-eye remains in the same spot not matter what the torque on the rest of the board. Instead (the observers learned) the impossible goal was to hit all eighteen of the little glowing diamond-like icons ringing round the rosy bulls’s-eye.

The Dwarf running the game, one Fungus by name, we reeling in the dough from hapless wretch after hapless wretch drawn in by the hypnotically spinning wheel. “This looks like fun,” Vogonwë said, stepping up to the back of the nearly catatonic line. “Start picking out the prize you want, Pimps.”

“Oooh,” Pimpi mused, looking at the full shelves of Dwarven trinkets—jewelry and silverware and candlesnuffers and other cheap imitation odds and ends. “There’s so much of choose from, how will I ever…?”

“Well, you’d better,” Vogonwë preened, “because I could win this contest with my eyes half-shut. Maybe I will….”

“Oh Voggy,” she hung on his arm in a cloying yet gratifying display of affection, “knock ‘em dead!”

When they reached the head of the line, several minutes and many more broken banks later, Vogonwë flung a coin into the grubby hands of the Dwarf, then gathered up a handful of darts with a jaunty air. Winking at Pimpi, he threw them lazily in the general direction of the whirling board.

*FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP FWIP*

Eighteen arrows hit eighteen icons in quick succession. One Dwarf jaw hit one pair of Dwarf feet.

“I’ll take the purple palantír plush toy!” Pimpi proclaimed.

“B-b-b-b-b-b-u-t—” the Dwarf stammered.

“You heard her, Master Longbeard,” Vogonwë said, relishing Fungus’s expression. “One triple P for my Lady.”

“Who are you?” the Dwarf picked up his jaw and reinserted it in his skull.

“Vogonwë Brownbark, Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud One Hundred Years Running,” Vogonwë puffed out his chest.

“Hmmm…” Fungus reluctantly picked up the plush purple palantír and handed it over to the eager young girl with the golden curls.

On the shelf behind where the palantír had been, sat a dusty and forlorn looking breadbox. Vogonwë and Pimpi began to turn away, with visions of other unsuspecting Dwarves and their seemingly un-winnable games dancing in their heads. But then they heard a strangely wooden voice say, “Oh pick me, pick me, oh pick me!”

They halted, and turned around. Fungus began to whistle and then broke out into a chorus of,

”Oh pick me, oh pick me,
Pick me pick me pick me,
A picka picka picka meeee!”

“Vogonwë, try another round, I’ve suddenly remembered that I’m in dire need of a breadbox,” Pimpi said.

“Whoops, sorry, we’re closed,” Fungus said, whipping out a “closed” sign.

“I really need that breadbox,” Pimpi whined.

“Yeah, you should see how stale our bread is,” Vogonwë agreed. “We really need that breadbox. I almost chipped a tooth last time I had a sandwich.”

“Hellllooo, Mister Tossing Champion of Workmud—”

“Arrow Throwing.”

“Whatever. I said, we’re closed,” the Dwarf crossed his stubby arms.

“Are you schizophrenic?” Pimpi inquired.

“What?”

“Never mind. Pleeease just let us go for the breadbox?”

“No! No breadboxes today! We’re CLOSED!” the Dwarf shrieked, snatching the breadbox from the shelf and tucking it under his arm.

“Oy vey, ever heard of bathing?” the wooden voice muttered.

“Listen, if you won’t let us earn it honestly,” Vogonwë offered, “just hand over the box now and no one will get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?” Fungus asked, eyes narrowing as he swept the darts off the countertop.

Vogonwë and Pimpi smiled in unison, looking as genial and innocent as they could manage (Pimpi did a smashing good job). Fungus found this extremely disconcerting, and began to back away. Suddenly, Vogonwë jumped over the counter and attempted to snatch the Entish Breadbox from the smelly pit of the Dwarf.

Fungus surprised the would-be thief by lowering his head and ramming it into said half-elf’s abdominal area. “Oooof,” Vogonwë gasped, and kicked Fungus in the shoulder. Unfortunately, he found that most of his karaté moves were useless against the Dwarf because of the difficult angle caused by his shortness. Fungus began to punch Vogonwë repeatedly in the knee-cap.

“Ow ow ow ow!” Vogonwë screamed, then swore rather unpoetically in Simian and Quixotic as he boxed the Dwarf’s ears.

“Do you need help, sweetheart?” Pimpi asked hopefully.

“Argghhh!” Vogonwë replied, as Fungus tripped him up. Dwarf and Half-Elf fell to the floor, kicking and biting and punching. Fungus clung tenaciously to the Entish Breadbox, which gasped, “Ooooh! They’re fighting over me!!!!”

Pimpi climbed on top of the counter awkwardly, lying on her stomach as she tried to swing her legs over the side. “Oof,” she grumbled, falling over the edge on top of the brawling males. “Aha!” she exclaimed, grabbing Fungus by the beard with one hand and fumbling to get Hush out of its sheath with the other. “Aha!” she repeated, pointing the hilt at the Dwarf. “Oops,” she turned the dagger around and held the point close to where she supposed his throat to be. “There. Aha! Say hello to Hush!”

“Hello, Hush,” Fungus gulped.

“Now ask Hush how Hush’s day was.”

“How was your day, Hush?”

“Not bad,” Pimpi said in falsetto, “you?”

“Uh, Pimpi…” Vogonwë interrupted from where he lay pinned underneath the Dwarf.

“Right. Hand over the breadbox or I’ll make you better acquainted with Hush!” Pimpi threatened, jabbing Hush at the Dwarf menacingly.

“Never!!!” Fungus declared with a fey look in his eyes. Vogonwë pushed the Dwarf up toward the point of the blade, and Fungus rethought his position. “All right! All right!” he thrust the breadbox at Pimpi, “here, take it, black hearted thieves!”

“Thank you,” Pimpi chirped, hopping off of him, breadbox in hand.

“Police! POLICE!” Fungus began to scream at the top of his lungs as soon as the blade was far away from his jugular vein.

“Shut up!” Vogonwë yelled, but Pimpi took a more drastic course of action, and bopped Fungus over the head with the breadbox.

“Uck,” the Dwarf passed out.

“Ouch!” the box protested, “why didn’t you just stab him?”

Vogonwë rolled the inert Dwarf off to the side and stood up, brushing his hair from his eyes. Ever since Pimpi had done away with his hairbow, snarls and the in-the-way factor had increased dramatically. “Wasn’t that fun,” he observed, pilfering an el ástick band from the trophy shelf.

“Are we really black hearted thieves?” Pimpi asked, knitting her brow in a fetching fashion.

“We,” Vogonwë said solemnly, “are liberators.”

“Oh,” Pimpi was relieved. “All right then.”

Vogonwë chivalrously lifted his love over the counter, then did a backflip over it, himself. As they left the scene of the liberation (dartboard still twirling away without a care in the world) Vogonwë began to sing,

”Won’t Merisu be so glad with us,
We’re bringing her an Entish Breadbox,
Yes.”

[ October 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Saucepan Man]

The children sat expectantly, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Although it was dark outside and there was no apparent source of light within, their faces shone with an inner radiance that lit the hall as brightly as any lamp.

The door opened, and a man stepped in. Although he was youthful in appearance, his deep blue eyes belied a profound wisdom well beyond his apparent years, indeed beyond time itself. His kindly face beamed brightly as he paused for a moment by the door and surveyed the children, his children, sitting cross-legged before him. The chattering stopped and all eyes turned to the man in excited anticipation. An indulgent smile briefly played upon his lips before he walked slowly to the front of the hall and addressed the assembly.

“Now, my children,” he began. “The time for practice is over. I have instructed you as best as I can. You must now breathe life into the theme that I have laid out for you. Sing now, my children. Sing as you have never sung before.”

And, upon his cue, the children began to sing. The sound of their voices filled the hall, great and wondrous in its beauty, full of splendour and glory, magnificent and yet somehow haunting.

“All things droll and comical,
All sub-plots great and small,
All things fun and farcical,
In Muddled-Mirth shall rule.

Each play on words and pay-off
Each little jape and jest,
We like the quick one-liners,
But running gags are best.”

But, as the children’s song unfolded, a low hum could be heard, almost imperceptible at first, but insistent and gradually growing in intensity. A look of displeasure crossed the man’s face as he brought the song to a halt.

“Who’s making that dreadful racket?” he asked, surveying the radiant faces before him. His gaze alighted on a boy sitting at the back of the hall, bigger than the rest with dark, tousled hair and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Ah, Melvin. I should have guessed. Would you please stop that nonsense right now?”

“Oohhh!” groaned Melvin, obviously reluctant to give up his little game. Then, as the man’s eyes shot him a piercing glance, he grudgingly gave way. “Yes Dad,” he said sheepishly, his eyes staring fixedly at the floor.

The song started up again.

“All things hale and humorous,
All satire well-observed,
All things light and ludicrous,
The blithe and the absurd ...”

“Ow!” exclaimed a girl with pigtails and flowers in her hair. She promptly burst into tears and, with each drop that fell to the earthen floor, a delicate green shoot sprang up.

“Dad, Melvin just pulled Yawanna’s pigtails,” said one of the boys, almost identical to Melvin in looks but smaller in build and fairer of face. Melvin shot him a withering glance.

“Yes, Manuel. I saw him,” replied the man. “Melvin! Will you please stop playing up? You’re spoiling the song for everyone else. I won’t tell you again.”

“Hmmph!” snorted Melvin before nodding unconvincingly. “Yes Dad,” he muttered once again.

“And you can stop sniggering too, Colin,” he said, directing his gaze towards one of the younger boys, a pasty, bespectacled fellow. As Colin nodded his head vigorously, the song resumed once again.

“The carefully crafted pastiche,
The witty repartee,
The slapstick and the horseplay
And fine tomfoolery.

All things …”

“NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA!” shouted Melvin, his fingers stuck firmly in his ears.

“Right, that’s it young man!” exclaimed his father, striding over to Melvin, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and propelling him towards the door. “If you can’t behave yourself, we shall have to carry on without you. Now, out you go!”

Môgul Bildûr’s eyes snapped open.

Father!

A pang of grief stabbed momentarily at his black heart. For a few brief seconds he longed once again to be that child, sitting attentively among his breth/sist-ren, bathing in the radiant glow of his father’s bounteous smile. He yearned then to run headlong into those welcoming arms, to feel the tenderness of his father’s touch, and to beg for his forgiveness. But the moment was fleeting and the pain and regret that he had felt turned quickly to bitterness, resentment and anger.

He never loved me! Not like he loved the others. What does he care of Muddled-Mirth? He abandoned it long ago and so did they. It is mine now. Mine to do with it as I please. My preciousss.

A knock on the door of his office suite roused him from his dark brooding and an Orc dressed in a blue short-sleeved shirt and blue shorts stepped warily into the room dragging a bulky post-bag behind him. It was his first day on the job and his colleagues had cruelly volunteered him for top-floor duty. This was an intimidating task at the best of times, but the hapless fellow today had the misfortune to encounter Môgul while in the process of reasserting his habitual malevolence after an uncharacteristically warm moment. With hardly an acknowledgement of the Orc’s presence, the Dark Developer grabbed the wretched creature by the throat and flung him across the room. The luckless Orc, together with his post-bag, hit the wall at speed and collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor. A flurry of letters, internal memos and invoices hung in the air for a brief moment before slowly fluttering to the floor beside his prone body.

“That’s better,” Môgul thought to himself, his mood brightening.

And there was much for him to be in a good mood about. The Gateskeeper was excelling himself. So much so, in fact, that Môgul was seriously considering offering him Lordship over the Dell of Hardwairaith as reward for his endeavours. And now it looked like another member of the Equal Opportunities-ship was coming over to his way of thinking. He would have to send a memo to the Master of Dungeon #379 requesting him to step up his “gentle persuasion” of that Topfloorien dissenter, Celedimbore, to “encourage” him in his efforts to crack the Thingwraith spell. After all, Môgul was sure that the Elf would rather not end up (literally) fronting his latest poster campaign.

The news from the dread Loyers was good too. One by one, through a series of leveraged buy-outs, refinancing deals, leaseback offers, hostile (excessively hostile, in fact) take-overs and occasional incidents of good old fashioned bribery and corruption, the realms of Muddled-Mirth were coming under the control of Môgul Enterprises LLC. The media campaign had been a resounding success. For the most part, the formerly free peoples of Muddled-Mirth had been content to accept evil dominion in return for a constant supply of consumer goods and services which, although shoddy and sub-standard, were generally less shoddy and sub-standard than those that they had become accustomed to. And evil was so less threatening when accompanied by reassuring words and happy faces.

Of course there were isolated outbreaks of resistance, but most of them had been brought under control. The servants of the Dark Tower Block were most adept at uncovering skeletons in cupboards and, with the help of well-placed articles and smear campaigns in the Daily Maul (proprietor: one Môgul Bildûr Esq), the ringleaders had largely been weeded out. And where that was to no avail, brute force always offered a most satisfying alternative.

Soreham remained a problem, though. Môgul bristled at the audacity of Lord Dimli’s resistance (although he did of course admire the Dwarf’s methods). And then there was Sauerkraut’s treachery. Môgul still thought of him as Colin, the geeky kid with glasses that everyone had picked on, although he had to admit that the nerdy kid had come a long way since then. But treason such as this had to be dealt with in the severest manner, not least because the Dread Developer greatly desired to learn the secret of Sauerkraut’s mass media coverage. If only he had a few more troops at his disposal, he would have little difficulty in acquainting both the impertinent Dwarven Lord and the conniving Wizard with their (un)just desserts. But Orcs and their ilk were in such short supply at the moment, what with the need to suppress his newly-acquired subjects while maintaining a suitably impressive force to man/orc/troll the Land of Shadowy Deals. And the Beasterlings and Poltroons were far too busy squabbling amongst themselves over the lands to the south and east of Moredough to be of any use.

Môgul grimaced as he stared ruefully at the twitching body of the unfortunate Orcish postal clerk. Absent-mindedly, he picked up one or two of the scattered letters and memos. He experienced a moment of mild irritation as he was duly informed that a fire drill was due to take place that afternoon and mentally noted his assembly point at the foot of Mount Odouruin. Then his gaze was drawn to an official-looking notice bearing a seal that he recognised only too well: the Seal of the Velour. He scanned the solemn missive with renewed interest.

“Of course!” he exclaimed aloud. “The Orcish Conundrum Concordat!”

[Thenamir]

Meanwhile, back in Improvas…

Sauerkraut’s “cable repairmen” had picked their way thru the detritus of the Goldlame Debris in vain. Not only were the Great Thighs missing, but King Theboleggen had unceremoniously thrown them down what was left of the staircase leading up to the old hall site, straight into the bone-crushing arms of Érry, son of Tait the Terrible.

“Yo think yall can jus’ waltz in here like nuthin’s wrong and jus’ take ova tha King? And overcharge him for yo stupid Net? You just logged on to Érry’s Painsite, G, c’mon an’ browse!!” Érry’s wrath was terrible indeed, and would have destroyed them then and there, had not some dark and furtive characters suggested that too much blood had been spilled already. They were, however, escorted to the city gates and sent on their way.

They had not gone far when those same dark-and-furtive types blocked the road ahead, beat them heartily, and sent them back to Sauerkraut with a message…

…when Sauerkraut woke up the next morning, lying there beside him in his palatial bed was the old sign from the Horse Head Inn…

[ October 15, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

[Kuruharan]

Meanwhile, Kuruharan was in a bit of a bad mood. At that moment, he was exiting the casino by a side door. The words of Lord Dimli still rang in his head.

"I’m sorry Kuruharan, old chum, but I can’t afford to give you your share of the take right now," the mocking voice intoned. "I have many expenses. Besides, you brought a very unseemly group into my little establishment and some of them have been causing problems. I fear that the Board might have to bring your status under review."

"Status under review my foot!" (The actual word used here is genuine Khuzdul and the translation is uncertain. We decided to place the word "foot" because it tends to convey the general meaning of the sentence.) Kuruharan muttered furiously to himself as he stalked down the slope.

As luck and the plot would have it, the enormous river that appeared on no map that Orogarn Two had fallen in happened to pass nearby.

Looking up at the enormous dam that provided power to the Ham Steep Resort & Casino, Kuruharan smiled and started leisurely trotting in its general direction.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel watched the Disco-Ship disperse in various directions when they entered the Glitzy Caverns. Though Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë had smiled at her encouragingly, she chose not to join them in their activities. Seeing them so obviously happy together made her feel quite despondent. There were times when she almost regretted her faithful Elven heart and would have liked to find romance and companionship anew, but still she hoped, however faint that hope might be, that one day Gravlox would come back from the Halls of Mantoes to be with her again. As so often when she thought of him, her left hand wandered to a secret pocket hidden within the folds of her divided skirt. There she kept the one tangible reminder that she had of her true love, the Entish Foot. No one remembered that piece of the Ent-That-Was-Hewn, she mused – they had all forgotten him who had aided them in their search for revenge and had fallen so valiantly. It was just as well, she reflected; she preferred to treasure her memories silently.

Her steps had taken her through the hallways, seeing what passed for entertainment without desiring to take part in it. She watched Orogarn losing coin after coin with not a chance of winning, then observed the Gateskeeper making rûë-léţ look like it wasn’t a game of chance. She gazed at the florid decorations in gaudy colours, deciding that the remodelling team of HGTV (Hole and Grotto Teleri-Vision) could have a heyday doing a makeover. Almost blinded by the garish lights and sparkling signs, she suddenly realized that the Entish Bow was vibrating noticeably on her back, trying to get her attention.

Go back, it told her urgently.

Why, and where? she asked, puzzled.

Go! was its only reply. She turned her steps back, breaking into a run as both the Bow and the Foot showed considerable excitement. When she raced around a corner, she almost collided with Pimpiowyn, closely followed by Vogonwë.

“Merisu!” the Half-Halfling exclaimed, “We’ve been looking for you! The most wonderful thing has happened!” Triumphantly, she produced a wooden bread-box from the folds of her skirt, which she had made after the same pattern that her role-model used. (No, unfortunately, this pattern has not been discovered nor can it be reproduced – a garment that would enable wooden feet or breadboxes to be hidden without impeding the movement, even the gracefulness of their wearers, would most certainly be very practical and feminine too!) “Guess what? It can talk!! Do you think it’s a piece of the Ent?” Pimpi added breathlessly.

The Elven maiden held the box carefully; she did not need to hear its voice to know the truth - the confirming vibrations of the Entish pieces she already carried had made it clear that here indeed was one of the missing parts. She could feel waves of communication passing through her hands and limbs, though her knowledge of Entish was too rudimentary to be able to follow the conversation. After some time, the Bow began to tremble – not the usual humming vibration of its thoughts, but tremors that seemed almost fearful! Merisu’s face grew graver as she concentrated, then she turned to her friends and said, “There is danger here – the Entish Breadbox has heard rumours of an unknown evil that has arisen.”

“What is it?” Vogonwë asked.

“Well, since it’s unknown, we don’t know,” the Elf answered patiently, with only a tiny inward sigh.

“Deep they delved, low they built, gaudy they wrought – would that they were gone!” a wooden voice chanted.

The three companions stared at the Breadbox. “Now what does that mean?” Pimpiowyn wondered.

[In the light of other historical accounts, written later than this one but translated earlier, these rather cryptic words can be explained to the readers. While searching the Grundorian National Archives for the ultimate chocolate lembas recipe, a hopeful loremistress found the following document. Its origin is obviously Elvish, though the author is not named.

‘In their greed to earn ever more and more profit, the Dwarves dug ever deeper, building ever more discos with ever greater amplifiers and larger bass boosters, so that the sound of the pounding music reverberated throughout the caverns, down, down to the depths, where it woke one who had slept for unknown times past and would better have been left sleeping…’]

[Mithadan]

The line to enter the casino was very long and moved very slowly. Grrralph stood patiently in his place sandwiched between a very regal looking Elf maiden and a rather rustic looking chap from Soreham. Nearly four hours had passed since he had taken his place in the queue. At last the gates were in sight.

The Elf stood in front of him, pointedly ignoring the wraith. She wore red sequin encrusted high heel shoes, a royal blue silk skirt cut fashionably above the knee, and a stole made of some handsome but unfortunately deceased fuzzy creature. On the few occasions that Grrralph attempted to engage her in conversation, she peered at him frostily over an elevated nose, examined him quickly from head to toe, and, apparently finding what she saw to be somewhat wanting, sniffed and turned away without responding.

The Sorethighhim behind him was clearly what some euphemistically call 'a man of the earth'. Indeed, there seemed to be quite a bit of earth on him, to the point where it was not entirely clear where the grime ended and his grey stained clothes began. Upon arriving in line behind Grrralph, he had enthusiastically introduced himself as "Arry Ar-flizzlephlegm". Upon receiving blank, or frankly astonsihed, looks from those around him, Arry translated his name into the Simple Tongue as "Lord of the Herders of Pigs". Most of those near him in line could have guessed his profession, either from the cloud of flies which surrounded him or the manly aroma of a man of the earth (and pigs) which he exuded. On the few occasions that Arry attempted to engage Grrralph in conversation, he peered at him frostily over an elevated...blackness , examined him quickly from head to toe, and, apparently finding what he saw to be somewhat wanting, sniffed and turned away without responding.

It was another hour until Grrralph, at last, neared the gates. The Dwarf who vetted the prospective clientele looked over the Elf with a scowl on his face. "Aredhel Ar-Whiniel, isn't it?" he asked, tapping a clipboard with a pen. She blushed bright red, and nodded reluctantly. "It seems," he continued, "that you have an unpaid barbill of 767 silver pennies from your last visit. I assume that you have returned to settle up?"

Ar-Whiniel smiled and took him by the sleeve, drawing him a bit away from the rabble, though not quite out of earshot. "There must be some misunderstanding," she purred. "Perhaps an accounting error?" The Dwarf frowned and shook his head. Instantly, four large Sorethighhim appeared and stood beside her with hands on their swords. The Dwarf rummaged through his filofax and produced a lengthy strip of paper which he handed to the Elf.

"Oh, THAT barbill," she said with a not-so-convincing smile. "I intended to pay it. I must have forgotten." One of the Sorethighhim growled menacingly. "Can you take a check? No? Well, there must be some accomodation which we could reach; some way I can make everyone happy."

The Dwarf peered at her frostily over an elevated nose, examined her quickly from head to toe, and, apparently finding what he saw to be adequate, sniffed and turned away. "Around back, third door from the trash heap. You'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement."

As the Elf was escorted firmly away, Grrralph stepped forward. Before either he or the Dwarf could speak, the members of the Itship exited the casino hurriedly, looking warily behind, around, and above themselves. As they went throught the door they broke into a run towards the stables. Grrralph looked at their receding backs for a moment and the wheels of what passed for his mind turned slowly. Then, a flash of insight, or perhaps a premonition of severe bodily harm, struck him and he ran after his comrades.

The Dwarf shrugged, then turned to the next person in line. "Arry", he cried as he bowed deeply three times. "So good of you to stop by our establishment. You'll be wanting the Valleyum Suite I assume. And we'll arrange for some company for you. We have a new...entertainer, a very pretty Elf..."

[Kuruharan]

Earlier, as Kuruharan was slinking off and Vogonwë and Pimpi were "liberating" pieces of the Entish Bow, Chrysophylax was huddled in the Creature's Lounge feeling monumentally stupid and sorry for himself.

He tried to ignore the nearby Phoenix spontaneously combusting for the third time in the last half hour. That suddenly reminded him, he ordered his fortieth "Petrol-and-Tonic." After finishing that off he finally noticed that he had fallen out of his chair some time ago.

With the wonderful view of the exquisite ceiling to inspire him, marvelously executed with mating hell-beasts I might add, Chrysophylax let his mind wander over the last time profound and all-consuming lust had burned in his dragonish heart.

Boy, had that turned out badly! One minute she was flirting with him like there was no tomorrow, the next minute she was saying that she had to go to the other side of the continent to arrange transport for the dowry, the minute after that she was promising to send him love-letters by hell-bat every time she thought of him, the minute after that she flapped off into the distance, and for the next two weeks Chrysophylax had stood there looking pathetically up at the sky waiting for that first letter to be delivered.

Some rather unpleasant events followed afterward. "All consuming" are good words for Dragon Love because when it goes wrong large numbers of innocent villagers are apt to suffer mightily for it. But I digress.

Soon afterwards Chrysophylax met up with Kuruharan and...

Editor's note: The text mysteriously breaks off at this point. The original manuscript was shredded by large claws. The story resumes with the next legible fragment.

...an arrangement that was not dissimilar from joining the Grundorian Foreign Legion.

Ahh, memories. Chrysophylax's mind drifted further back. The awful consequences of failing to properly explain to one ex-girlfriend why he had another dragon's Cell-antir number. The scars from that encounter were still visible on his side.

More booze to drown that particular memory.

Further back in time. The awful humiliation of finally screwing up the courage to ask out a beautiful dragon-girl and having her laugh in his face saying something to the effect of "Eeeecckkk!!! You're soooo weird!!!" Tears started to pour down Chrysophylax's cheeks.

Another miserable memory, spending twenty agonizing years in the company of a mysterious chimeric beauty, but never having the courage to talk to her.

More booze.

Then the anger came. Anger over being constantly harassed by pathetic little lizards that he just couldn't think about without shuddering. Then there was the frustration about not realizing that the neighbor dragonette had been in love with him until she was killed by an itinerant hero. Then to top it all off, there was the everlasting fury of...

...his bottle being empty.

He hoisted himself to his feet and tried to figure out the way to the bar. After four wrong guesses he finally staggered into it.

"I think you've had enough," said the bartender.

"Whishted! Ouinvus euinbmbnx ytnsgnc!" snarled Chrysophylax.

"I'm sorry," said the bartender, "I didn't quite get that."

"Qoungou," moaned Chrysophylax, "toungs vmbxin regixmbod!" Having relieved himself of that particular observation, Chrysophylax hung his head and delivered a great platitude for the ages, "Womenshes, cansh livers ith umses, cansh livers ithouth umses!!!"

"Riiiight," said the dwarf.

"That shettllesh if!" cried Chrysophylax, slamming his claw down on the bar. "I'llsh beshpeeketh to herumses of myth abidering lovers orth I'llth killers meshelf trying!"

With that determination firmly resolved in his heart, Chrysophylax fell forward on the bar and passed out.

He did not revive until a great crashing resounded through the Ham Steep Resort & Casino.

[ October 23, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper sat on the velvet couch in the Lord Dimli's posh office smoking Dimli's finest pipeweed from the lebethrond-wood humidor on Dimli's massive office desk. Dimli himself sat behind the desk, shaking in his dwarf-boots, grinning foolishly and acting as conciliatory as a dwarf can when his back is to the wall. Gateskeeper had broken the bank at the Glitzy Caverns and was now trying to cash in.

The most incredible streak of "luck" had kept that ball falling on the double-zero slot for the better part of an hour. Even when the dwarf running the game nailed a board over that particular spot, the ball had managed to find the only knothole in the wood and fell in anyway. Most of the crowd on that half of the casino had gathered around the table to see the monsterous pile of chips growing exponentially. Especially two large, dark figures who hovered near Gateskeeper's elbows.

Those two massive beings now stood one on either side of Gateskeeper, arms folded, scowling at the Lord Dimli from behind pinstripe hoods that could not obscure the
smouldering rubescent glow of their eyes. They were Korprat-Loyers, the demon barristers of the ancient world, their wing-tip shoes spread from one wall of the cavernous office to the other. (Translators note: it is a matter of great debate amongst Muddled-Mirth scholars as to whether Korprat-Loyers actually wore wing-tips, or whether it was a metaphorical description of their imposing presence.)

"So," said Gateskeeper in a cheery voice, "I believe you owe me...let's see...how much was it again, Golfboll?"

Golfboll, on Gateskeeper's left chafed at having to attend this upstart wizard-boy. He had once been one of Mogul's chief lieutenants. He was charged with the real-estate contracts and shopping centers of Minus Mallcool until he missed a clause at the Fall of Mandolin. Golfboll nevertheless glared at Dimli and said, "Four billion, two-hundred twenty-seven million, eighty-nine thousand, four-hundred sixty-one kabobs, boss. And two calzones."

"Ah, yes, that was it," said Gateskeeper, oozing all the geniality and smoothness of Martha Stewart selling snake oil. (One of Kuruharan's largest competitors for that lucrative market.) "And I'd like to be paid now. In cash." he said, relighting his pipe. He took a long draw and blew several smoke-rings that fashioned themselves into the form of handcuffs, chains, and hangman's-nooses that drifted lazily around Dimli's face.

"M-m-mister G-g-gateskeeper, sir," gulped Dimli, his mouth suddenly very dry and his brow suddenly very wet, "w-w-we...don't have that much money in our bank. It's m-m-more than this entire complex is worth."

"Oh," said Gateskeeper, his tone changing to one of mild commiseration and regret, "that is too bad. However, I've taken the liberty of having Golfboll here draw up a contract deeding over the entire operation to me. Just sign the papers. Then leave."

Dimli would have bristled at this request except for the towering Golfboll hovering over him, exuding that black breath that threatened to eat away the finish on his desk. Dimli had not been this scared since that insufferable elf, Lackalass, kept trying to pull him into dark corners while he was giving the grand tour.

The trembling dwarf knew he had no choice if he wanted to save his miserable hide. He took his quill in his shaking hand, scrawled a signature, and pushed the papers back across the desk. Golfball snatched them up from the desk and carried them to the waiting Gateskeeper, who examined them briefly before looking up at Dimli. "I believe you're in my chair," he said with no trace of emotion. He snapped his fingers. The other Loyer, Dirtbag, strode to the desk, lifted Dimli from his chair, and set him down on the floor near the office door.

With a smug grin of satisfaction Gateskeeper walked around to the chair and sat down. It was then that he discovered that the chair was built for dwarf-kind, and he was now firmly stuck between the armrests. He still retained enough dignity to say, "That's all, ex-lord Dimli. Show him out, Dirtbag." The Loyer moved to obey, but all in the room froze when a loud rumble grew to a deafening roar...

[ October 23, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]

[Annunfuiniel]

“What in the name of Míc’rôsöftar is this new devilry?” exclaimed the Gateskeeper from his rather awkward and mighty uncomfortable position. But the roar echoing in the room being deafening his words went naturally unheard by the Loyers as well as the recently disentitled Dimli. Luckily the Gateskeeper’s perplexity didn’t last for long and he soon remembered that being an all-powerful wizard in the field of wizardry meant he had all the needed powers to solve this burning (yes, he could sense the heat) issue on his own. So without further ado - and completely ignoring Dimli and his attempt to peddle earplugs (‘Plugs-sale: only one Casino!’ read the Dwarf’s hastily scribbled sign.) – the Gateskeeper straightened in his chair and, with greatest effort he had thus far had to make during the quest, sent out an undefined number of o-mails To: whom it may concern.

For a moment there was a dead silence - or would have been had not the ear-splitting din drowned it. The Gateskeeper stared from over his spectacles into the distance, his knitted brows reflecting depth of concentration. Another similar moment passed - and the Gateskeeper’s eyes began to water. The third fleeting moment that lingered by was finally too much for the wizard: there was a jerk in the corner of his eye and then --- he blinked. *zap* Undelivered o-mail returned to sender. “Damnit! Now I have to go out to find out what’s going on…” quoth Gatesy and rolled out of the door in his office chair.

* * * * * * *

In the meanwhile, somewhere deep in the depths of the Glitzy Caverns, the source of the tremor and clamor - that caused the Entish artefacts to tremble and the Sex-Mix-Ship to flee (in what surely resembled but obviously couldn’t be panic) – was having one quite ordinary day. But now, to finally remove the veil of secrecy that has shrouded the identity of Him even from the Gateskeeper and his army of all-intruding o-mails… Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lasses - and those in-between: it’s time for a flashback!

They raced through the passageway, and there it was – the mighty Escalator of Ka-Boom! Out of breath, they stepped onto the mechanical transportation device that took them upwards. At the top, far away, they saw a faint flickering light that came ever nearer. Something huge and fiery was approaching them, coming downwards on the opposite side of the escalator.

“Ai!” wailed Vogonwë. “Ai! A Balfrog is come!” Pimpi didn’t know what he was talking about, but grasped his hand instinctively.

Kuruharan’s Pain! the Dwarf thought.

“Jolly good opportunity for a battle!”
Etceteron exclaimed, but Wylkynsion, who was more learned in lore than his master, cowered silently in his sheath.

Halfullion blanched. Too well did he know this foe and recognize its danger.

Orogarn Two held up his crystal, but it had gone dark and dull.

Merisuwyniel could feel the Bow trembling at her back and shuddered to think of the potentially destructive effect of fire upon it.

Only Chrysophylax was undaunted. After all, he knew a bit about fighting fire with fire. He pushed the others aside and strode up the moving stairway to reach the oncoming threat faster.

From below, the company heard drums, drums in the deep. Merisuwyniel saw graffiti scrawled on the wall: They are coming!

“Dratted buskers!” muttered Halfullion.
Then their doom was upon them. Chrysophylax breathed a mighty flame at the Balfrog, but the foe replied by lashing at him with his long, fiery tongue. The dragon was pulled onto the downward escalator and about to disappear from their sight when Kuruharan shouted, “Fly, you fool!”

And fly he did! For the dragon indeed had wings, and he could use them as well. The Balfrog fell into the deep, whether alive or dead, this story does not tell.

But luckily (for the readers at least; the Gallowships opinion on the matter is debatable) this story tells what the previous failed to reveal… Reunification of the Entish Bow proudly presents: Mordaenárur the Balfrog and his loyal companion the Broom!

The This-and-That-Ship escaped the Subway and left the wretched Balfrog to fall to its doom and destruction. And long was the fall he took (so long indeed that had there been a wizard or such clinging to its fiery figure the two would have had plenty of time to play out an impressive battle scene before hitting the bottom of the void which then, of course, would have turned out to be the top of the highest mountain in the neighborhood… But now I digress.) – before remembering his last hope.

“Fly you broom!” the severely shadowy creature exclaimed (conveniently in westosterone so that those unfamiliar with the fell language of the fallen Máyôrs are able to follow the script) and lo! A faint shiver went through The Broom - which hereby steps into the story without any explanations whatsoever – with a squeak and then a squeal:

“My goodness, Master; this is terrible, Master!”

“More flying and less whimpering!” demanded Mordaenárur the Fiery-yet-Wingless (or de-winged?; this will be a matter of further debate), clutching the Broom tight. The Broom snapped shut its knothole and silently and smoothly, like MôgulAirs special Wraithflight, it stopped the fall, then hung in midair for a moment before taking off to a wobbling flight back towards the Escalator.

How Mord and the Broom eventually passed from the Subway to Soreham and Ham Steep is undoubtedly a story worth telling. But alas! that has to wait for a more fitting time and place (we’ll move forward only with the mention that 1) if you’re planning a trip to the Fancorn Forest we suggest you forget about it and that 2) nomen est omen, at least when it comes to the newly named parts of Soreham such as Woid or West-Ermnot.). Now - to take us back to where we ought to have been the whole time but from where we have managed to stay away through the better three quarters of this rambling review… - let’s delve deep to the roots of the Wight Mountains…or maybe we’ll rather stay tuned and see what happens later…

[ October 25, 2003: Message edited by: Annunfuiniel ]

[Kuruharan]

*CRASH-BANG*

"Huh-wha...?" Chrysophylax moaned as he awoke with a start. His dragon instincts told him that something was seriously wrong.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww," he groaned, clutching his head with his claws. He determined that the something seriously wrong was this massive hangover of Etceteronian proportions.

*CRASH-BANG*

"Keep it down," he gasped weakly. He put his head down on the bar. That proved to be a mistake because...

*CRASH-BANG*

...and the bar shook and bashed Chrysophylax in the jaw.

"AI!" shouted Chrysophylax. He reared up and looked around him. The room seemed to be spinning. He did not trouble to wonder if that was caused by the crashing or his sorry state, such reckoning was currently beyond him. It did not matter anyway. He knew what he had to do. It was the only thing that mattered.

He had to find something to drink!!!

Then he had to find Grrufff and tell her of his undying love for her, before the world fell in on them or his head split open, whichever happened to come first.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two sat in the furthest corner of the bar watching Crysophylax drown himself in potent potables and wondering where that infernal racket was coming from. What had started as a quiet noise barely heard over the dragonly sobs had soon grown to a deafening howl that threatened to shatter his eardrums. He desperately tore a soggy cocktail napkin into shreds and twisted them into thin wads, which he shoved forcefully into his ears. This helped to dull the clamor, but it did nothing to abate the emptiness in is heart or his pockets. Why’d they have to have slots?

For two solid hours he had dutifully shoved one kabob after another into the greedy maw of nearly every machine in the casino. If his calculations were correct, out of the 1000 individual kabobs he had slid into the greedy coin slots he had won exactly 8. Considering that most gambling establishments offered a fun and entertaining 90-95% return on their slots, Orogarn Two could not help but be flabbergasted by the unconcealed avarice of the Dwarf proprietors of the Glitzy Caverns and their unbelievably low return of less than 1%. He had looked around him in amazement as other casino visitors had cheerfully given up their money for absolutely nothing in return except the thrill of pulling a metal arm and watching those shiny wheels spin. Gullible peasants.

Kabobless, he had returned to the only place that made any sense – the Automatic Moolah Machine. All he needed was another KB 1000 and he was sure he was going to hit the big one. With a little luck and a lottta dough, he was going to take these dirty dwarves for all they were worth and then some. But his plan had backfired.

When he had slid his card into the AMM, instead of the normal instruction set he had been presented with two completely unexpected choices:

(1) Avoid a lecture from your dad and get only KB 10 so at least you won’t starve
(2) Get KB 1000 and quite a shouting at from your father who’s about tired of shelling out money for your addictions!

He had stood there for several minutes mulling over which button to push. Denimthor’s lectures were laboriously loud and likely to last loads longer than Orogarn Two could possibly stomach. Still, 1000 kabobs would really hit the spot, and he just knew that the Mighty Mount Pantaloon machine at the far end of the hall was ready to pay off big-time in not more than 100 pulls. He had reached to push 2, but just them the an upset Chrysophylax had wandered by and swiped him (accidently on purpose, I’m sure) with his gigantic tail, bruising his shoulder and sending his finger into the 1 instead. With a cry of dismay and a look of rage at the departing dragon, Orogarn Two had taken his ten kabobs and the AMM receipt and set of in pursuit of the clumsy beast, intent on revenge but unsure of how to go about it against such a large adversary.

And now he sat with ears stuffed with Kabloohah-soaked paper watching the dragon crash to the floor in a drunken stupor. He had followed the dragon to the bar thinking to tape a “Kick Me” sign to his back, but instead he had ended up sitting in a dark booth reading the receipt he had gotten from the machine. He had escaped a harangue from his father, but the Proctor had still sent him a message through the Automatic Moolah Machine, which, of course, was connected directly to the Citibank. What he had read had sent shivers down his spine.
Dear OT2,

Hoping this finds you well, for things are certainly not well here in the city of Minus Teeth (yes, the Denturians have repaired our fair home!). Though our great enamel towers again stand tall, I fear they may not stand much longer in our name. Since the great calamity, the Porcelain Throne has been assailed by wave after wave of law suits holding the Stewards responsible for everything from the damages caused by the fires to the rising costs of dental floss. Long have I sat high in the Tower of the Citibank communicating on the ancient cell-antir which only you and I know about (and now all of our readers), and I can see that our cause is quickly becoming hopeless. There is no way we can fight off so many attackers at once. I am afraid I may have to start selling off stock (yours, of course,) to pay for our rising legal costs. You’ll understand if I have to suddenly cut off your AMM access.

In recognition of our trouble times, I have written a new motto, effective immediately.

You can bank on the Proctor: Better to be Minus Teeth than minus kabobs!

Sincerely,
Denimthor

Orogarn Two sipped his drink and wondered what could possibly go wrong next....

[Estelyn Telcontar]

It seemed to Mordaenárur that it had been only a very brief time since he had found a safe refuge deep under the fortress of Ham Steep. He had fled after his ignominious defeat in the Great Subway, nursing his wounds and his hatred against the foe that had toppled him there. When he discovered a long-abandoned wine-cellar in the depths of the caverns, complete with packaging materials that made a good sleeping place, he turned around several times to make himself comfortable and dropped off into a healing hibernation.

The Broom, bored in the dark (and just a little bit afraid, though he wouldn’t have admitted it), whistled a happy tune to the rhythm of the Balfrog’s snoring, then gave in to an uneasy rest with dreams in which he could no longer distinguish between waking and sleeping. It was he who first noticed that a noise louder than Mord’s snores became ever more audible. He tried to hum a lullaby, for he feared the consequences should the Balfrog awake an age or so earlier than necessary. His flammable temper could be disastrous for wooden objects!

To no avail – the pain of yet unhealed wounds added to the innate wrath of the creature, and with a roar of such dimensions that it sounded throughout the whole of the Glitzy Caverns, he awoke. Flames and smoke surrounded him, and the Entish Broom cowered in a corner behind a jutting of rock, trusting that it would protect him from the all-consuming burning.

So great was the Balfrog’s rage that he completely forgot his flying companion, much to the Broom’s relief, and stomped out of the cellar, his footsteps pounding and echoing with a might that chilled all hearts in the Dwarven entertainment retreat, though they knew not as yet what caused the clamour. His Entish companion followed at a safe distance, hoping to escape notice from both fiery friend and unknown foes.

Fortunately for the furnishings and decoration of the gambling complex, to say nothing of the customers and personnel, a turn of the hallway tunnel brought Mord to a backdoor opening. He emerged on the hillside overlooking the entrance and leading to Sethamir’s Livery Stables and Pawn Shop. Unfortunately for the valiant Co-Ed-Ship, the first glimpse he had was of their fleeing figures.

Due to their experience in Heroic Questing and the forewarning the Entish Pieces had given them, the companions were the only ones in the whole fortress who were not completely immobilized by sheer terror. Merisuwyniel, well-versed in ancient Elven wisdom, had recalled the lines of an old Lay and quickly taught the most important ones to the others.

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run. *

(Orogarn Two, in whose veins some Noodleorian blood yet flowed, must have known this Lay, but had conveniently – or inconveniently – forgotten it.)

“This is a foe beyond any of us,” she said, “it is definitely time to run. Let’s go!”

As they headed for the stables, Merisu whistled for Falafel, a long tremolo, low at first, then higher. And Falafel, being an intelligent steed, freed not only herself but also the other horses from their boxes. The lovelorn Grrruff, whom she had been comforting, dashed for the door with them. They raced toward the Fellow/Galship at full speed, turning toward the drawbridge to leave the Fortress when the flaming Creature burst into sight. Down the mountain it came, streaming with fire.

“Over the bridge!” the Elven maiden shouted to her companions. They ran, then turned to face the danger bravely, yet with little hope. Where was Chrysophylax when they needed him? The Dragon was the one who had saved them at their last encounter with the Balfrog.

It reached the bridge, opening its mouth to show its fiery, lashing tongue. Suddenly a voice spoke: “You cannot pass! This is a one-lane highway bridge! I am the Wielder of the Ticket of Moredough. Your speed will not avail you – you cannot pass!”

Astonished, the heads of the Itship turned toward the speaker. It was the Nazgrrl! She had spread her wings to their full width; they cast vast shadows behind her. The Balfrog stopped in his tracks.

Mordaenárur had never before seen such a creature. Instinctively, he knew her for a female, but unlike other females that he had approached in the past, she showed no fear of him. A feeling yet unknown encompassed him, and the flames withdrew from his surface to kindle a new fire in his heart. Unbidden, poetry began to form in his mind: Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? (He did not know it, but the answer to that question was surprisingly affirmative, though unlike the story of another female with a similar function, the ships that launched upon seeing the face of the Nazgrrl launched not for love… )

Puzzled by what was happening – or perhaps, what was not happening – the Hero-Ship stood still, looking from the Balfrog to the Nazgrrl and wondering what to expect next.


° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

*(Note: Merisu would have liked to sing them the whole song, but had little time due to the urgency of their situation. Here it is, for those scholars of Elven poetry who wish to know it in its entirety:

On a warm summer's evenin' on a quest bound for nowhere,
I met up with the Hero; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin' at the stars up in the darkness
'Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.

He said, "Elf, I've made an age out of readin' people's faces,
And knowin' what their fate was by the way they held their eyes.
So if you don't mind my sayin', I can see you're out of maces.
For a taste of your miruvor I'll give you some advice."

So I handed him my flask and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a lembas and asked me for a bite.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, Elf, ya gotta learn to play it right.

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the questin's done.

Now ev'ry Hero knows that the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
'Cause ev'ry quest's a winner and ev'ry quest's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep."

So when he'd finished speakin', he turned to the horizon,
Brushed away the lembas crumbs and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the Hero found his treasure.
But in his final words I found advice that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the questin's done.)

[Mithadan]

The Itship stood on one side of the bridge and the Balfrog stood at the other. Between them was Grrruff, with wings outstretched, talons extended, fangs bared and collar spread. The Balfrog took a remarkably hesitant step forward, onto the bridge.

"Grrralph," asked Vogonwë. "What does your...thing think she is doing out there?"

"Beats me," answered the Wraith. "I didn't even know that she could talk."

"How could you not notice that she talked?" asked Felafel indignantly. In the commotion, this comment was overlooked by the members of the Gallowship and, upon later reflection, was attributed to hallucination brought on by excess adrenaline.

"She cannot stand alone!" cried Grrralph. He drew his sword from its scabbard and pulled his morngstar from beneath his cloak. Then he stepped forward onto the bridge.

"Wait!" cried Merisu. Grrralph paused and looked over his shoulder at the shieldmaiden. "Technically speaking, Grrruff isn't standing," the Elf continued. "Actually, she's sort of hovering."

"That's right," added Earnur as he tugged nervously on the Wraith's cloak. Vogonwë nodded. "Definitely not standing," he confirmed as he edged farther away from the bridge.

"You don't want me to risk my life in battle with the Balfrog?" asked Grrralph.

"Well, you might make him even more angry," said Pimpionwë reasonably. "I wouldn't like him to be more angry," added Vogonwë. "Nothing personal. Please feel free to take...er...risk your life at any other time."

Grrralph considered their words, then lowered his sword. "Very well," said Grrralph with a voice that quavered a bit. "I will stay with you all."

"You don't have to stay," muttered Earnur. "Just don't tick off the Balfrog." But by this time Grrralph's attention had returned to the bridge. No one noticed that steam rose from his eyes...

-------------------

A completely unrelated event was taking place at almost precisely the same time elsewhere. Far away, deep in the bowels of a massive edifice built of black marble, a third level clerk opened an envelope. The clerk read the missive inside and his eyebrows flew up. He directed the envelope and its contents to his superior, who passed it on to his superior, who passed it on the the head honcho himself.

Putting on a pair of reading glasses, he read the letter. "Hmmm," he muttered. "He's never done that before. Still, it's all done proper and as required and the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat are very clear in this regard." He consulted a very large ledger, then turned to his assistant. "Bring up number 3624368 and get him ready to go." A sly smile appeared on his face and he halted his assistant before he could depart. "...and go down to the Düng-Hép and empty it. Let's send him those too and take them off our hands..."

[ November 05, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Birdland]

Suddenly a voice spoke: “You cannot pass! This is a one-lane highway bridge! I am the Wielder of the Ticket of Moredough. Your speed will not avail you – you cannot pass!”

"Grrralph," asked Vogonwë. "What does your...thing think she is doing out there?"
"Beats me," answered the Wraith. "I didn't even know that she could talk."

And had it not been for the fact that Grrralph was catching his first sight of a genuine Balfrog, (who, unexpectedly, was wingless, and also smaller than he had pictured), he would have remembered that his faithful, lovelorn, impossibly aerodynamic steed could, in fact, NOT talk.

So who had spoken? Who had stepped forward and in ringing tones commanded this very spawn of Môgul to cease and desist his vicious pursuit of our Whatsitship?

Well, you had to look close, since he was standing in between two of the largest creatures of evil on Muddled Mirth, and there was a lot of smoke and flame. It was Norni Thistlebuck, the Dwarfling, the unfortunate disdained love-child of the Halfling croupier and a petty-dwarf cigarette girl. Norni was such an embarrassment to denizens of the Glitzy Caverns that he had been exiled to this lonely outpost of the caves, where he was assigned the job of toll gate keeper, and told - for Emu’s Sake - to keep out of sight.

Norni was perfectly happy with his life, having inherited his father’s happy-go-slothly hobbity ways, and none of the social-climbing skills of his mother. Also his beardless, chinless face and stubbled feet tended to scare small children, and Norni was soft-hearted when it came to the kids. So the tiny dwarfling spent his days napping, chain-smoking bowl after bowl of Old Soapy, dropping pebbles off the bridge to see how long it took them to hit bottom, and staring vacantly into space. Every so often a lost Elven spelunker or a dwarf thinking he had found a shortcut to the VIP level of the casino would pass through, and Norni would dutifully collect the bridge toll from the wayfarer, punch a hole in the receipt to show that they had paid, and then return to his lonely, futile, worthless existence.

Norni had been taking his post second breakfast nap when the horrified Gallowship came storming across the narrow bridge. The sounds of thundering feet and hoofs startled the dwarfling into action. Thinking that a bunch of gate jumpers had dashed across the bridge to avoid paying the toll, he manfully (or dwarfully) threw himself down from his kiosk onto the span, stopping (or so he thought) the Balfrog just as the malevolent Máyôr caught his first sight of our broken hearted fell beast, Grrruff.

Grrruff had sat woefully yet hopefully in the stables, waiting anxiously for the halfling croupier to deliver the billet-doux composed by the Entish Thigh. The croupier - a bitter, down-on-his-luck Bucklander who had once dreamed of making it big in Minus Teeth - had tossed this letter in the nearest floor drain (which were placed conveniently throughout the casino for the use of the patrons.)

And so the day had passed, with no word from her erstwhile heart‘s desire. Grrruff had sank further and further into despair, despite the encouraging words of Falafel, who had tried desperately to stem the Nazgrrl’s tears (This because a tear-soaked Nazgrrl has a very funny smell.) As the infamous Balfrog stormed the entertainment complex, Falafel had pushed, nudged and finally kicked the listless creature of darkness out of the stable just before the roof collapsed in smoke and flame from a well-placed whip-crack.

Grrrruff plodded over the bridge, following on the heels of the scrambling, panic-stricken Run-awayship. At that moment there was only on thing that could snap her out of her broken-hearted funk: a direct command from her shrouded master.

“Grrruff! Sit Pretty!” screamed Grralph, in a last desperate attempt to block the bridge. And just as Norni plummeted down upon the span and started demanding that the Balfrog cough up the toll, Grrruff the Nazgul stretched her wings, extended her talons, bared her fangs and spread her collar. Backlit by the spreading flames and a neon advertisement for Old Winyards, it was a stunning display.

Thus Mordaenárur the Balfrog, for the first time in the half-light of the caverns beheld Grrruff, Fell Beast of Moredough and thought her dark, dark and scorched, like a crisped sapling standing amidst the the debris of a slash-and-burned grove, while a small, annoying dwarfling hopped up and down at her feet, screaming.

And Grrruff now was suddenly aware of him: tall heir of an Entish broom, wingless - though it looked good on him - and hiding a grudge against all, that yet she felt. For a moment, still as stone she stood and stared at Mordaenárur. And it was at just this moment that Chrysophylax entered the scene, clambering over the destruction left by the Balfrog, flashing a drunken smile as he bawled loudly “Hey, baby! Here I am! Whosh your dragon, baby?”

Chrysophylax was brought up short by a broad, wingless back as he tried to cross the bridge to the object of his desire. Poking the obstruction in the back with a talon, Chrys slurred “Hey, buddy, ya wanna step aside there? I got a date with a Maia…” He waved frantically towards the blushing Grrruff, then greeted her again with a potent, smoky belch.

[ October 29, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Kuruharan]

Mordaenárur spun about and dealt Chrysophylax a blow to the noggin with the Entish Broom. Chrysophylax just stood there for a minute. Then he took a drink from his bottle and said, "Pardon misunderstood your beg but I you perhaps me! Bridge have to cross the I!"

Everyone stared at him for a minute.

"Canyon!" snapped Chrysophylax. "Me unless you listen way want suggest I you toss my get of out you to into the that!"

Everyone only stared at him for another minute. Only Earnur Etceteron gravely shook his head. He’d been down this road before.

The Balfrog made no reply, he only stood there with an extremely befuddled look on his face.

Meanwhile, Chrysophylax was trying to figure out why his demands for passage and threats of bodily harm were having so little effect. Then he had to try and remember why he needed to get across the bridge in the first place. That blow to the head had not helped matters! He took another drink and tried to remember how that had happened.

Suddenly, he noticed that there was this funny group of five wingless, yet shadowy, creatures spinning around in front of him. Each one of them seemed to be wielding a large broom.

Finally Chrysophylax said, "This is your last chance! Either get out of my way or I will ram those brooms down your throats!" Well, that’s what he tried to say. What he actually said was something more along the lines of, "Last this your chance is! Ram either my broom that way out your or I will get down!!!"

The Balfrog started to sneer and chuckle.

That did it!!!! Throw down time!!!!

Chrysophylax threw down the rest of his bottle (which certainly made him feel like breathing fire and brimstone) and then chucked the bottle at the mysterious creature that was second from the left.

Strangely enough, even though the bottle seemed to hit the creature squarely in the head, it just smashed down on the ground behind it as if the creature was not even there.

Everyone burst out laughing.

While Chrysophylax was still standing there and stupidly trying to figure out what had just happened, the Balfrog stepped forward and smacked Chrysophylax back into the wall with his Broom.

Chrysophylax rolled over and looked up.

"Oh-NO!!! This is not good!!!" he thought to himself. "They’re multiplying right before my eyes!!!" Indeed, they seemed to be, because now Chrysophylax saw ten of them. Chrysophylax dragged himself to his feet and tried to reckon up which one of his adversaries looked the most dangerous. By using geographical logic he decided that the third from the right was the one that posed him the greatest danger. Gathering all his powers together he sprang at his attacker.

"Ha-Ha!!" Chrysophylax chuckled to himself. "Let’s hear them laugh now!!!"

BUT WHAT’S THIS???!! Chrysophylax’s unerring instincts had somehow managed to fail him! He pounced squarely on top of the third creature from the right and had grabbed…

Nothing at all…

*THUMP-CRUNCH* he went on the ground!

Yes, he was definitely hearing them laugh now! As Chrysophylax rolled over on the ground, his twenty-five opponents (amazing how well he could keep track of these things considering his condition!) walked up to him and prepared to smash him with their Brooms.

Finally, Chrysophylax did something sensible (sort of). He decided that this was no time to mess around. He lashed out with his tail in a desperate effort to fell some of them and give him a chance to get up.

Chrysophylax was still feeling a bit mystified by the decided lack of the delightful sensation of his tail smashing the craniums of multiple attackers when he finally managed to land a blow on the real Balfrog.

*SMACK*

The Balfrog went hurtling toward the chasm. The Balfrog (being the sentimental type) took a moment of his flight to pause and reflect on how many wonderful stars there were down in that chasm! "How odd!" Mordaenárur thought.

This moment of introspection gave Mordaenárur the presence of mind to grab hold of the nearest thing that could keep him from falling in. This thing turned out to be Chrysophylax’s tail.

Alas, momentum and inertia being what they are, Mordaenárur pulled a very startled Chrysophylax down into the depths with him.

"Oh well," thought Mordaenárur to himself, "now we get to have that falling fight sequence we missed earlier in the story!"

"Oh yes, Grrufff, that’s right!" thought Chrysophylax, remembering his new-found love but forgetting his wings.

[ October 29, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Annunfuiniel]

And so the two fell beasts fell into the chasm in a bundle of fire and smoke, tails and talons – and a couple of unused wings. Wings!?! thought Mord, finally getting into the heart of the matter; So not fair! That drunken excuse for a dragon has wings and I don’t, “So not fair!!!” The Balfrog now abandoned silent musings and roared in rage – waking up Chrysophylax who had huddled up in Mord’s lap and then passed out (dreaming of Grrruff).

“Whatscha fumin’ now, babe? Jusht wondered what mighta beesh hidden unda thatsh corr…corl…collar… ” drooled the dragon (revealing that the word ‘awake’ wasn’t exactly befitting to describe his state of consciousness), unaware of the danger he was in – and of the danger he just avoided as his words went unheard by the Nazgrrl.

But before we get back to Mord’s answer let’s travel back in time (about half a minute) to have a quick look on how the Gallowship reacted to these happenings…

* * * * * * *

Up on and behind the bridge a lot was indeed going on. As the burning bundle of bloody beasts plunged into the void an admirably simultaneous gasp escaped the lips of the better two thirds of the - obviously soon to become dragonless - Itship. Those not engaged in the gasping were the Gateskeeper and Kuruharan who had things of far greater importance on their minds.

The former sat still in his new chair (earlier Earnur Etceteron had been so kind as to offer to give him a push over the bridge but Gatesy had politely declined; Lord Etceteron’s stammering “Could I help you over the edg…*cough* bridge?” and the curious gleam in his eyes had somehow not assured him.) and feverishly scribbled these and other odd marks in his notebook: a = S F / m, v = v0 + at. His concentrated expression relaxed into a triumphant grin only after careful calculations. “That’ll be one Big Bang…” he chuckled.

The latter on the other hand wasn't present at all; a matter which had somehow gone unnoticed by all. But had Kuruharan been there he would undoubtedly have taken up the task which his stand-in, the diligent Dimli, now enthusiastically executed (for, you know: 'Any Dwarf will do...'). And so it took no time at all before a box office rose to the financially more advantageous side of the bridge, its neonlights blinking blindingly: ‘Cruel Chrysi vs. Monstrous Mord (place your bets here)’. The dwarf wasn’t really worried over what would happen to the falling creatures; as long as they kept falling and fighting it was all the same to him - and good for business. And as the gullible guys and gals – and one kabobless Grundorian - began to float towards his stand Dimli rubbed his hands together and chuckled: "O-boy-o-boy-o-boy-o-boy!"

But in the middle of this mayhem everyone had forgotten about a creature and a thing of whom/which the latter was vitally important to the Potpourriship and the former was about to become a real pain in the a**terisk. So we will now turn our attention to the Broom and Norni the dwarfling. And first, to understand how the Broom lay there, in the middle of the bridge in the middle of the mayhem, all forlorn, abandoned and outcast, we need to go still a bit further back in time:

This moment of introspection gave Mordaenárur the presence of mind to grab hold of the nearest thing that could keep him from falling in. This thing turned out to be Chrysophylax’s tail.

Now you see: when Mordaenárur clutched to the dragon’s tail he naturally had to let go off what he had been holding before - and that would be the Broom, which then came hurtling across the air right to Norni’s furry feet. And Norni, while gasping together with the Alltogethership* (but for different reasons; he was just trying to express his feelings on this outrageous attempt to avoid bridge toll), grabbed the Entish thing that landed on his toes and peeped solemnly:

“I’ll take this then! For no-one crosses this bridge without a pay!”

“No!!!” Merisu let out an ear-splitting and utterly feminine screech; “That Broom is part of the Ent-that-was-Broken! Get that dwarfling!”

Grrruff would have been nearest to the hybrid whose status had now become ‘Wanted: dead or alive’. But her interests were totally elsewhere, namely at the void which had swallowed not one but two potential boyfriends.

Things started to look very bad for the Itship and their quest (‘As bad as a Nazgrrl in garterbelt’ the Broom would likely have put it. And so it definitely was the Broom’s luck that it had been knocked unconscious and was thus unable to speak up.). But luckily there was always one manly man** to take up the challenge of heroic deeds! Yes, Lord Earnur Etceteron indeed saw that his time had finally come and that against such devoted bridge-toll-collector words would be of no use. So the Lord of Dun Sóbrin stepped forward and reached for his (daunting?, daunted?) sword Griper, which then began to whimper: Thrust me into that mongrel and I shall never speak to you again!. This of course was something that by no means halted Lord Etceteron: “Is that a promise?” he instead queried and manfully took another step towards the dwarfling.

“Fly you fools!” Norri commanded in a tone not so commanding as he would have hoped it to be.

“Fly? With what? Our only winged companion just fell into the chasm!” put practical Pimpi in between. But right at that moment the Broom came round and turned its wordy self again. And hearing the half-halfling’s last words (and considering his state of mind after all the whacking) he had all the reasons to burst into a song (as usual he could only remember the catchy chorus of this Ardavision megahit):

Fly on the wings of love,
fly baby fly.
Reaching the stars above,
touching the sky.***

Letting it pass that the stars appeared to be below and not above, the lyrics were so befitting for the situation that even grieving Grruff was shaken from her mourning. Fly + wings + love = Grruff flies to catch love! She reasoned and plunged after the couple, at the same time trying to figure out which ‘love’ she was then supposed to save.

* * * * * * *

In the meanwhile, crashing down the chasm

While all the above mentioned action went on back on the surface of the earth Mord and Chrysophylax kept falling and falling and falling and their speed kept accelerating and acceler... Well, you got the picture!

*knock, knock - WHACK*

The Balfrog was still trying to free himself of the dragon that clung to the him in a way no self-respecting dragon cared to remember. Luckily Chrysophylax’s less than half-conscious condition didn’t enable any permanent marks to be left into his memory. Yet, as Mord delivered the fiftieth or so slap on his scaled forehead, Chrysophylax managed to inch open an eye. And so he found himself face to face with one of the identical enemies he had been fighting just a while ago! Yes, this close contact with the Balfrog aided in that this time there was room for only one beast in his visual field – otherwise the dragon saw little good in his position.

Mord saw his foe squint and then prepare for a fight for his life. The Balfrog sneered; I’ll rip off your wings! he thought and slashed his whip. But trying to lash your enemy when he’s right under your nose isn’t very effective, not to mention wise – and so it happened that the only thing he managed to do with all the (s)lashing was to tie them into a nice, tight packet!

For a while there was a silence between the two that was disturbed only by the wind’s wailing in their ears. Then the not so silent silence was clearly broken as both beast uttered synchronously:

“Erm…”

The continuous falling, which had previously bothered neither the fiery Máyôr nor the almost as fiery dragon, now suddenly began to appear as a serious problem to both of them. For now that Chrysophylax’s wings were tied he all of a sudden became very aware of them. And when it came to Mordaenárur he began thinking that landing at the bottom of the void (by-passing the fact that void is usually considered as something altogether bottomless) with a dragon in his lap might prove a bit too painful even to his liking.

And just then it happened.

“Did’ya hearsh that?” Chrysophylax questioned and tried to gaze up from under the Balfrog’s armpit (not a pleasant task, one might add!).

“Think so, though your talon’s in my ear!” puffed Mord while desperately trying to get rid off his unwanted earplug.

“Cooooo!” came from above!

“Grruff!” exclaimed Chrysophylax.

“Grrrr…” went Mord.

And the two twisted and turned so that finally the bundle of fire and smoke seemed to have four arms, four legs, at least one tail and two heads facing the same direction: up towards their angelic savior.

“Cooooo?” the befuddled Nazgrrl rightly queried.

“Later, love.” Chrysophylax put it simply - and Mord wondered if he should bite off the dragon’s head now or later. But seeing that that would hardly impress Grruff he decided that later would have to do this time. “Later: you and I.” Mord murmured into the dragon’s ear right beside his jaw.

“Coo-o-ooo!” Grruff used all her means to express herself and crooked her talons around the whip that tied the rival suitors together. So the endless fall finally ended and the trio began their long way up towards the ground…
_____________________________________________

*two alternative syllabications: 1) all-together 2) all-to-get-her

** in to the Itship belonged naturally many manly males but with Kuruharan totally absent, Orogarn Two back at the box office, the Gateskeeper deep in his calculations, Grrralph trying to comfort the woebegone Nazgrrl and Vogonwë busy with composing a lament (quoted below), he was at that moment the only one available.

Our friend Chrysophylax,
He was not lax,
But dragon rough and tough,
Just right for this gal Grruff,
dragon of ancient and imperial lineage,
was he.

***Thanks go to the Olsen brothers

[ November 06, 2003: Message edited by: Annunfuiniel ]

[Kuruharan]

Grruff carried her heroes up to the surface and plopped them on the ground.

Merisuwyniel briefly considered untying them, but changed her mind. As she stood and looked at the Broom she was hit by an unpleasant realization.

The cart with the other pieces of the Ent that was Broken had been abandoned somewhere and she could not remember where.

Meanwhile,

The hooded figure of Kuruharan darted furtively about the mighty edifice of the Unmarked Dam.

"Let’s see here," he muttered. "Fifteen sticks should do the trick in this spot…"

He pulled the required number of long red tubes out of his bag and put them down. Then he attached some lengthy wiring and then tossed the loose ends of the wires over the ledge. He continued this process as the Balfrog awoke in his wrath.

About the time that Grruff and the Balfrog were giving each other the eye, Kuruharan finished his work and climbed down. He proceeded to gather all of the loose wiring and bundle it together. When Chrysophylax and Mordaenárur were making their first acquaintance, Kuruharan was busily attaching the immensely fat bundle of wires to a large box with a funny lever sticking out on top.

"Hee, Hee, Hee, Hee," Kuruharan chortled to himself as he finished his wiring.

"Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, Hoo," he giggled as he walked along the lines and made sure that everything was in order.

As Chrysophylax and the Balfrog were plunging into the depths, Kuruharan took a moment to survey his handiwork. The Unknown Dam was literally covered by those mysterious red sticks and wires were everywhere.

"Heh, Heh, Heh, this’ll show ‘em!" laughed Kuruharan. "Lord Dimli will be bankrupted and the king will give the license for the casino to somebody else, namely ME! Hee, Hee, Hee!"

Kuruharan took a firm grasp of the lever on top of the box, and just as Grruff put Chrysophylax and Mordaenárur on the ground, he gave the lever a vigorous push and shoved it all the way down into the box.

*FLASH* KA-BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!

RRRRUUUUMMMMMBBBBBBBBLLLLLLEEEEEEEE

The Unknown Dam vanished in a violent explosion and an enormous wall of water shot forth toward the Ham Steep Resort & Casino.

"HA!!!" cried Kuruharan in triumph.

He stood there a moment to admire the sight. Then the little problem with his plan suddenly dawned on him as the wall of water loomed over his head.

"Hmmm," he thought to himself, "maybe I was a little…" *WHOOSH* "…gurgle!"

The waters swept Kuruharan away like any old flotsam and sent him spinning down toward Ham Steep.

Meanwhile…

"WHAT WAS THAT???!!!!" cried Orogarn Two, Earnur, and Pimpi in unison. The Gateskeeper spun his chair in the direction of the noise. Since most everyone else in the history of the world had failed to notice the Unmarked River he did not see anything amiss. "I have no idea," the Gateskeeper replied. "I hope it was not the central heating in my new investment going up in flames!"

Only Orogarn Two had any inkling of what was amiss. He’d been in this particular river before, and he had his crystal to help him.

"What’s that?" he demanded of the crystal. "Slower! I can’t understand you!" He held the crystal before his face for a moment.

"The Lawnmower of Death is pregnant?!" he asked.

The crystal flashed menacingly.

"Umm…your aunt is a kangaroo and she just swallowed her shoe?" inquired Orogarn.

The crystal started skipping about on its chain.

"You don’t mean to say," said Orogarn hesitantly, "that the Unmarked Dam has burst…"

"The dam has burst!!!" cried Norni, running in circles and flapping his arms.

"THE DAM HAS BURST!!!!" screamed Lord Dimli. He exchanged a frantic look with his dwarves and they all bundled off down a side passage.

"THE DAM HAS BURST!!!" screamed everyone else. The crowd of customers fled in all directions trying to escape the raging waters.

"Oh, there it is," said Vogonwë, noticing the flood for the first time.

"Umm…could somebody give me a hand here?" queried the Gateskeeper, struggling to get out of his chair. The Korprat Loyers had instantly buggered off at the first sign of danger.

Suddenly, the flood was upon them.

*WHOOSH-SLOOUSH*

The Gallowship desperately leapt for the entwined bodies of Mordaenárur and Chrysophylax.

*GLUG!!!* went the Balfrog and the Dragon as they instantly sank under the weight of their companions. Fortunately, Grruff was there to save the day again. She swooped down and grabbed hold of Vogonwë’s hair and dragged him aloft. Pimpi grabbed her boyfriend’s feet, Merisuwyniel grabbed Pimpi, Orogarn Two grabbed Merisuwyniel (and, boy! he was a happy man), Grrralph grabbed Orogarn Two and started slapping him about to get him to settle down, Earnur grabbed Grrralph, and Mordaenárur grabbed Earnur. Norni hopped on Chrysophylax’s wing and settled himself for the ride. With all this weight dragging her down, it was all that Grruff could manage to manage to keep Chrysophylax’s head above water.

Chrysophylax was totally unaware of all she was going through (partially) on his behalf and he just floated along singing…

Nobody knoooowss,
How dry I ammmm,
Nobody knooowss,
How dry I ammm,
How drrryyyyy I ammmm!

"Shut-UP!" shouted Mordaenárur, who would have hit Chrysophylax if he’d had a hand free.

Earnur was watching the flood water go by, and remembering all the nautical adventuring of his youth. (He’d been on one brief summer cruise that had ended rather badly in an unfortunate marooning and ultimately being sold into slavery.) Still, he did not let that dampen his spirits. He was damp enough all ready. He was rather enjoying this. It would have been all fun and games except for the fact that he was clinging to an undead creature whose touch chilled him to the bone and had two primordial creatures of evil, both of whom were about fifty times his weight, hanging on his feet. Oh well, nobody said that adventuring was a rose garden!

Vogonwë was another matter. He did not at all like the feeling of having his hair torn out by the roots. To take his mind off the pain he sang a song of his people that seemed eerily appropriate to the current situation.

Ka-Boom! Splash thump!
Down it goes, down it bumps!
Down the dark swift stream you go
Down past plots you'll never know!
Float beyond the world of themes
Out to where a madman beams!

The Gateskeeper just floated and spun beside them, helplessly stuck in his chair. He was reduced to shouting, "Help, I say!!!" at the scarcely less helpless Gallowship.

At that moment, Lord Dimli and his dwarves floated by aboard a luxury barge. They had aboard all the safes from the Ham Steep Resort & Casino, which the Gateskeeper had not had time to plunder.

"Come back here!!!" shrieked the Gateskeeper. "That belongs to me!!!" He tried to shake his fist at them, but alas, it was penned to his side.

"Serves you right," shouted Lord Dimli. "You can tell your dam destroying friend that he has not heard the last of me!!!!" he shouted as the barge floated past.

At that moment, Grruff could not fly any farther and she fell from the sky. Thankfully, the plot required that there be a large rock immediately underneath where she gave out so everyone landed safely (although a little smashed from the impact).

When she recovered (and freed herself from Orogarn Two) Merisuwyniel went over and pulled the Gateskeeper out from where he had been bobbing in the water.

"Well," she announced, turning to the rest of the little group. "Here we are! Now what are we going to do? Does anybody have any idea where we are? Does anybody have any food? How are we going to get off of this rock? Who are we? Where did we come from? Where are we going? How can we get there? Who’s on first and what’s the inning? What shall we do with the drunken dragon?!!!"

Early in the mornin’, sang Kuruharan as he floated into the rock. *BONK*

"Ouch!" he cried as he scrambled up to join them.

"Where have you been?" demanded Merisuwyniel.

"Ummm…" articulated Kuruharan.

"Never mind," snapped Merisuwyniel. "How are we going to get off of here?"

Fortunately, the plot intervened again. The cart that the Gallowship had abandoned at the gates of Ham Steep went floating past, miraculously, all the pieces of the Ent that was Broken were still inside.

"HUZZAH!!!" cried everyone as they scrambled aboard.

Thus they floated off on their next adventure, to the sounds of Earnur teaching Vogonwë a new tune of the sea.

What shall we do with the drunken dragon?
What shall we do with the drunken dragon?
What shall we do with the drunken dragon,
Early in the morning!!!

[ November 11, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel’s gaze turned from a horizon that looked uncomfortably wobbly to take inventory of the motley crew which was clinging to the cart turned ark. Strange, she mused, the vehicle hadn’t seemed this large when it had rumbled along Sorethighian paths beside them. Who would have thought that it could carry so many persons and creatures, to say nothing of staying afloat under those conditions?! She wondered whether it would prove to have other, yet hidden abilities. Her hand touched a rune that was carved into the side of the cart, and she leaned forward to decipher it. Ästôn-mar-Tín, it read.

She decided to count noses in order to ascertain whether all members of the Grand-Quest-Ship were there. Let’s see, Earnur, Vogonwë, Pimpiowyn, Kuruharan, Gateskeeper, Orogarn Two too - at that point the weak spot in this procedure became obvious, for Grrralph had no visible nose to count. She did not let such a trivial technicality daunt her though, and continued – but what was that Dwarfling doing here? Oh well, perhaps he would have a role to play yet in their continuing quest. Nine persons, she finished.

Then there were the mythological creatures – Nazgrrl Grrruff and Chrysophylax, who was inextricably entangled with the Balfrog. Though the dragon was not yet sober enough to recognize his old foe, Merisu had an Elven heritage of ancient memories of battles with various members of that species, involving deaths on both sides. She was afraid, but since not even a pure-blooded Elven maiden can run around shouting “Ai!” all day, her thoughts were rather more prosaic.

Drat and bebothered! she exclaimed inwardly, How am I to solve this problem? I do not wish to kill a helpless foe coldbloodedly, but I certainly do not wish any of our group to be endangered.

While she thus mused, her eyes had continued their tally – yes, all horses were accounted for, and it looked like all pieces of the Ent-That-Was-Broken had survived the deluge. Prompted by an urge that emanated from the Bow, which was slung securely to her back as always, she reached out to touch the broom that had dropped into the adventure so mysteriously.

Of course! It too was Entish – the fortunate coincidences found no end. She made little attempt to follow the ensuing conversation; for all she knew, the first half-hour could have been only an Entish exchange of the time of day. The Bow would let her know what was of importance in due time.

Instead she looked back at yet another ruined location, remembering the swath of destruction that followed the path of the Fellow/Galship. What a horrible reputation we must have in Muddle-Mirth, she pondered, worse than a drunken football team or an over-hyped rock band. Somewhere at the back of her mind the nagging suspicion of a connection between the catastrophes and the chance absences of Kuruharan and Chrysophylax arose, but she had no time to pursue that train of thought.

Pimpiowyn, whose shieldmaidening motto was “Look and learn”, had been watching her holding the Broom and realized that it too must be Entish. Thoughtfully she bent her head toward the Elf and asked quietly, “How many more pieces of the Ent-That-Was-Hewn do you think we will have to find?”

Merisuwyniel looked at her in astonishment; the Half-Halfling had grown during the course of their quest, as Hobbits tend to do, and she was not only thinking of the physical growth spurt brought on by Saladriel’s gift of beans. Pimpi was no longer merely a comic relief Hobbit with a constant appetite and the tendency to wreak havoc with her clumsiness. She was truly becoming a shieldmaiden!

Pride in her apt pupil welled up within the Elven maiden, swelling her already fully adequate breast to impressive proportions.

Orogarn’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

The Gateskeeper took off his suddenly steamy spectacles to wipe them.

Earnur and Vogonwë were looking in the other direction, practicing the fascinating new repertoire of colourful seaman’s epithets and shanties that Etceteron was teaching the Half-Elf.

Grrralph’s reaction could not be seen underneath his hood.

The Dwarfling had fallen asleep, fortunately for his young and impressionable mind.

“I do not know,” Merisu replied. “But I do know where we must go to find out.” Standing up gracefully, though rather precariously, she announced to all, “It is growing dark; nightfall draws nigh.” (OK, even a perfect Elf can state the obvious sometimes.) “When morning comes, we shall endeavour to reach the shore of this newly created lake. Then we shall find our way to the Forest of Canned Corn. That is the ancient home of the Ents; I hope we can learn there how our Quest can be achieved.”

Falafel watched her mistress with pardonable pride in her wisdom and leadership. However, if her breast also swelled, none took notice of it…

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

'******?'

'No, ********.'

'********?'

'That's the one, old boy.'

'It sounds very earthy. What does it mean?'

'It's what you might call an all-purpose declaration of dissatisfaction. For when one of the sails parts, or someone who owes you money falls to his death.'

'Already you inspire me with talk of the rolling deep! I shall use that expression in my next great ode: The Rime on the Aged Seafarer!'

'Ah. Well, it's not the sort of word one normally uses in an ode. It's more what you'd call limmerick material. Still, the ways of Elven bards have ever been a mystery to me.'

Him too.

'Sh!'

Teaching Vogonwë the salty tongue of the sea was proving to be a nice rest from lifting mythological creatures by main strength. Already Earnur could feel his vertebrae sliding back into their wonted positions, and a strident crack from his elbow reminded him that his limbs, too, were returning to their customary lengths. When flying in a large chain of non-flying creatures, he reflected, a hero of average stature should always hold on below anything more than twelve feet tall. Still, it had been fun. Add a few creature comforts (like enough seats for everyone and perhaps something to drink) and there might be something in this flying business after all. He jerked slightly as some tendons in his thigh reached their normal length, and remembered another discomfort of the journey: 'Air fresheners too,' he mumbled.

Where, the more perceptive reader might ask, has Lord Etceteron been while the others have been drinking, gambling and engaging in aggressive corporate expansionism? Indeed, that self same reader (navigating unerringly towards a knuckle sandwich, I might add) would probably wonder how he had managed to remain in the area at all without being inveigled into a Dwarvish game of no chance.

The answer was, as with most such explanations, ludicrously simple. Some years before, during one of many trial separations from his mind, he had happened by the Glitzy Caves. At that time, Dimli's operation had been a good deal less sophisticated, and one of the most popular games had been a challenge set by the bar to see who could drink every cocktail on the menu. A roll of honour had recorded the names of the fatalities. There had not even been a board for successful challengers.

Needless to say that several hours later he had left Ham Steep quite a lot richer and with breath that could cut steel. He had also been promised that any further attempt to enter the casino would be met with violence of Singular proportions, plus ejection for any who accompanied him. So it was that he had quietly removed himself to guard the wagon of Ästôn-mar-Tín and its contents, disguising himself as a dwarf stable-hand using the time-honoured method of kneeling on the floor with his shoes on his knees. When destruction loomed he had guessed that their work in the Glitzy Caverns was done, and quietly followed the others to the bridge.

There was definitely something odd about the cart. It wasn't just the winged-rune symbol that festooned the vehicle, nor even the sporty wire wheels and extendable arrow shields. What really got his attention as never before was that beneath the driver's seat was a bank of levers, most of which seemed to operate hidden crossbows. It reminded him of someone he had once known, although the name escaped him. Something in
exports, he recalled.

Wrenching his thoughts from their oddly buouyant transportation, he considered the group. Although he had been reasonably sober during the adventure, the sudden appearance of what looked like a garden gnome, not to mention the fearsome Balfrog, had put him in mind of earlier errantry. A surreal panoply of bizarre and misguided quests danced before his mind's eye: waking in a glass case wearing a tutu; running from an enraged cold-drake with a marriage licence; his famous bid to steal the fabled potential diamond, the Eye of Teiresias (the only piece of coal he had ever seen that refused to burn under any circumstances); and now, having determined to start heroing sober, this. A lesser man might have given up sobriety in the face of such damning evidence, but Etceteron came of the mighty stock that had invented the whisky milkshake and he was implacable. For no good reason he began thinking about glue.

Pinkjin aimed a kick at a passing log. Ham Steep was legendary as an abode of loose fillies, but true to form his master had decided that they would spend their whole time there smoking something noxious and looking after a tree. It had been all right for the Lord of Misrule, since he had spent most of the time thinking that he was one of the Entish fragments (one conversation, which had consisted of Earnur and one of the Thighs shouting 'What?' and 'Pardon?' at each other for four hours in Old Entish and Low Westestosterone respectively, stuck in his memory with limpet-like tenaciousness), but it was no fun for a red-blooded young charger like himself. There hadn't even been any spilled beer to lick up. For a few moments he considered kicking the assinine aristocrat to the other side of the cart before launching the attack with pleasure.

Merisuwyniel paused in her consideration of some dust on her sleeve to glance at the tangled mess of limbs that was Lord Etceteron. An incurious and long-suffering syllable slouched from her lips.

'Why?'

'Umm... I think my horse has thrown a shoe,' replied the retarded avenger. 'I just wish that he'd throw his and not mine. Or at least that I wasn't in it.'

'Horseshoes are twenty Sorethighimish Guineas apiece!' shouted Kuruharan from the other end of the vehicle. 'Thirty with nails!'. By now his frequent special offers were ignored unless he used the contact hallucinogens, but Etceteron had found out about the trick and tended to shake his hand every five minutes unless he kept his distance.

'Entish artefacts many beseemeth me we hath,' spake Etceteron as he mountethèd once more to his feet. 'Lead us to their brethren mayhap shall they.'

'You don't have to talk like that to me,' quoth Merisuwyniel. 'I'm not a tourist.'

There was much up-shutting.

'I hope they can help us, though,' she continued thoughtfully. 'We reached the third-party claim limit on my insurance back in Grundor, and they can take Entish artefacts in lieu of payment.'

Lord Etceteron nodded understandingly, then realised he was doing it and stopped. 'Truly is it written: "Go not to the Elves for cover, for they will take both arm and leg."' he intoned.

'Look, I'm from around here too, you know,' snapped the Elven maiden. 'Knock that nonsense off before I brain you.'

'I will well,' he answered, and ducked away, deftly avoiding a well-swung bow that fell on his horse's flank. He returned to his philological discourse with a warm feeling of satisfaction.

'Now, ***** is a positively disgusting word. You should use it often in conversation.'

[ 7:42 PM November 26, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

A series of pitiful groans and regular splashes marked Orogarn Two’s position at the rail of the spinning and teetering cart. Not since his first and only ride on the Astronaut Accelerator at Park Galore had his stomach so violently rebelled, and then he had been only 12 years old. Ever after that time he had avoided all vorticular conveyances, even shying away from the slowly rotating Noodleorean Needle Restaurant atop the Citibank Spire, regardless of its wonderful view. Now, as the Insertcleveradjectivehereship floated down the torrential outflowing from the flooded dwarven city of sin, each boulder the cart struck sent a signal directly to his lurching stomach that outwardly projected what remained of the prodigious portions he had scarfed from the all-you-can-scarf buffet at the Glitzy Caverns.

Unexpectedly, the overfilled floating wagon snagged on a tree limb projecting from the shore, and everything suddenly stopped, nearly sending over half of the occupants into the water. Those that had not been tightly gripping the rails were thrown forward into a pile of rusty metal and sweaty flesh, but a lucky few who had been smartly steadying themselves were able to remain standing. Orogarn Two’s queasy stomach found itself momentarily stabile, and the Grundorian found himself able at last to look around and see exactly where the rushing waters had taken him and his companions.

Near the front of the craft was a great heap of various adventurers, at the base of which was the drunken Chrysophylax, still bound to the writhing Balfrog. In fact, besides Orogarn Two, the only person left standing was the beautiful Merisuwyniel, who seemed to have not noticed the calamity surrounding her, but instead was busily applying a fresh coat of blush. Orogarn Two watched her with a combination of intense desire and unbelief. Though she was wonderfully charming, he also found her incredibly haughty, and her ability to maintain her makeup during such a collision was very disturbing. Normally he admired such spaciousness, but the combination of pointy ears and self-admiration was not something he could make himself comfortable with. Her ability to fard while floating was also distressing.

He was considering pushing the elven lady into the mangled pile of his comrades when the cart abruptly broke lose from its captivity and the entire Concomitantship bounced back to its feet. Concurrently, Orogarn Two’s dinner pail proceeded to empty itself again, but it was interrupted when the cart crashed dangerously into a tall wooden pier. Splinters flew, as well as curses, as the group again found itself again wedged into a small corner of the cart. As before, only Merisuwyniel and Orogarn Two remained standing.

“Oh my,” said she. “I do believed we’ve stopped.”

Orogarn Two looked around and noticed the obvious lack of motion, either forward or in circles. “You don’t say?”

“I do,” she replied.

“You would,” he answered. “Correctly, of course, for we have indeed stopped. Let us disembark as soon as possible.”

The Clustership heartily agreed with the Grundorian, and everyone quickly left the cart and climbed onto the dock where they found themselves at the end of a long, wooden landing that stretched to the shore of the Unmarked River. At the river’s edge, the pier met a gravel path that led into a thick wall of trees.

“BEHOLD THE FOREST OF CANNED CORN!”, shouted Kuruharan from within the tangle and holding up a selection of forest brochures he hoped to sell.

“No Caps!” yelled everyone as they extricated themselves from the pileup.

“Sorry,” muttered the chastened dwarf, angrily castigating himself for buying so many of the Canned Corn maps without thoroughly studying the potential market for them.

“If I’m not mistaken, this must be the entrance to the Forest of Canned Corn,” said Earnur.

“No kidding?” asked Kuruharan. “What ever gave you that idea?”

Lord Etceteron missed the sarcasm and answered truthfully, “The sign at the end of the pier that says “THE FOREST OF CANNED CORN”.

He was right. Where the path met the forest it passed through a wooden arch topped by a sign with the very words Earnur had spoken. Below the sign, on one of the posts that supported it, a large white parchment had been nailed:

To all who here enter…

Per Order of his most honorable Orogarn One, the Denimthor and Proctor of Grundor, notice is hereby given that the Forest of Canned Corn is declared off-limits to all Grundorians and people of decent upbringing who are not total cretins.

Hear ye, that the Ents of the Forest are knowingly harboring persons of ill reputations, including the renegade Skinflint, who is suspected to be trafficking in stolen goods, including the wallet of the most favored son of Minus Teeth, Orogarn Two.

Sanctions against the Ents are in place, and all peoples buying an selling from them will be added to our “We Don’t Like You” list. This inlcudes you, Kuruharan!

Until such times as this situation can be resolved, all people are advised to boycott the Forest of Canned Corn.

Signed – Denimthor – Proctor of Grundor.

[ November 14, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Mithadan]

The Politically-correctship shuffled off their makeshift vessel in various stages of disarray. Merisu, for example, was...well, perfect as usual. None the worse for the wear, her dampened hair seemed to sparkle in the sun and when she shook her head, sending a spray of water into the air, rainbows appeared halo-like over her locks. On the other end of the spectrum were Chrysophylax and Mordaenárur, who were still hopelessly tangled, as well as being wet and sporting a variety of bumps, bruises, dings and scratches. Worse was yet to come though the two did not yet know it.

Grrralph was somewhere in between. Predictably, he was nowhere near flawless like Merisu. Nor was he unable to disembark because his legs were pinned by various body parts of another, like Chrysi and Mord. But he was wet. Very wet. And for Grrralph, this meant trouble.

From the moment his feet touched solid ground, he began shaking, twirling, leaping and spinning. Having seen such behavior from the inimitable showtune fan before, the members of the Itship were somewhat non-plussed. Kuruharan, Earnur and Vogonwë looked on with a degree of boredom.

"I think it's Elves and Dolls this time," commented Earnur with a yawn.

"No, no," disagreed Vogonwë. "It's Springing in the Rain."

"Nope," proffered Kuruharan, wondering if he could profit from a guessing game. "It is clearly Westernesse-side Story."

"Aiiiii!" commented Grrralph as he began scratching himself vigorously. "The water has aggravated my condition."

Orogarn (Two), concluding immediately that he was on the verge of receiving too much information hurried off towards the forest. Earnur, Kuruharan and Vogonwë looked at one another and, after some quick discussion, engaged in a mystical contest known as rock, paper, scissors. "Paper wraps rock, rock breaks scissors," cried Earnur in triumph. "You ask him!"

Vogonwë ambled reluctantly over to the wraith who was now lying in the dirt, scooting along on his back, propelled by his feet. "Um, Grrralph," said the Half-Elf. "What seems to be the problem?"

Grrralph leapt to his feet and dived into a nearby thornbush, writhing desperately. "My curse!" he cried. "The spell!

'You'll wear my gear,
cloak, armor and hood,
now don't shed a tear,
but they're with you for good.'"

He extricated himself from the brambles and Vogonwë winced as the threads bordering the tears and rents in Grrralph's cloak began to writhe like snakes as they rewove themselves into whole cloth. "I've worn these same clothes, this same armor since I was enchanted by...my former employer," explained the wraith.

Earnur cringed and took a step back. "Uh, how long would that be Grrralph?"

The wraith again began scratching his chest, arms and legs. "Almost 600 years," Grrralph answered.

Kuruharan gasped. "You mean...?"

"Yes!" cried Grrralph. "I suffer from chafe! And dampness makes it worse!"

Vogonwë backed away until he stood next to Earnur. "I could have lived my whole life without hearing that," he muttered.

"The Mother of All Rashes!" said Earnur with awe (not to be confused with awwwww).

At that moment, a new sound filled the air. Or actually it was a series of sounds. It sounded something like this: Hic. Foooshhh. Aiiiiiiiii! When the odd succession of noises repeated itself several times, the Nongenderspecificship turned back towards the cart/raft. Chrysi and Mord had apparently managed to roll themselves to shore and were now, more or less, sitting upright. Hic. The dragon hiccoughed. Foooooshhhh The ethanol-tinged gases ignited in the dragon's gullet. Aiiiiii! The Balfrog screamed as the blast of flames broiled the back of his neck, which is where Chrysi's snout was presently located.

Grrralph raced over. "Dragon, could you manage to turn your snout towards me when you next burp?"

"Yes, please do!" cried Mord.

Chrysi pondered the request for a moment, then craned his neck and faced the wraith. "No!" cried Merisu. "Yes!" cried the rest of the Thingship. Hic. Fooooshhhh.

Grrralph was immolated in the resulting gout of flames. His cloak, breeches, gloves and other articles of clothing burned merrily. In moments, he was reduced to a smouldering suit of armour, standing like a burnt treetrunk after a forest fire. Then the black threads began writhing and bobbing and weaving in and out as Grrralph's clothing reassembled itself, good as new.

"Ahhhh," sighed the wraith. "Dry at last!"

[ November 20, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[The Saucepan Man]

“How can it have come to this?” Cir-Roïalle the Underwrighter mused sadly to himself as he watched a troop of Orcs removing the nameplate outside his offices under the direction of a coven of gleeful Korprat-Loyers.

The Last Alliance Mutual Insurance Company had been serving the insurance needs of loyal customers in Muddled-Mirth for some 3,000 years. But two recent claims in short succession had devastated the company’s balance sheet and left Cir-Roïalle with no option but to sell out to the highest bidder. The claim for structural damage to the Goldlamé Hall would have been manageable on its own, but the flood damage and business interruption claim lodged by Lord Dimli shortly thereafter had been enough to seal the Last Alliance’s fate*.

The Elven Underwrighter absent-mindedly stroked his beard as he reflected ruefully on the circumstances that had led him to this sad state of affairs. Was it coincidence? Or was there some terrible and catastrophic force at loose in Muddled-Mirth leaving a trail of destruction and devastation in its wake? Suspiciously, reports of Dragon sightings had found their way into the loss adjuster’s reports on both incidents. And then there was the Minus Teeth claim. That had seemed to involve a Dragon too. Cir-Roïalle wondered at the foresight of Malbeth the Insurer of the Arnorian Royal Exchange in writing an Urulóki Exclusion into his coverage of the Wight City.

He grimaced as the Orcs replaced the previous nameplate with a massive obsidian monstrosity bearing a Red Nostril insignia and the inscription: “Môgul Claims Direct, a subsidiary of Môgul Enterprises LLC”. Then, ruefully, he turned away resigning himself to his new life in his brother’s shipbuilding business.

**************************************

Meanwhile, back in Soreham, a small cloaked figure astride a dark but delightfully delicate pony was lost in pleasant thoughts involving a comfortable hole in the ground and a certain cute, blue eyed, red curled maid as he made his way towards Ham Steep.

On reaching Improvas, he had deduced from the pile of rubble that had once passed for the Goldlamé Hall that the Whatevership had already passed through. Clearly, there was no time to lose. And so he had immediately headed for the nearest tavern.

Some hours later, having enjoyed yet another hearty Sorethighim repast and restocked his pouch with the local pipeweed, Sorehamlet, he had been relaxing in a comfortable chair by the window downing his eighth pint of ale when a commotion outside had drawn his attention. Gazing out, he had seen a group of sheepish Orcs bearing the sign of the White Mouse that marked them out as minions of the Wizard Sauerkraut being forcibly ejected from the city. With some concern he had wondered whether his Master’s plans for Soreham might have gone awry. And his concern had turned to confusion as he had observed the sinister figure of a Korprat-Loyer, surrounded by Red Nostril Orcs, in deep and conspiratorial conversation with Théboleggen King. But, placating himself with the thought that his Master surely knew what he was doing, he had turned back to share his pint’s fate in getting well and truly drunk.

The next day, a somewhat bleary-eyed Soregum had experienced some difficulty in tearing Twinkle away from the delights the Sorethighim stallions that had spent the night vying for her attentions. But, at last they had been on their way and had soon picked up the rubbish-strewn trail of their untidy quarry. And, as they had navigated the paths of Soreham, on route to Hams Deep, Soregum had noted with interest the billboards that appeared to have sprung up overnight, each bearing the unmistakable Red Nostril of his Master.

“Hello Boys!” declared one underneath the image of a flirtatious Shieldmaiden clothed in a chainmail bikini that seemed to emphasise her upper body musculature (or something like that).

“Because I’m worth it!” announced another as an unfeasibly gorgeous Elf ran his fingers through his golden locks**.

“Vorsprung dóork Têknik” stated a third in the harsh tongue of the Dwarves, next to the image of a suitably dour Dwarven Craftsman displaying a range of Axes for every occasion.

Soregum should have been comforted by these signs of his Master’s success in these lands, and yet he had felt strangely saddened by what had seen.

And so it came to pass that, after only two day’s hard (but dainty) ride, Soregum and Twinkle found themselves on the final approach to Ham Steep. As their journey had taken them closer to their destination, Soregum’s spirits had gradually lifted. The luxury resort and casino was well known to him and he had veritably bristled in anticipation at the thought of a brief interlude enjoying the delights of its rûë-lét wheels and pöekar tables, not to mention its exotic wines and spirits.

“Happiness is a pipe called Sorehamlet,” Soregum thought to himself as he puffed away contentedly, recalling yet another of the billboards that had lined his route. And, as a distant rumble reached his ears from beyond the spur that marked the entrance to Ham Steep, he wondered at the power of the music machines on the dance floors of the entertainment complex. Yet the rumbling seemed to be getting louder. Twinkle began to whinny nervously (yet cutely) at the building crescendo.

Then the wall of water hit them.
___________________________________________

* Fortuitously (for him), Lord Dimli had somehow managed to “lose” the documents transferring ownership of Ham Steep to the Gateskeeper in the confusion occasioned by the impromptu flood.

** Sad to relate, but O Lando L'oréal Bloom’s agent had not been able to find it within himself to refuse the offer made by Môgul’s publicists.

[ November 17, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[Thenamir]

* * * SAVE * * *

Gateskeeper mourns the loss of his title to the Glitzy Caverns and reminisces about how he managed to escape while stuck in an ergonomic wooden rolling dwarf-sized chair.

[Birdland]

Gruff the Nazgrrl stood by the sodden dripping cart, where her friend the Thigh was desperately trying to spit river mud out of his various knotholes and bemoaning his finish. She silently, bleakly took in the sight of her partner dancing on the shore, waving his arms, hopping up and down and then reaching under his robe to frantically scratch his vaporous nether regions. Then her gaze rested on her erstwhile amours, Chrysophylax and Mordaenárur, as they struggled and tumbled, still tangled together like some devilish dust puppy from the bowels of a 2-star Sorehamnian inn. Gruff gazed numbly at the scene, blinked twice, turned her gaze directly at the unseen audience reading this page, blinked again, then returned her gaze at the grumbling, belching, farting, scratching scene before her. She had never felt so desolate in all her, long, miserable, working-grrl life.

And it was just at this moment that Norni ambled up to the stunned fell beast and announced helpfully: “I like cheese.“

“COOOOOOOOOOO!” cooed Gruff, as she rear up on her hind legs and grasped her head in frustration. Every male in the Gallowship stared blankly at the frantic Nazgrrl, before shrugging their shoulders and returning to their grumbling, belching, farting, and scratching.

Gruff fell forward on the soggy forest floor in despair. Was this all there was? Where was the love? The laughter? The romance? Her infernal clock was ticking! She wanted spawn! And a cave in a nice barren cliff-face, near good schools. Family dinners around a rotten carcass that she had dug up herself. Maybe a dog, once the offspring were old enough to eat one. Was this all too much to ask? And yet could she bring herself to settle for these two boorish creatures of darkness before her? Why, Chrysophylax couldn’t even slaughter his enemy without making a muddle of it. And had she really, really seriously considered dating a demon without wings?

Gruff stared bleakly at her partner, flapping his robe with relief after his sulpherous blow-dry. HE was no help. Oh, he was alright when they were storming a keep or reducing an army to screaming insanity. But had he ever, ever once introduced her to one of his more interesting acquaintances? Ever taken her to any of the more high class regions of Muddled Mirth? Ever throw her a coin or two so she could buy something pretty for herself? Grralph had just never realized that his little Nazgrrl was growing up.

Then, suddenly, Gruff realized that the one person who might help her had been there all along! Why had she not thought of it before. If anyone could help her make a fresh start, she could!

Merisuwyniel was just showing Pimpiowyn how a simple incantation to Yawanna could take wrinkles right out of taffeta, when suddenly the two shield maidens found themselves confronted by Grrralph’s fell-beast, wringing her talons, then frantically pointing to her own mud-spattered underbelly, her scaly, dry scales, and the beginnings of crebain-feet around her eyes. Gruff gazed hopefully into Merisuwyniel’s eyes, and cooed beseechingly.

“Why, whatever can she want, Meri?” Pimpi asked in astonishment.

“Why, Pimpi, it’s obvious!” declared Meri. “The poor dear’s just begging for a make-over!“

**************************************
“Should we take him, now, Precious?“

“No, Fluffy. We’ll wait until they have wandered into the Canned Corn Forest. We’ll lure them off the path, then we‘ll take him!”

“Meeeeeeee-meeep-meeep-meeep-meeeep! Meeeeeeeee-meeeep-meeeep-meeep!”*

* Note - Think mischievous laughter.

[Diamond18]

Pimpiowyn looked upon the fell beast with new interest. "My!" she exclaimed, and sidled up to Grruff, a little suspiciously. But the Nazgrrl cooed encouragingly, and Pimpi reached out to touch her... (head? horns? pointy ears? who can be sure?). "Awww," Pimpi smiled, "she likes being scritchied. You like that? Hmm? Does that feel good?"

Grruff tossed her head with an impatient coo, and Merisu stepped up helpfully. "The poor dear must have horrid dermatitis. Here, in my pack I have several lotions, each tailored to a particular skin type!" Why Merisu carried enough lotion for several different skin types is a mystery which Entish scholars, to this day, have not quite understood. At any rate, after a little ruffling, Merisu pulled an attractive bottle of pinkish cream from her pack and read the label. "A soothing mix of strawberry and peach extract, rose petals, riboflavin, baby's breath, tongue of goose, and pomegranate juice. With dissolving moisture beads! Especially effective for dry, scaly skin! I think we have a winner!"

Grruff cooed, and thumped her tail.

"First, however," Merisu declared, "we must wash and exfoliate the surface in preparation!" She reached into her pack again, and drew forth bottles of body wash, body scrub, body polish, and body spray, along with a large wooden scrubbing brush, a sponge, and an electrical sander.

"Right! Let's get to work," Pimpi pulled on a pair of laetéks gloves. "Into the river again... Thing."

A few hours and several attractive empty bottles later, Grruff's skin from snout to tail was polished to silky smooth perfection. Meri and Pimpi rubbed her down with terry-cloth towels (they always remembered to carry towels with them) and then applied the soothing skin cream with paint rollers.

"Now!" Merisu wondered, "what next?"

"Hmmmm," Pimpi tapped her chin thoughtfully, leaving a dab of cream there (which, of course, looked very cute). Grruff cocked her head to the side and cooed excitedly as her eyes darted from beautiful female to beautiful female. She thumped her tail and wiggled with anticipation.

"My, what an iiinteresting monster," Pimpi mused, "have you ever seen such an iiinteresting monster? But, who does her hair? An iiinteresting monster should have iiinteresting hair! What shall we do with it?"

"I know!" Merisu looked at her half-halfing associate, and felt inspired. "Let's curl it!"

Pimpi squealed in agreement. "Oh! Let's do!"

Grruff cooed and bobbed her head up and down in a paroxysm of joy. Most people in the Itship (read: males) had not yet even noticed that Grruff had hair, but have it she did. At the moment it looked like no more than a few greasy black strands straying over her forehead and ears, but under the Four Magic Hands of the Two Beautiful Beauticians (as the poem Vogonwë would later compose deemed them) this would all change.

Merisu dipped into her bottomless pack and pulled out an assortment of combs, brushes, scissors, tweazers, curling irons, curling rolls, and Fémi's Fantastical Follicle Fripper (no one, not even Fémi, was quite sure what "fripping" was, but it sounded good). "Oh dear," Merisu muttered, "none of my shampoos match Grruff's hair type... There's no 'stringy'. Well, perhaps, 'thin' will suffice, but—"

"I have something that might work," Pimpi offered, pulling a half-empty bottle out of her skirts. "It's a sample from O Lando L'oréal Bloom's new 'all-purpose' collection."

Vogonwë, who had not previously been around, suddenly appeared at her shoulder and asked, "Where did you get that?"

Pimpi blinked at him. "He sent it to me by express air mail.* The note said it was a free sample/engagement present."

"Engagement? What engagement?"

"Our engagement, silly."

"Oh. He didn't send me anything."

"Excuse me," Merisu said, as Grruff cooed with annoyance and began to toss her head and bare her teeth in Vogonwë's general direction. "We are undergoing an extreme makeover here, and if you don't mind I think our subject would appreciate a little privacy?"

It was Vogonwë's turn to blink.

"She means 'get lost', sweetheart," Pimpi said gently.

"Oh, alright," Vogonwë eyed the bottle of shampoo one more time, looking as if he suspected O Lando himself to pop out of it, genie style, at any moment. But then he shrugged, feigned indifference, and wandered off into the forest, where he promptly got lost.

After mucking about in a benighted manner for a little while, he gave up and sat down to compose that poem I was talking about earlier, while shadows fell and unseen eyes (but not unseeing, obviously) watched him. But that's another story.

Meanwhile, Pimpi popped open the bottle of All-Purpose Hair Wash #9 (which, being part of a "one-size-suds-all" collection, was no different from #1-8, except for price and hype). She took a whiff of it and was reminded immediately of the elf with the nose of a hound dog and face of an angel, more or less. She smiled fondly.

Meri and Pimpi set to work sudsing, rinsing, blow-drying, combing, curling, teasing, twisting, and tweaking Grruff's hair. It was a challange, make no mistake, but after a while where once there had been stringy strands, there now tumbled a cascade of glossy black ringlets which shone like ebony in the sunset. Grruff tossed her head and felt the exhilerating bounce and swish of truly trippin' (and frippin') hair.

She cooed.

"Oh, it's lovely," Merisu clapped her hands together.

The male members of the Fe-male-ship heaved a belching sigh in unison and tapped their watches (except for Vogonwë, who was obediently lost in the forest, trying to come up with a rhyme for pinkish). Failing to take the hint, Merisu moved on to Phase 3, which promised to be the hardest phase yet, as it involved brushing Grruff's fangs.

Pimpi and Merisu each strapped on a surgical mask and spritzed themselves with Eau de Strong Stuff before tackling the teeth. Pimpi squirted toothpaste from an industrial sized tube into the gaping cavity that was the Nazgrrl's mouth (this cleansing cream had to be bought from Kuruharan, who stopped tapping his watch long enough to make the sale) while Merisu closed her eyes and scrubbed with all her might and steel wool. After about an hour they said "good enough" and hosed the tongue and throat area out with power-acting Listerine (the number one export from that Grundorian city).

"Phase 4!" Merisu declared, as she glowed attractively from the exertion, and paused to wipe a fetchingly damp lock of hair from her sparkling eyes.

"What's that?" Pimpi panted, her cheeks ruddy and her blue eyes positively luminescent with fatigue.

"Make-up!" said Merisu. Then, they exchanged an eloquent look, which said with only the merest twitching of eyelashes and slightest arching of eyebrows:

This is going to be a bit like spray-painting rusty, twisted metal and calling it "art", but oh well!

They set to work, and toiled long into the evening, testing out many different hues of rouge, lipstick, mascara, claw-polish, and greenish pancake stage paint. Then, as the light was fading, Merisu held up a mirror for Grruff to see herself.

The lighting, as I have already mentioned, was bad, but Grruff's eyes began to glow with an unearthly greenish light, allowing her to see her reflection clearly. What she saw made her burble, coo, squeal, snicker, whicker, and purr with unearthly greenish joy. Merisu and Pimpi exchanged another looked and shrugged. If it works for her....

The members of the uncouth gender, their watches having long since stopped working, had almost all fallen asleep. The notable exceptions were Grralph (who never slept, duh) Moreandur, and Chrysopholax (both who, apparently, the stunning makeover also "worked" for).

Grralph walked up to his Nazgrrl and stared for a moment, then said flatly, "You're not going out looking like that. I didn't raise you to look like a two-bit she-lizard in a reptile-house, so wash that paint off your face and do something about that smell!"

Pimpi, who had been putting on the finishing touches by dosing Grruff with high-concentration Smell-O-Well, stopped and looked guilty. But Grruff simply swished her tail back and forth, cooed, then whalloped Grralph like he was a baseball and said tail was a bat. The Thingwraith went flying through the air till he struck a tree and fell to the ground in a crumpled mess of magic robes and cockeyed blades.

Earnur woke up long enough to feel a small modicum of satisfaction, before he turned over and resumed his dream about spiked salad dressing. Orogarn Two just kind of giggled absently in his sleep. Gateskeeper snorted and made a whistling noise. Kuruharan stirred and muttered, "I want to ride the pony...."

(He later vehemently denied this and requested that it be struck from the record.)

"Oh, dear," Merisu said half-heartedly, looking on the insensate Grralph.

"It's okay!" Pimpi proclaimed, "I don't think he's hurt. She didn't use her spikes." (The pink polish on her tail spikes was still wet, and she probably didn't want to smudge it.)

"That's nice," Merisu said, one-fourth-heartedly. Then she turned back to Grruff and her tone brightened, "Well! That's a job well done! We should do something special to commememorate the occasion...."

---

*Express Air Mail in Muddled-Berth consisted of Eagles down on their luck who would transport anyone and anything anywhere for any amount of money and/or birdseed. Names have not been mentioned, to protect what little dignity they once might have had.

[ November 24, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“I know!” Merisu shouted triumphantly, “a toast! And I have just the thing here, something I brought from one of the coktäl lounges of the Glitzy Caves.” She rummaged in her astonishingly capacious travelling bag quite awhile, giving the readers time for a bit of background information.

You see, little is known in these times of the Lore of Elven Luggage, and you may have wondered at the capacity manifested by this seemingly lowly bag. It was indeed of ancient and imperial lineage, bearing the noble name of Säms-on-Knight, being a receptacle suitable for both Over-Knight and Under-Knight journeys. In times past it had belonged to such illustrious persons as Meri Popadillins, a mythological nanny who lived in Lôn-dôn and Sheri Baggins, strikingly similar to the first in appearance and profession, but living in a later age in Spring-Feld.

Yet enough explanation, lest this narrative should become sidetracked by the insertion of overly much information – Eru forbid! Those interested in learned details should refer to the Appendices to satisfy their curiosity. Besides, Meri had by this time apparently found what she sought.

She lifted up a box of a clear material through which shimmered myriad jewelled colours. Opening it, she took out small glasses, each containing a congealed liquid of a different hue. They looked fascinating, as if Feeblenor’s gems had come back to earth in drinkable? edible? form. She handed a red one to Pimpi, grasping a golden one for herself and holding out a green one to Grrruff.

“These are called Dzhellô-shotz”, she explained. “They contain a tasty specialty made especially for females. Now, here’s to… oh dear, we just can’t call you Grrruff any longer – that doesn’t go with your new look at all! As a name goes, it may be practical, but there’s nothing feminine to it. Shall we choose a new name for your new look and new life?”

The Nazgrrl nodded vigorously, which Merisu took to be affirmation, though it is of course possible that she only wanted to feel her curls bounce. Looking at Pimpi, she asked, “What kind of name do you think would be suitable?”

“Hmmmm,” Pimpi mused, “how about ‘Pinkie’ to go with her new complexion and nail polish?”

“I don’t know,” the Elf hesitated, “maybe if it was spelled with a ‘y’ it would look OK – names with a ‘y’ are always cool.”

“True,” Pimpiowyn answered Merisuwyniel. “Pynkie?”

“You know,” the shieldmaiden mused, “it should show both sides of her nature, the innate strength and the girlish light-heartedness. How about something like ‘Atomyk Kytten’?”

“Mithril Magnolia?” suggested the Quarterling. “Sheryl Crebain? Destiny’s Grrrl? Grrritney Swords? Grrr-Lo?”

“Somehow nothing seems quite right,” Merisu sighed. “And I so want it to be perfect for her.”

“I have an idea!” exclaimed Pimpi. “Among my mother’s people, it is customary to give girls flower names. Maybe one of those would suit her.”

The Elf’s face brightened. “That’s wonderful!” she answered. “Let’s see – Elanor, Rose, Niphredil, Violet, Simbelmynë, Daisy, Athelas, Lily…”

“Buttercup!” Pimpi called out triumphantly.

“That’s it!” agreed Meri enthusiastically. “It sounds down-to-earth, yet worthy even of a princess bride! Do you like the name, dear?” she turned to the Nazgrrrl for approbation.

The Creature-Formerly-Known-As-Grrruff nodded with what could certainly be taken for approval. And so it came that the females of the Grrlship raised their dainty glasses and woke the males with a rousing toast: “To Buttercup the Beautiful!”

[ November 24, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[ 4:45 AM November 29, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Darkness. Utter and all-consuming blackness that smothered the very soul in lightless oblivion. Yet here were also blind and senseless presences of unimaginable scale that spun and gyrated through the void in an obscene, mindless ballet to the piping of blasphemous flutes. And throughout the cosmic horror that is the motion of the Other Gods, a single voice: sweet with corruption and bathed in ancient sin; herald and soul of thoughtless, voiceless entities of unfathomable power that chanted a primæval dirge as old as darkness itself:

'You've let it run out again! You bone-idle pillocks are good for nothing! Who's got some change? Come on! I was watching something good!'

A click, a whirr and the darkness is dispelled by a terrible light, which reveals in stark and merciless detail a scene from a god's nightmare: great bulbous and tentacled things blunder in the light; a sickly smell of unwholesome incense swirls about a space as vast and unknowable as Time, in the centre of which is an old Chesterfield sofa and a wooden box on legs. Now the window in the front of the box begins to flicker, and to show things that no man should see. Images that would harrow the soul without imparting understanding; that would suck out the mind and make of it an hors d'oevre in a cosmic all-you-can-eat buffet.

And Môgul spake, and spake thusly: 'I can't wait to get out of here. Oi, you! Squid-boy! Hold this antenna for me would you? No, you can sleep later. I'd have thought you'd have had enough by now.'

*****

'Ph'gnash g'sclorble sn'vaargh. Gra'phlogre sna'glui ph'gnasha.' muttered Lord Etceteron in his sleep, and then screamed. It was a scream that had been torn from the throats of tortured captives in dungeons before the birth of the Sun. It was a scream that was the test-card on the home-cinema system of Doom. It was the scream of one who has looked upon the balance sheet of his own soul and found it to be in Confederate dollars. In short, something about him told those of his companions who remained wakeful that perhaps something was slightly amiss.

'Go 'way, Dad,' muttered Orogarn Two. 'Jus' wannanother five minutes.'

'Cooooo?' crooned Buttercup curiously. This sort of scream usually meant that she and Grrralph were about to have some fun; but she wasn't sure that she should let him off the hook just yet. Two-thousand years old if she was a day and still he expected her to cuddle up with a mutilated corpse like any hatchling. She decided to ignore the siren call of a tortured mind snapping in two, at least until he apologised.

Business, they say, never sleeps. This is, of course, an utter lie: business sleeps very soundly, but the best businessman can sense a deal from well beyond the walls of sleep. Kuruharan was upright and into his sales patter before his eyes were even open:
'Sounds as though you've just had the futility and insignificance of our existence brought into sharp focus: why not try some... errr... some of this!'

Kuruharan may be a preternaturally good salesman, but even he cannot select a useful item at random while still asleep. He was holding a wooden spoon and a salad fork. Earnur stopped screaming and started to look confused.

'Are you trying to sell me a salad set?'

'I've got a fondue set if you'd rather: honestly, every home should have one. The next castle along does.'

'I doubt it. The Count doesn't really go in for cheese much.'

'I beg to differ. I sold it to him myself, along with some patented splinter cream. Anyway, the point is you're cured. My fee is fifty gold pieces or your immortal soul. We prefer cash.'

If there was one thing that being an aristocrat had taught Earnur, it was that one should never pay today what one can put off until the next generation. Deftly, he changed the subject.

'There's no time for that now. I've had a dream of cosmic significance and I need my pipe.'

He picked up his long-stemmed briar pipe and filled its bowl with a strange brown mixture from a green pouch by his bed-roll.

'If you used this yourself,' he said; 'you might find that smoke breathed out clears the mind of shadows within.'

The mighty charger, Pinkjin, swished his tail and snorted. A clear mind was the last thing that his master would find in that packet; and well he knew it too.

By now the ever-alert (not to mention ever-groomed) Merisuwyniel had roused the remainder of the company, who had gathered around Lord Etceteron. He dragged harshly on his pipe, causing the fragrant leaves within to glow a deep red. As usual in moments of great stress or drama, he spoke in accents strange.

'It beseemed me that I saw as 'twere a mighty room of sitting. And in that place were bodies, monstrous and without form. And there was music, strange and filled with horror. And in the centre of that place there was a thing of Seeing, that did show events both real and unreal to their oblivious eyes.'

'You were in a student's living room?' asked Orogarn.

'Shut up: you'll ruin this mythic quality I've got going here. Anyway, there was one among them, whose voice was fair and foul; and whose words were words of power. And he watched these things that flickered before him, and spake a great and powerful incantation. And the words he spake were these: "Why is there never anything good on? I'm sick of these bleeding soaps!"

'It still sounds like a student's living room to me,' said Grundor's favourite son.

'Shhh... And then there came a voice that spoke to me these lines:
'By hook or crook I'll have the bits
That used to be an Ent.
And then the world shall suffer sore,
That from itself me sent.

'Then I woke up.'

'I think that I should lay off that stuff if I were you,' said Merisuwyniel. 'That's the worst poetry I've heard from a dream on the Quest so far'. But behind her the Gateskeeper stood; and his spectacles flashed in the moonlight; and he said nothing. But he did not forget.

Long billionths of a second they pondered this dark premonition. Chrysophylax and Mordaenárur glanced at Buttercup, Heavenly Creature of Darkness and preened themselves in a hopeless parody of discretion. Grrralph listened carefully and then took himself off alone to consider his options (much to his recently refurbished mount's chagrin); Orogarn fingered his crystal and then went back to bed, and Kuruharan remembered something important.

'Enough about that! Where's my fifty gold pieces? I'm charging interest, you know.'

[ 11:37 AM December 04, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two tore Denimthor’s notice down from where it was nailed, folded it neatly in half and then in half again, and shoved it forcibly into one of Singéd’s saddlebags, the one overstuffed with reams of various legal documents intended for the prosecution of Skinflint. Collecting his father’s notes was an obsession of his, and he had nearly two rooms full of them back home in the Wight City. According to his therapist, each letter contructed another brick in the wall between he and the Proctor; a wall higher than the Citibank Spire. One day Orogarn Two intended to push it over on dear old dad.

The Forest of Canned Corn stood before him like the iron bars of a prison through which one small gate had been bolted. The trees formed a barrier of striped blackness that was pierced only by the gravel path before the Gaggleship and an occasional ray of sunlight that had managed to escape the tangled boughs. No creatures, large or small, crossed the trail, but the noises of something large and clumsy could be heard crashing through the underbrush deep within the wood. Perhaps it was the sneaky Ent or someone who knew his whereabouts. Orogarn Two rushed through the entrance in search of the source of the commotion.

Once beneath the murky canopy of Canned Corn, it was if he had entered a portal into another world. Looking back, he could still see his companions milling about in the bright sunshine of Muddled-mirth, but under the trees things seemed blurred and deadened, as if the forest fed on all things light and cheerful. Even sounds seemed muted, each running footstep coming back to his ears as only a muffled slap of iron-shod, blue-suede shoes against a pile of soft pillows. Psshhh Pssshh went each trod down the rocky way. How odd, he thought. Even the clamor ahead seemed much quieter before, and he hoped that he would continue to be able to follow it.

Pulling his tiny horse behind him, Orogarn Two continued deeper into the forest until he could no longer see his friends nor even see the light of the gate, and he began to suspect that he had gone further than was wise. The trail seemed to be turning leftward as he proceeded, and he soon found himself walking through a narrow defile that sloped steeply upward between rocky, moss-clad walls. The way itself had narrowed considerably so that the overfilled saddlebags made it difficult to squeeze Singéd through. Finally he came to a spot where he would have to abandon the documents or the horse.

“I’ll be back shortly, little buddy,” he said to the creature as he removed the important bags and slung them over his shoulder. “You wait here.”

The mini-Morosa merely snorted and turned away, obviously hurt at the lack of loyalty, especially considering what he had done for the Grundorian after the cliff-falling incident.

Oblivious to the feelings of others, particularly those of who he was their better, which included about everyone, Orogarn Two pressed on up the trail. It soon became even steeper, and he was forced to climb it like a ladder – hand, hand, step, step. Looking back he could still catch a glimpse of his beast of burden far below him, but the animal seemed to be walking off. Disobedient wretch, he thought, turning back to his task at hand. Not far ahead, the path leveled off, and he thought how nice it would be to take a break and maybe have a snack.

Cresting the top of the incline, Orogarn Two was surprised to find that he had climbed to a very high spot in the forest and now stood on a rocky ledge overlooking a leafy roof of trees that stretched on to the mountains. Beautiful silver and grey butterflies filled the air in a cloudy of fluttering wings. Looking down, he could see a natural earthen bowl, empty of trees and underbrush and covered in a thick carpet of dark green moss. Standing in the middle of the clearing was a bent gnarly figure, leering up at him.

The creature stood about 10 feet tall and closely resembled a dead bonzai tree that had recently been in a forest fire. Its blackened skin was flaking and peeling, and it showed signs of termite infestation. The being had huge, twelve-toed feet that were splayed out across the ground like cracks on the surface of a frozen lake, and its monstrous arms, held high above it like crosses in a cemetary, ended in hoary wooden claws. One hand held something familiar.

“My wallet!” shouted Orogarn Two, dropping his bags and drawing his sword.

Skinflint creaked a rustling laugh and waved the wallet around in circles. “Umm….ooof…..Is this what you are looking for, little manling?”

Orogarn Two looked about but could not see a safe way to decend to the Entish thief.

“Skinflint, I arrest you in the name of Grundor and her Porcelain Throne! By the power invested in me, I command you to release that wallet and give yourself up!”

The Ent tossed the leather money pouch back and forth tauntingly.

“When I get down there, I am going to use you for firewood if you don’t relinquish my property!”

“Eeeep……Errr…. let me help you down,” rumbled Skinflint.

Tree roots writhed suddenly out of the ground and tangled Orogarn Two’s legs as a branch pushed him hard from behind. The warrior quickly turned and swung his sword at his attacker, but it was too late. He plummeted from the ledge and crashed into the mossy forest floor with a dreadful crunch. His sword slipped from his fingers and he lay gasping, only barely able to look up a the wicked Ent.

Skinflint chuckled quietly and slowly turned away, walking into the forest and melting into its shady heartland.

“Oooo…… pfffft…. Good-bye little Grundorian,” came his voice through the trees.

Great roots reach out and grasped Orogarn Two’s ankles, pulling him into a gap between two ancient trees. A wind began to blow, and all of his letter and legal documents were torn from their bag and tossed in a sudden maelstrom that finally settled into a pile atop the hapless man. The only sign that he had ever been there was his silver sword laying an the ground – and his muffled pleas for aid.

“Help!” he shouted, but in Canned Corn it was little more than a quiet groan coming from the forest floor.

~ * ~ * ~

“Oh, my! What is that?” shouted Buttercup, touching her cheeks with the tips of her fingures in a dainty gesture of surprise.

“Looks like a small dog,” said Crysophylax, licking his lips and thinking of how long it had been since he had eaten.

“That’s no dog!” shouted Earnur. “That’s Singéd.”

"Where's Orogarn????" everyone gasped?

~ * ~ * ~

"Two!"

[Mithadan]

"Where's Orogarn????" everyone gasped?

~ * ~ * ~

"Two!"

"I thought he was with you," said Kuruharan to Merisu.

"No, he was with you," answered the Elf with a nod towards Earnur.

"Nope, he was with Grrralph," cried the doughty warrior.

Everyone turned to look at the wraith who was busily smoothing out a wrinkle in his cloak. He looked up, suddenly aware that he was the center of attention. "What?" he asked with understandable innocence.

"What have you done with Orogarn?" cried Earnur. He advanced upon the wraith and reached for the hilts of his blade. Fortunately for all concerned, his sword twisted out of the way of its master's hand and Earnur instead pulled from his belt a paisley print kerchief which he flourished vigorously in Grrralph's direction.

"No thank you," said Grrralph. "I don't do prints. They clash with my motif. Now who are we looking for?"

"Orogarn!" shouted the Unisexship.

"Oh, the rude Grundorian," responded the wraith. "Why didn't you say so?" Mustering his preternatural tracking skills, he flopped down to his knees and began sniffing about the campsite.

Merisu rolled her eyes in exasperation, then looked about again. Her eyes narrowed in concern and she did another quick nose/hood count. "We're missing someone else," she said.

"Who?" asked Pimpiowyn as she pulled a pack of peanuts purloined from the casino from her pack and began munching happily.

"I'm sure there was one more of us," said Merisu while she cutely tapped her chin in concentration.

"Other than Orogarn?" asked Pimpiowyn between bites. "Someone else is missing? I can't think of anyone..."

Behind them, Falafel rolled her eyes, snorted and began vigorously banging her head against a nearby tree. The loyalty of a horse to its rider is said to be legendary but her reserve of equine patience was wearing thin, at least with regard to Merisu's companions.

"I've got the scent!" cried Grrralph suddenly. "Orogarn Two went this way!" He stood and pointed to the entrance to the Forest of Canned Corn, then began dusting off his breeches. "Oh, and the....uh, poet? He went that way too."

"Orogarn Two and Vogonwë are missing?" cried Merisu. Earnur and Kuruharan exchanged a high five.

"We must find them!" cried Pimpiowyn. The Shieldmaiden and Shieldmaiden-in-training seized their packs and headed down the path towards the Forest. A visibly disappointed Earnur and Kuruharan followed after a moment's hesitation, as did Grrralph, the Gateskeeper, Norni, Chrysophylax, Mordaenárur, Buttercup, several steeds and various pieces of the Ent that was broken (and their wagon).

A squirrel in a nearby tree watched the procession pass, then ran along a branch back to his nest. He just had to tell the missus that the circus was in town.

[ 10:16 AM December 05, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

By mute and mutual consent, Merisuwyniel and Pimpiowyn mounted their steeds and, with a glance back at the sluggish males of the Conglomerateship, rode off into the forest. Buttercup needed no urging to stay with them, and so it was that a bevy of beautifully-groomed females astonished the woodland creatures who saw them. (Even Falafel was looking her very best, since her Elven mistress had braided her mane elaborately, thus showing her delicately pointed ears off to great advantage. ) Even Tweedledee, though not female, was adorned with a yellow ribbon to match Pimpi’s festive mood.

Dark locks and golden of various hues waved in the wind, and whether it was because of some magical properties of the trees, or the whisperings of the Bow which Merisu felt without understanding them, they were not tangled in the close-growing branches. Singéd led the way, and if he had had time to think about it, he would have been astonished that the trees which had blocked his progress and sundered him from his master earlier now made a path for them to follow.

[i]The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have promises to keep
and miles to go before I sleep…

The lines of a long-forgotten poem occurred to Merisu; she would have loved to have more time to explore the forest. But first there was a hapless, helpless hero to be saved. Soon her Elven eyes espied something bright lying in the grass near an ancient, gnarled and deceivingly decrepit looking tree. It was Orogarn’s sword!

She dismounted from her horse with a graceful leap and ran to the tree. But there was nothing to be seen, not even any tracks which they could have followed. Desperate, she sent a silent plea for help to the Bow. You once knew this forest well; can you tell me where to search for our friend?

This is Old Man Wilted, the Entish Bow answered. His heart is rotten, but his strength is green, and he hates all things that walk free upon the earth. He has captured the man and holds him tightly. We must hasten to make the tree release him. Alas, I have forgotten which word or song can master him. You shall have to attempt with whatever knowledge your Elven memory can find.

Merisuwyniel stood tall, raising the Bow high in a gesture of power, and called out, “Open Sesame!” Nothing happened, not even a rustling of the withered leaves.

“Mellon!” she shouted. Still nothing, though a slight shiver as if of mocking laughter rippled through the branches.

What is the word for ‘friend’ in Entish? she asked the Bow.

My dear, by the time you say ‘friend’ in Entish, the human will have died of old age if he does not suffocate first, the Bow answered.

The Elven maiden tried out several spells which she knew, all to no avail. [No, these cannot be repeated here – who knows how much havoc a mischievous person could wreak by misusing them?!]

She stepped back to think a moment and, since her mind was quick, of course, her face brightened seconds later when a brilliant idea came to her. She turned to Pimpiowyn.

“This is a chance for the young half-Halfling shieldmaiden to show her quality,” she spoke, as if uttering a prophecy. “Now is your big opportunity – let us see what power lies in you!”

[ 5:42 AM December 04, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

“Huh?” Pimpi replied, pausing in the pre-digestion of an apple mid crunch. Her attention had wandered during the chase, and she was fiddling with Tweedledee’s yellow ribbons (they brought to mind a song Vogonwë had once written, which went “Tie a yellow ribbon round the old mallorn tree”).

“Can you get Orogarn free?” Merisu rephrased her question.

.
.
.

“Two!”

.
.
.

“Oh, have you found Orogarn?” Pimpi asked.

.
.
.

“Two!”

.
.
.

“Yes,” Merisu replied with the barest hint of impatience, “he’s under the tree, can you not hear him?”

Pimpi stopped chewing and listened. Silence.

“Orogarn?” Merisu called.

.
.
.

“Two!”

.
.
.

“Oh,” Pimpi looked at the roots. “Nasty sort of predicament…. What do you want me to do?”

“Do you know of any spells or words that could make the tree give up our heroic Grundorian friend?” Merisu explained patiently.

“What makes you think the offspring of a hobbit and a man of the Mike would know anything about magic tree spells?” Pimpi asked nervously, eyeing the intimidating tangle of roots snaking through the ground.

“You never know,” Merisu shrugged (gracefully, of course).

“Wellllll…” Pimpi thought hard, “let me see… Vogonwë might know of something, he’s from Workmud after all. And he seems to know every sort of poem.”

“Vogonwë isn’t here,” Falafel pointed out, but neither shieldmaiden paid attention to the observation, so patently obvious it was.

“Did he not teach you any useful Workmudian spells?” Merisu prompted.

“I can’t say I was much interested in learning,” Pimpi admitted. “But if you give me a moment the repressed memories may unpress themselves.”

“Whatever that means,” Falafel muttered, annoyed at being ignored. Buttercup had found a small spring at the base of another tree and was admiring her reflection, twirling her curls with her newly painted claws.

“Patience, Orogarn,” Merisu called, “give us a minute and we’ll get you out somehow!”

.
.
.

“Two!”

.
.
.

“That’s getting old,” Falafel sighed.

“I have one!” Pimpi declared. “It’s called ‘Variations on a Theme by Bombaganini’:

Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a dong dillo!
Ring a ding a dingalong a dingalonga a longading
Merry o merry me merry my a merry mo
Fal la, la fal, falla lalla lilly lo
Lilly lo a filly ho a dilly dol a derry dol
Derry dol a dolly der, dilly dally derry o
Fa lal la la lo, derry de, derry di, dirry derry dorry o
Hop a long a fop along a ring a long, hop a loppa leap alonga
Whazzzaaaa!

“Oh my sweet Eru,” Falafel stomped her hooves, and Buttercup’s curls drooped somewhat.

“I know,” Pimpi nodded.

At that moment, the tree emitted a low, guttural, unearthly, moaning noise that was also reminiscent of a toilet overflowing. “I think it’s working!” Merisu exclaimed.

And lo! the tree then belched forth an awful spew of leaves, dirt, mud, sticks, mice, raccoons, opossums, skwerlz, skwerl droppingz, acorns, peanuts, mockingbirds, bluebirds, chickadees, finches, and Orogarn.

.
.
.

“Two!”

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 7:31 PM December 08, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel was delighted that Orogarn (Two! she reminded herself) had been rescued, and proud of her shieldmaiden handmaiden. Pimpiowyn had proved her worth, giving her teacher the feeling that she too had accomplished something. (Her well-trained mind had already pushed away the helpless feeling that had prompted her to give Pimpi the task.) Now all they had to do was get back to the rest of the Company-Ship.

Orogarn was shaking Pimpi’s hand vigorously in thanks; he would have been inclined to express his emotions more – well, heartily, one could say, but there was no telling when the lost boyfriend would turn up. The Half-Halfling maiden beamed with joy and pride; I really am a shieldmaiden!, she thought.

But even as Merisuwyniel turned to leave, the tree swung out a root, and it lashed and curled about her shapely legs, dragging her to the ground. She staggered, and fell, vainly grasping for the mane of her horse, or Buttercup’s curls, or anything she could have held onto. “Try your tools!” she cried, and was gone.

Her companions stood rooted with horror, staring at the black-hearted tree. But it heeded them not. The crack in its trunk snapped shut. Orogarn was alive, but Merisu was taken by the enemy.

(Here ends the part of the second part that is part of the whole history, at least in part. Holiday hiatus…)

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 6:29 AM December 12, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Birdland]

After mucking about in a benighted manner for a little while, he [Vogonwë] gave up and sat down to compose that poem I was talking about earlier, while shadows fell and unseen eyes (but not unseeing, obviously) watched him. But that's another story.

"...beautician...mortician...perdition...oh drat! It just won't scan! And it does seem to be getting a bit dusky - and cold - perhaps I should be heading back. My little Pimpikins having had ample time to make over an entire flock of Nazgrrls by now. But which way is back?"

"Meeeep?"

"What was that? Who calls?"

"Prrrrt?" (A flash of fluffy white skips through the gloom)

"Show yourselves, or I shall throw...why...it can't be...Precious? My Precious! But Mummsy and Daddy said that you ran away to the Happy Haven Farms, oh, so long ago. C'm here, Precious. Ahhhh, c'mon, lil fellow, that's it...my precious..."

And it was at that moment that the trap door opened.

*******************

The hole between the roots dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Merisuwyniel had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next.

(Note - the following two paragraphs based - loosely and badly - on the first chapter of the Lewis Carroll Classic Alice in Wonderland, serve only to indicate that Merisuwyniel's fall is EXTEMELY LONG! Therefore, skipping these paragraphs will in no way prevent you from understanding the plot of this tale - such as it is.)

"Well!" thought Merisuwyniel to herself "After such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of throwing myself down from the battlements upon the heads of twenty-three orcs! How brave they'll all think me at home!"

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said aloud. "I must be getting somewhere near Bottom-earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think-" (for, you see, Merisuwyniel had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) "-- yes that's about the right distance -- but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?" (Merisuwyniel knew perfectly well that that Latitude, or Longitude either, would be of no help to her at all in her present situation, but she thought they were nice grand words to say.)

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Merisuwyniel soon began talking again. "Pimpi will miss me very much to-night, I should think! I do hope they'll remember her half-gallon of milk at tea-time. Oh, Pimpi, I wish you were down here with me!
I don't believe I will find any orcs, but it is possible that there may be dorks. Hmmm, I wonder; do dorks eat orcs? I wonder?" And here Merisuwyniel began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy son of way, "Do dorks eat orcs? Do dorks eat orcs?" and sometimes "Do orcs eat dorks?" for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Pimpi, and was saying to her, very earnestly, "Now, Pimp, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a dork?" when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Note - OK, you can start reading again. It starts to get exciting, now!

Merisuwyniel slowly picked herself up from the pile of leaves and rubbish, brushed off her skirt and fixed a stray hairpin before whisking a bow from her quiver and fitting to the taunt string of the Entish Bow. For at the end of a tunnel, a reddish glow filled the air, and a chorus of high, clear voices was chanting softly, Boink!...Boink!...Boink!

[Estelyn Telcontar]

It is time!

Time for what? the faithful reader may ask.

It is time for the true hero of this story to come forward and claim his right to be acknowledged as such!

The faithful reader might object that the chief protagonist is a heroine. Yes, it may seem that everything is about Merisuwyniel – or should I say “Mary Sue”?! No amount of fancy spelling or Elvish name suffixes can disguise the fact that she has done precisely what every Mary Sue does – she has taken over the whole story and made herself the main character.

But I ask you, faithful reader, is this tale titled “The Revenge (or Reunification) of Mary Sue”?! No!!!

Everyone forgets that this is my story; they treat me like a common wooden object, only remembering that I am a senti-Ent when they need my special abilities. And why does everyone give her credit for marksmanship when I am the one doing the shooting for her??

Well, now we are in my home territory. I know every square foot of Canned-Corn Forest, every black skwerl that leaps from bough to bough, every tree from nut and acorn. I am Ent, I command, and Old Man Wilted does as I say. As soon as he lets me out, he will crush Merisu, destroy her completely, end her existence, and this tale will be mine, all mine, mine alone!! [What, were you expecting cheap verbal effects with several gratuitous “My Precious” from me? Never would I stoop so low!]

No more fighting her battles for her, no more doing what she requires of me, no more being carried ignominiously on her back, no more brushing the shapely lower end of it, no more silky waves caressing me in the breeze, no more arrows fitted to me by her slender hands, no more soft yet firm stroking of my upper and lower limbs, no more vicarious visions of her torrid dreams when her arm moves to touch me in her restless sleep…

Oh, confound it! She’s done it to me too – how humiliating! I’ve fallen in love with this little chit of an Elf; now I can’t leave her nor let anyone harm her. Let us out, Old Man Wilted – she’ll never know what I almost did. She’s still dreaming some strange vision.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

With a gasp, Merisu opened her eyes wide. Though she held the Bow, vibrating with a strange agitation, there was no tunnel; pale daylight filtered through the trees surrounding her. She shook her golden-tressed head in an attempt to remember what she had been thinking, but it evaded her. Her companions were running toward her, their gazes filled with a mixture of relief and horror. She stroked the wildly humming Bow comfortingly.

“Oh, Bow! I am glad that you are here with me! I thought it was the end of all things! I couldn’t bear to think that we could have come so far as your home and then not accomplish what you have waited for so long!”

It was a good thing that she had no time to ponder on the emotions emanated by the Ent-That-Was-Broken – the combination of shame and desire would have puzzled her exceedingly.

[Diamond18]

Where the Wild Things Are

Vogonwë did not at first realize that he had fallen through a trap door. He was too busy falling to realize much of anything besides, “Hey! I’m falling!” and remember to curl up into a defensive ball accordingly. (A lesser Elf would have flailed his arms and screamed, but Vogonwë had taken gymnastics lessons in Workmud, where you never know when you’re going to fall into a black hole or what have you. So he was okay.)

After the falling portion, came the hitting-the-ground portion. “That’s going to make a lovely bruise,” he mused as he lay prone on the hard ground, in the dingy dank darkness. “I wonder if I’ve broken something? There must be some internal bleeding, at least.” But after a few moments of self-assessment, he determined that he had no more damage than a few bumps and bruises, so up he sat.

“Precious?” he called. “Precious? Where did you go? Come back, Precious!”

Silence.

(Isn’t that just so dramatic? One word, one paragraph. The spaces on either side lend it such a striking air. It’s not just “silence”, it’s ”Silence”. You can really tell it was silent, just by the formatting!)

Now would be a good time for some well-placed backstory. Unfortunately, Vogonwë had hit his head and was too discombobulated to reflect on the past that had led him to this point. Instead, he assumed a crouching position in the dark, and began to navigate his general area. He lifted his arms above his head and waved them around experimentally, but did not encounter anything (which wasn’t surprising considering that he had just fallen from that general area) so he stood up. He put his arms out to either side of him, and felt the cool, slightly gritty surface of cavern walls. He turned and put his arms out in front and back of him, and felt nothing but the slight movement of sluggish underground air.

“By Emu!” he ascertained, “I’m in a tunnel!”

Meep!

“What was that? Precious? Is that you again?” Vogonwë strained to see in the dark, but failed miserably. He thought he heard faint scampering noises a ways down the tunnel. “Could it be? Was I seeing things up there, or has my Zerl come back to me?” he wondered out loud, cautiously edging forward through the narrow corridor. “Heeere Precious, heeeere Precious Precious Precious…” he called into the dark (rather uncautiously) and strained his ears to hear the tweeting, twatting, frittering and frattering noises far away.

“In fact,” he thought, “it sounds something like a frat house, really.” Vogonwë had only been to a frat house once, back when he’d visited O Lando at Workmud U. (His own father had not been able to finance a college education, instead investing his money in champagne, crackers, Easterling Lanterns, etc.) And though O Lando had only invited Vogonwë to a frat party that once (he didn’t know what went wrong, everyone seemed to enjoy his poetry, drunk though they were) he never forgot the sounds of merriment and retching. And as he traversed the dark underground tunnel, his fingers brushed something odd on the walls. “What is this? It’s sticky!” he said to himself, then sniffed his fingers. “Plllech! Orc blood!” he exclaimed, then rethought— “No, wait. It’s vomit. Bird vomit? No, bird in vomit. Someone ate a bird! And vomited it up on the walls! Eeeeew!”

Meeeeeeeeyap… eep… prrrrrrt prrt prrt prrt prrt… came the sounds down the earthen hallway.

Apparently, his Zerl was throwing a party. “What? My little Precious, partying?? Vomiting??? Drinking, mayHAP???? Say it ain’t so!” He quickened his pace.

And so he made his way down the long, dark, narrow tunnel of the soul, deep in the bowels of Canned Corn. And thus he came ever nearer to the abode of his long lost Precious, all the while talking to himself quite a bit more than was altogether healthy.

[Mithadan]

Grrralph watched as first Orogarn Two and second, ironically, Merisu (One) popped out of the maw of the willow. He was pleased by the latter reappearance and non-plussed by the former. But as the Itship resumed its discussions regarding locating and, if need be, rescuing Vogonwë (Velour knows why) he became aware of... something. Something odd. An odd feeling. Somewhat like the sensation of sand being ground between teeth. In an attempt to capture the feeling, he sat cross-legged on the dirt, and began to hum.

"What's with Lurch?" asked Earnur, evidencing a substantial lack of concern. He was busy lifting Orogarn from the ground and brushing him off (while simultaneously rifling through the pockets of the dazed Grundorian).

"Don't call him Lurch," replied Merisu. "It makes him angry."

"You wouldn't like him when he's angry," chimed in Kuruharan helpfully as he came over to assist Earnur in ripping off... brushing off Orogarn. Being thus occupied, he ignored Earnur's muttered retort about "not liking him anyway."

Then Grrralph rose and intoned in a deep and foreboding voice, "There is a disturbance in the Force..."

Earnur, having found nothing of consequence (or value) in Orogarn's pockets, turned and snapped at Grrralph. "What are you babbling about? Have you gotten into the Dwarf's cough medicine?" Kuruharan promptly trotted off to check his inventory.

The wraith turned to face the members of the Unisexship. "I have a bad feeling about this," he moaned mournfully.

----------------------

Far away, indeed an ocean and two rainbows away, strange events were taking place. Two of the lesser gods, the Meowrr, were conversing before a stout gate, ironwood reinforced with structural steel, which stood closed in a very tall wall of basalt. Behind them waited a sizeable and well-armed contingent of Meowrr, Velour and Elves.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Loci, the Bearer of the Keys. He fumbled with a keyring nervously and eyed the great door.

"Here are Mantoes' orders," replied the other as he handed over a sheaf of papers. Loci reviewed them quickly. As he read, his eyes rose high on his sloping forehead. "All of them?" asked Loci. "Very well."

He approached the gate and inserted a key into the lock. It turned with a click. The gates swung open silently and from behind the walls emerged a foul, no fetid, no... what's worse than 'fetid'? A really bad smell flowed through the gate. Loci, his hand over his nose, entered through the gate. "All right!" he shouted. "Everyone out! Form three lines! Organization please! Step lively now! Come on!"

From behind the walls came an unearthly chant. "O-WE-O. WE-O...O. O-WE-O. WE-O...O." Then hundreds, nay thousands of dark forms began shambling through the gates. The host of Meowrr, Velour and Elves split into two and flanked the procession on either side as it made its way down to the docks where dozens of boats waited for them.

Hours later, the procession ended and Loci peeked inside the gate. "Is that all of them?" asked Mantoes' assistant. "No," replied Loci. "A lot of them are in no shape to move." He held up a severed leg by way of example.

"Tsk, tsk," clucked the other officiously. "Well, they're not our problem now..." He wrinkled his nose slightly as a contingent of Wood Nymphs, Brownies and Gremlins descended with brooms and trashcans and began sweeping up the "remains" that had fallen off the procession. It took a lot of Wood Nymphs, Brownies and Gremlins...

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 3:36 PM January 09, 2004: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[The Saucepan Man]

Day may have been dawning in Moredough, although it was impossible to tell for sure in that Land of Shadowy Deals. As always, Mount Moody spewed out its rank, malodorous gasses like some dreadful great egg sandwich well beyond its barter-by date. Close by (somehow too close, it seemed), suspended above the pinnacle of the Tower Block of Barát-Höm, the nostril of Môgul Bildûr, wreathed in red flaming gunk, strained and twitched to catch the scent of rent Ent. Suddenly, a luminescent green flare went up from the Ered Lethargi and was answered by a purple and gold starburst above the Ephel Dûwot.

“Damn those blasted Goblins and their infernal fireworks,” cursed Môgul as he surveyed his realm from the panoramic window of his office suite, high in the Dark Tower Block.

Turning away, he glanced down at the docket that had accompanied the recent consignment from Valleyum, delivered in accordance with the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat.

******************************

The Origin of Orcs

It is often said that Orcs were created wilfully by Môgul Bildûr, the Velour formerly known as Melvin Bluenote. This, however, is a misconception. In fact, it might be said that Orcs were a misconception on Melvin’s part, or at least an unintentional by-product of his original good intentions.

When Melvin was cast out from Valleyum by his breth/sist-ren and first came to Muddled-Mirth, he immediately marked out the furrowed fields and green pastures of Dairyland for redevelopment. It is said that he did so in greed, and solely with an eye to profit. But it was not always so. For when he first looked upon the Sindiar Elves of Dairyland he saw how they toiled every day of their immortal lives to work the land upon which they lived. And, taking pity on them, he conceived a plan to offer them an alternative to their arduous lifestyle by building for them affordable and community-based housing. And so, in the northern regions of Ihnä-Sîti, Ghêtö and Slóm, near to his stronghold at Slangbad, Melvin ordered the building of vast estates of houses and raised blocks of flets*. Then he counselled the Sindiar to leave their ploughs and dairy herds and make their homes in these mighty edifices of Kôn-Krít**. And many heeded his entreaties and took up residence in the housing of his counsel.

At first all went well. Melvin provided them with all they could want and their lives were rich and fulfilled (albeit somewhat cramped). But Melvin soon became dissatisfied with providing socially responsible housing, and wished to generate some profit for himself from the land that he had claimed as his own. And so he began to build the high-rent office buildings, luxury apartments, vast industrial complexes and exclusive shopping malls for which he later became renowned. But, as the money rolled into Slangbad, Melvin became greedier and greedier. And soon he began to neglect the counsel estates and tower blocks of Ihnä-Sîti, Ghêtö and Slóm. No longer were their residents provided with their needs on demand. Rather, Melvin’s administrators, charged with reducing Slangbad’s outgoings, required that they fill out eight different forms in triplicate every week in order to establish their entitlement to the pittance handed out to them by Melvin’s Treasury. Life became hard for them, but no longer could they return to work the land, as they had done in times long past, for they had forgotten how and there was in any event precious little open space left within Dairyland.

And so, with limited resources available to them, nothing to occupy their time and nowhere else to go, they became boorish and aggressive and turned to squabbling amongst themselves. They defiled the desolate grey-clad buildings with the ancient runic symbols of Grá-Fïti, which marked out their territories and declared who fancied who. Many departed for the few Sindiar havens that remained. Yet the most mean-spirited remained, and gradually, as years turned into decades and decades into millennia, they changed. They became twisted, mentally and physically, until they were beings filled with hate ruled by violence. And they became known as Orcs***.

The Orcish Conundrum

But this presented the Velour with a conundrum. For the Orcs were, in origin, Elves, and so entitled to return to the Halls of Mantoes upon the death of their phwoarr****. And Orcish lifestyle being what it is, they tended to die frequently and in large numbers so that, very soon, the number of Orcish souls running amok in those ancient Halls and spoiling Mrs Mantoes’ garden parties became too much to bear for delicate Elvish sensitivities.

And so it came to pass that Mantoes created a Great Chamber in which the Orcish contingent might suitably be housed, declaring “I have created a Holding Pen … um … Great Chamber … in which those Orcish scum … er … our esteemed Orcish contingent … might suitably be cordoned off … um … housed.”

And yet, by the will of Iluvtar, it was decreed that any Orc who renounced his or her brutal Muddled-Mirthly nature might nevertheless find solace in Mantoes’ Halls.

But the Elves remained unhappy at the thought of Orcs being present in the Halls reserved for them, reformed or not, for they felt that they would lower the tone of the place. And so a Concordat was agreed with Môgul Bildûr, whereby he would be entitled to reclaim those Orcish souls who sought redemption and bring them back to Muddled-Mirth. To this purpose, a notice was to be dispatched to him from the Office of Mantoes every time that an Orc sought entry to Mantoes’ Halls. And, because the Elves weren’t too chuffed about their noisy, smelly neighbours in the Orcish Chamber either, an option was included allowing Môgul to reclaim them too, if he so desired.

Of course, it was unknown for Orcs to seek redemption, and so the Orcish Conundrum Concordat was never invoked. Until now that is. And, given his need for readily available and disposable troops, Môgul had ticked the option box.

******************************

Môgul’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an Orcish messenger who understandably entered in great trepidation given the incident with the mail room Orc the previous week.

“Er … Sire, the delivery awaits your inspection.”

“Excellent. I will be right there.”

The Orc turned to leave, delighted that his Master was in such a good mood. His delight, however, was brought to an abrupt conclusion (as indeed was his life) as the end of a spiked pseudopodium made a sudden and unexpected appearance in his forehead.

Well, why not, thought Môgul, smiling. I've got Orcs to spare now.

“Janitor!” he called as he stepped over the remains of yet another hapless mail room clerk and made for the door.

******************************

Once in the mail room, Môgul surveyed the numerous crates awaiting his inspection. The vast number present exceeded even his wildest expectations. Most of them were of huge proportions, but a smaller, coffin-sized one marked “Handle with care” drew his immediate intention.

“Ah, this must be the Captain,” he said. “Open it up at once.”

A leering Orcish mail room clerk holding a large iron crowbar immediately levered off the top and peered expectantly inside. Suddenly, a dark hand whipped out and grabbed the clerk by the throat, strangling the life from him within seconds. As the owner of the hand sat up in the crate, Môgul bridled in appreciation at the magnificent figure of the Uruk-Hai Captain before him.

“What is your name?” inquired Môgul.

“Grbbllx” answered the Uruk Captain.

“And who do you serve, er, Grbbllx?”

“Merifflssullff!”

Believing the Uruk somewhat disorientated from his journey, Môgul was satisfied with the response. But his satisfaction was short-lived since, as the Orcish Captain made to stand up, he promptly fell flat on his face. Unfortunately, it appeared that the Uruk was missing a foot.

Slightly crestfallen, but nevertheless expectant, Môgul ordered that the remainder of the crates be opened. The mail room Orcs, nervously eyeing their fallen comrade, reluctantly began to lever open the remaining crates. Now, Orcs are of course equipped with the most hardy of stomachs, which rarely, if ever, let go of their contents whatever the provocation. And so it came as somewhat of a surprise to Môgul that, upon opening the crates, his Orcish minions immediately turned away with wrinkled snouts and began retching. Then the stench hit him, and even he, greatest of the Dark Lords, was overcome with queasiness.

A dull, monotonous murmuring could be heard coming from the open crates. The odd flailing limb flew out. And then, slowly and inexorably, the occupants stood up. An Orcish army it was indeed. Yet one which had spent far too much time mouldering in Mantoes’ Holding Pen. Dark, lifeless eyes gazed out from skeletal heads, attached to bodies missing many of those parts which most bodies took for granted. And, for some reason, the entire contingent was bathed in a bright glow of putrid green.

“Get me the Korprat-Loyers!” screamed Môgul as he surveyed the desolate and bodily deficient army before him. “I’ll teach those Valleyum morons to send me defective Orcs!”

Then, as an evil grin spread across what passed for his face, he added “Yet, they may have their uses.”
_________________________________

* Flet, a Simian word denoting any raised dwelling place
** Kôn-Krít, a dull, grey building material highly prized in the First Age but largely disused (for aesthetic reasons) since
*** From the Quixotic Eeurrch, meaning “Get away from me, you proletariat scum”
**** Phwoarr, a being’s physically incarnate Muddled-Mirthly body, so-called because of its association with physical impulses

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:09 AM January 11, 2004: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two checked his pockets thoroughly to make sure that Earnur hadn’t pilfered anything valuable. The Dun Sobrin’s poking and prodding had seemed very intentional, and he couldn’t be sure if Lord Etceteron had been trying to pick his pockets or cop a feel. Since Earnur was constantly breathing heavy sighs at the irritatingly lovely Merisu, the latter was very unlikely, so Orogarn checked his pockets again. Everything was in place, so he took a moment to gather up his scattered papers and re-stuff them into Singéd’s saddlebags.

Since his removal from Skinflint’s trap, Orogarn Two had noticed his pony was hanging his head a little lower than usual. He realized that the poor creature was upset at having been left alone in the creepy forest, but it had been for his own good. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to show Singéd that he was appreciated, so he went through one of his bags, removing a clear, hard container with a soft lid that popped as he opened it.

“Is that Tarkerwár”, gasped Pimpi, rushing forward to play with the lid. “Yes, it is! It is! It’s amazing.”

“Yes, it’s Tarkerwár, alright,” grumbled Orogarn Two unenthusiastically. His eyes closed and he drifted back to the endless Tarkerwár parties his mother had forced him and his brother to sit through when they were children. The Citibank would be full of every housewife, princess, and shieldmaiden in the neighborhood, each convulsing ecstatically with every newly shaped container his mother would reveal. The awful things came in a variety of sizes, and he was forced to model them for the ladies, opening and closing the lids to prove their durability and air-tightness. On occasion, he had tried to make the party more exciting with a demonstration of their quality. That morning he had carefully packed each of his brother’s hamsters into its own quart size Tarkerwár bowl, but when his mother brought them out later that afternoon, he did not get the reaction he was hoping for. Along with a solid beating from his father (and a second one from his brother), he was forbidden to attend any more Tarkerwár parties.

“It keeps things incredibly fresh for long periods of time,” he said to the glowing half hobbit.

He reopened the lid that she had closed and revealed that the container was full of oats, which he held out for Singéd to sample. The tiny morosa dove in greedily and emptied it in less than ten seconds, and then nuzzled his master. All was forgiven.

With that taken care of, Orogarn Two’s thoughts turned to the treacherous Ent that had limped off into the forest. The scrubby thing had looked very unhealthy, as well as tired, so it was most likely that Skinflint had retired to his house, thinking that the Grundorian was dead and no longer a threat. Orogarn Two unfolded an old street map and looked at it for several minutes until turning it 180 degrees clockwise. He then stared at it again for a while, sometimes running his fingers along it and shouting loud “Aha!s”. Finally, he closed the map, turned to the north, and started walking, pulling his pony behind him.

“I shall return!” he yelled without looking back. Singéd did look back, though, and gave a plaintiff Help me! look.

Everyone watched the Grundorian walk into the forest, but no one made a move to follow.

“I guess he’ll have to save himself this time,” said someone.

“That’s for sure,” said another, “because I’m not going after him again.”

“Nor I,” agreed a third.

“I’m guessing he’ll not only survive, but come back to tell us what happened,” said the narrator in one of those really cool narrator voices.

[Mithadan]

Grbbllx hauled himself back up to his foot when Môgul passed and spat the shipping peanuts from his mouth. Then he hopped over to the Orc he had dispatched and relieved the body of its knife and belt. He set to work immediately, fashioning himself a new wooden foot from one of the packing crates and strapped it on. Then he evaluated his situation.

He was a bit confused. He had completed successfully his first twelve step program as well as his courses on tapestry weaving, etiquette, history and music. Then he had gone to work as a dishwasher ("Nothing like good hard work to cleanse the soul") when his duties had been interrupted by a clerk who told him he was being released.

The good news was that he had been set free in far less time than the millenium his instructors had told him to expect. The bad news was that, for some reason, he had been placed back into foul company. Could this be a test? More likely a clerical error. Bureacracy was bureacracy, even in the Halls of Mantoes.

At any rate, his surroundings were not unfamiliar. He was used to such accomodations and company. He would put up with things until he had a chance to figure out where he was and where he should get himself to.

A smallish Orc came up to him and cleared his throat. "Uh, Captain Grbbllx?" the Orc said. "I am Gronk, your new lieutenant. Môgul has assigned you to take command of the Third Shock Corps (Advertising and Combat Division) until matters are sorted out. Follow me."

Grbbllx nodded and followed Gronk to his new billet. Typical accomodations; a rat infested cave with bedding made of leaves and twigs and one bathroom for 60 Orcs. Gronk brought him a new sword and a leather jerkin, then asked, "Can I get you anything else sir?"

Grbbllx thought for a moment. "Yes, I'd like a croissant with butter and raspberry jam and a cappucino, please."

Gronk's mouth dropped open and drool dripped from his fangs as he attempted to process this request. After a moment, he laughed nervously. "Oh, good joke sir! We, of course, have plenty of Orc draught and boiled mystery meat. I'll get you some!"

Grbbllx sighed. It appeared that this place would be a bit of a trial for his newly acquired tastes and sensibilities. He wandered over to the bathroom and stood before a mirror, running his black claws through his blonde hair. He blinked his blue eyes, scratched his aquiline nose and ran his tongue over his yellow fangs. No floss. How would he continue his regime of hygiene in this pit?

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The irritable mutterings of the Lord Orogarn Two faded into the forest and the Fallowship of the Things was once more free to discuss matters of great import. Instead, however, they elected to spend that time discussing the folly and unwarranted effort implicit in aiding their companion's financial endeavours. Apart from a brief lull, in which they joined forces to quell Vogonwë's attempt to recite his work in progress The Quest for the Holey Purse, they had adopted a policy of disagreeing violently over small details until events should conspire to force their collective hand.

Events, however, are conspirators that would have made Guy Fawkes give it up as a bad job and take up gardening instead. Also it is unwise to beard a shepherd of trees in his own forest, however far he may have fallen into petty thievery. Skinflint could yet cause trouble in a large, mean way, and he had allies of whom the mightiest of their company knew nothing; and of whom they would have wished they knew nothing even if they did, in fact, know something.

The rambling paragraph and our heroes' conversation were both cut short by a sound both great and terrible. From the dark and rotten heart of Canned Corn there came a mighty 'Hoo-OOO-oom', a sound that was part martial glory, part comic flatulence; a sound that made all who heard it involuntarily begin to tap their feet. It resounded around the clearing in which they stood, and suddenly was accompanied by the rhythmic whispering of ancient leaves and the steady drumming of great feet in the mould of autumns long past. Earnur let fall the taper that he held to the bowl of his pipe, and his face was ashen. 'They are coming.' he announced, in a tone that promised that 'they are leaving' would have been a far preferable alternative.

While some of his companions were babbling semi-coherent questions, others were dithering weakly and Vogonwë was trying to find a rhyme for 'like a clucking bell', the mighty Lord of Dun Sóbrin proved once more the mettle that had won for him the Keepership of the Demented Stoat. Stowing his fragrant herbs and sable pipe about his noble person, he swept out his mighty blade and began to walk slowly and impressively beneath the eaves of the Forest. Shieldmaidens, elven or otherwise, might defeat him at archery, might rescue fellow heroes and correct him on points of grammar, but this was his hour: the hour of the classic annoying hero and the hour of the Warden.

'What? Already?' Grralph was clearly perplexed.

'It does not take a herdsman long to gather his flock, no matter how blackhearted they be,' intoned Earnur manfully. 'You hear the calls of the herds of Skinflint: the Slíd Huorns of the Hepcatarchy! No-one may aid me in this: I must face this peril alone.'

Although this comment was clearly both illogical and untrue, the uneven notes of blaring horn-calls were certainly intimidating. Even if it did seem to invite the tapping of feet and the wearing of pork-pie hats, the swinging time it offered was on the end of a rope, and its dance was that of death. Earnur's companions stepped gravely aside, holding back their sniggers until he had passed, such was the gravity of the situation.

Even as Earnur strode manfully from the clearing he became aware of a great heaviness about him. The silence was deafening, announcing that the sound technicians of the scene had completed their simple arithmetic and yielded place to the demented chorus in which Mayhem would take lead vocals. Suddenly a dark press of gigantic figures surrounded the sable figure, and he became aware of a dampness about his hands that was more than perspiration. A faint smell of oil reached his nostrils.

I'm sorry wheedled a metallic voice in his mind's ear. Please don't make me go in there! Telstar's* last creation shouldn't have to die an axe's death!

'Peace, my blade!' answered Lord Etceteron, and his voice was of adamant. 'I hear the cry of battle in my ears, and no blade, no matter of what lineage may gainsay me!'

I hate you, squeaked the sword, and silently began to hum a lament.

Now Earnur could make out the figures that surrounded him. Like great trees they were and yet unlike, for he sensed the malice in their hearts and saw the golden horns in their Entish boughs. Silently and deliberately they began to move forward; the path behind him vanished and the circle of foes closed slowly about him.

***

Meanwhile, Kuruharan and Chrysophylax were discussing their companion's mighty deed with the Fallowship.

'I told you before: the odds are twenty to one and I can't accept your glasses as collateral.'

'Coo?'

'Don't flutter your eyelashes at my associate. The odds are the same for you as for anyone else... Ouch!'

Chrysophylax seemed involuntarily to have singed his partner's breeches.

'And those odds are thirty to one, of course. Naturally I'll accept that rotting bag of dead newts.'

Already a small pile of weapons, coins and assorted knick-knacks had built up beside the great leather-bound ledger that lay across the Dwarf's knees. This looked like being a good day: to lose two irregular customers was favourable, but to profit from it was a benison unforseen in even the most optimistic business plan. When the rhythmically inclined foes had finished with the hapless heroes, all that would remain would be to strike some sort of a deal and sell them as much linseed oil as he could lay his hands on at such short notice. From the woods there came a great trumpeting and clashing that set even his feet a-tapping, and Grrralph was already dancing up a storm, throwing out divots in all directions, his feet and legs a blur. When silence fell it brought with it a pall of disappointment, as though a long-expected party had been rained off.

***

Earnur leaned against a fallen bough and wiped the sap from his blade. All about him there were pieces of bark, forsaken branches and sawn-off stumps. Amid the confusion could be discerned the glint of gold where the mighty instruments of the Slíd Huorn Hepcatarchy had been abandoned. Not a single one of them would return to the deep woods of Paléd'danse whence they had sprung, for they had faced the mighty army of Dun Sóbrin, and being overwhelmingly outnumbered he had triumphed.

Even as he contemplated the field of battle, his eyes were drawn to a large clearing that had been opened by the passage of Skinflint's herd. Within stood a large wooden building, and upon its homely façade was writ the mighty legend: Sethamir's Livery Stable and Second-Hand Musical Instrument Emporium. The Lord of the Off-Colour Sword turned back to the field of honour and his eyes were agleam.
___

* A renowned Dwarven smith of great skill, whose hammer is said to have rung upon the anvil with a fell music

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 4:05 PM January 13, 2004: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Diamond18]

Pimpi was slightly perplexed. The whole episode unfolded before her large, stunning, innocent yet seductive blue eyes, in a manner she could hardly follow. A lot of hacking. Or something. Earnur was having a row with the trees, and also shouting periodically at Vogonwë to shut up, which was very disconcerting, as Vogonwë was nowhere to be seen, or heard. She was beginning to get a little worried about him (hobbit alarm being notoriously slow to set in) and she thought to tell Earnur that she did not find his references to her missing beau the least bit funny.

However, after observing the mad gleam in his eyes and the irrationalities flowing from his mouth, she thought better of it. So instead, she decided to busy herself by cooking dinner. There was plenty of wood for a fire, and so she drew from her skirt various implements of food preparation—a kettle, a stirring spoon, mushrooms, a side of ham, etc. and set to work creating a stew. She hummed a merry little tune as she did so (something about “all shall fade” and many paths being available to tread) and her mind was happily taken off both Vogonwë’s alarmingly long disappearance, and Earnur’s alarmingly fey behavior.

“Mmmm,” she said to herself, sprinkling some thyme over the bubbling stew, “I think this pot is turning out extra good.” Pimpi, being half-hobbit (in case you’d forgot) was an excellent cook. A culinary goddess, if you will, and so any stew she stewed was good but an extra good stew by her was divine, if you will. Vogonwë was half-human, so half the way to his heart was his stomach (or something like that) and she knew how much he liked her stew. He had composed a poem about it, and also mentioned it in his ode, “Ten and a Half Things I Like About You”.

Pimpi recalled, at that inopportune moment, that both her parents were dead, she had found no relations back in Soreham, her fiancé/boyfriend/thing was lost in a hostile wood, and that the last words she had spoken to him were “get lost”. That she had been translating for Merisu meant little at this moment. So, naturally, she burst into large, stunning, innocent yet seductive blue tears.

Her tears fell like rain (or some other liquid that falls) into the kettle of stew, and lo! it became a magic stew, so that whomsoever should partake of its bits and broth, should henceforth know bitter anguish until the end of his/her/its natural born days.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Pimpiowyn wandered about the encampment, for encampment it now was. Night had fallen, and no one had volunteered to pick it up. Instead the Tellyship had set up tents and settled down for the evening. The young shieldmaiden went to and fro, offering a bowl of her stew to all and sundry. Sundry declined, so she approached Kuruharan. The dwarf normally accepted anything that was given to him for free, but after a look at the stew, he said, “No, I couldn’t!” as regretfully as he could manage. One after the other shook his head, mentioned a total lack of hunger, or shrugged, pleading too many snacks or a diet as a reason.

Finally she came to Merisuwyniel, looking at her with trustful eyes. (Had we mentioned that these were extraordinarily large and extremely blue? In one of his romantic moments Vogonwë had compared them to normal eyes as dinner plates to saucers, a metaphor that applies completely only if said dinnerware is of a deep azure.) “I made some stew,” she said. “It isn’t much, but it’s hot.”

Merisu’s kind heart could not reject the bowl proffered her, doubtful as its contents might have looked, and accepted it and the accompanying spoon with a smile. Relieved, Pimpi stood and watched as she inserted a bite of meat between her lovely lips. The piece lingered there for a moment before it was finally swallowed. The Elf gulped, gasped slightly, then mumbled, “It’s good.”

“Really?!” Pimpi grinned, happy that she had been able to make someone happy. She turned away, giving Merisu an opportunity to tilt the bowl in a way detrimental to its purpose, namely that of holding the substance with which it was filled. Unfortunately for her, the Half-Halfling spun around again. With truly instantaneous Elven reflexes, she straightened the bowl. “Please, eat!” Pimpi encouraged her, and she managed to empty the bowl with a convincing show of enthusiasm.

Now, it has never been told that an Elf could suffer from indigestion; the image of one burping or exhibiting even more unpleasant symptoms is unthinkable! However, that was the only explanation that occurred afterward to the Elven maiden for the dream she had that night.

She saw the face of her beloved Gravlox, in itself not an unusual event; she had often dreamt of him, her faithful heart mourning his death night after night. Yet in this dream he was strangely changed! Hair of wheaten gold, eyes almost as blue as Pimpi’s, a nose worthy of a god – this was not her Gravlox!! Shapely lips moved to call her name: “Merifflssullff!”

Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? she thought - strange words these that came to her, and she knew not what they meant nor whether they spoke of this time or another. She awoke with a start, bathed in (no, not sweat – this is an Elf, remember?!) the sweet dew of fear mingled with longing. She tried to recall her beloved’s face, but the image of her dream had superimposed itself on her memory. It was long before she could go back to sleep, and her dreams, though restless, were gone from her mind when morning came at last.

[Mithadan]

When Pimpiowyn began crying, Grrralph excused himself hastily and spent several hours conducting a careful examination of several pieces of bark and the travel habits of a snail. He returned to the camp later that evening and settled himself in for the night on a pile of shavings that had resulted from Earnur's epic Battle of the Wood.

Morning found him sitting upon a stump near the edge of the camp looking typically dark and menacing. He hummed a few lines from the musical Camlost to amuse himself as he waited for the others to prepare themselves for the day. In Carcharoth/ disappeared Beren's hand/ in Carcharoth/ the flames of heartburn were fanned/ in Carcharoth!

Pimiowyn wandered by as he sang. "Very pretty," she commented. "But you realize that the tale is merely an allegory about evil devouring good which nonetheless survives and grows again. Kind of like a Phoenix rising from the flames."

In the face of such an erudite interpretation of what Grrralph believed to be a slice 'em, dice 'em story, he could only respond with, "Huh?"

Pimpi shook her comely head with a sad laugh. "Love prevails, as should my love for Vogonwë." With that she sobbed and the tears started again from her eyes.

Her tears smote Grrralph to the core. But not in the way one would normally think. Tears are to a wraith as the sound of one scratching a blackboard is to just about everyone else. As a result, when faced with an opponent tearfully begging for mercy, a wraith's instinctive reaction is to lop off the head of the sobbing subject. This has led many to believe that wraiths are heartless. This is, of course untrue. Wraiths are not heartless; just easily annoyed.

Grrralph resisted the urge to reach for his sword and instead sat upon his twitching hands. "Perhaps it's for the best," he suggested hoarsely as what passed for his skin crawled in reaction to her tears. "Maybe you could get a dog, or a parrot."

"I've got a parrot, you can have it cheap," announced Kuruharan who rummaged through his bag and pulled out a brightly colored bird which was clearly in the final stages of rigor mortis. He attempted to place it on his shoulder, but lacking the motivation or ability to remain upright, it fell to the ground. The Dwarf picked it up and held it out to Grrralph.

The wraith resisted the urge to argue with Kuruharan about the virtue and value of a dead parrot, and instead turned back to Pimpi. "Please, stop crying," he asked in a strained voice. In response, her sobs grew even louder. Grrralph's right hand emerged from under his rump and crawled of its own accord towards his morningstar. He attempted to seize his right hand with his left, which caused it to rear back and smack him between his burning eyes. He fell over backwards off the log.

Pimpiowyn looked up for a moment, then her tears resumed. "Don't try to cheer me up with jokes, Grrralph," he whimpered. "I'm inconsolable."

By the time he had gained his feet, Grrralph's hand had seized his sword and was straining towards Pimpi. With a cry of anguish, Grrralph gave in.

"All right!" he shouted. "We'll find the little twit! Just stop crying!"

He leaped away and began sniffing about the clearing. Then he sped away in a crouch seeking the distinctive scent of Vogonwë's mousse. In a matter of minutes, he returned. "He's off that way somewhere," Grrralph said weakly.

Pimpiowyn sniffed, snuffled and wiped her face. Then she smiled. "Grrralph! I could just k...shake your hand!" she cried happily. Then she sped off to tell the others.

"Don't bother," muttered Grrralph at her receding back. Then he pulled his right hand out from his belt and shook violently it before sitting back down...

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë had been in some long dark subterranean hallways in his day, but none so long and dark as this one. Darkness took him—he strayed away through thought and time, and every second was as long as a life age of the earth. He began to whistle to keep himself company. He’d forgotten where he was going, and why.

Finally, he perceived a reddish light up ahead. It was small at first, but grew bigger and bigger, though Vogonwë had stopped walking toward it. He deduced (very cleverly, I might add) that a crack or a door must be opening down the passageway. The raucous noises which had before been but faint and fleeting, increased in volume and clarity. He saw dancing shadows flicker across the wall.

Vogonwë wondered for a moment if entering the cavern was such a good idea, after all, but in a moment the point became moot, for out of the crack jumped Zerls, little Zerls, round cuddly-looking Zerls, lots of Zerls, before you could say hurly bazerly. They squealed and gibbered in chipper little voices as they scampered down the hall toward him—lots of meeps and prrrts and squeaks and a smattering of cute hiccupy belches.

“Precious?” Vogonwë inquired hopefully, an instant before the tiny fluffy white things were upon him, clawing and hacking and spitting and biting with overwhelming ferocity and velocity. “Ahhhhh!” Vogonwë screamed, falling back, flailing his arms helplessly. He landed smack on his tailbone and screamed in falsetto as the swarm of cotton-ball like bodies trampled him.

They spoke to one another in a strange tongue as their padded paws pummeled him. He became vaguely aware that they were tearing as his flesh with needle-like claws, and he shielded his eyes in terror. Actually, on second vague awareness, he realized that they were ganging up on his limbs so they could tie them together with twine. He acquiesced with a whimper, and put his wrists together over his chest, unable to bear the pain of their slashing fingernails. The Zerls squealed happily as their task became easier, and in a few moments Vogonwë was trussed up like a Yule goose.

They began to drag their prize back down the hall, toward the ominous crack through which the even more undoubtedly ominous red light hatched. As they went, they began to sing a song in high voices, which Vogonwë would have likened to Alvin and the Chipmunks had he lived in the Seventh Age.

Dinner, dinner time is near
Time for meat and time for beer
We've been good, but we can't last
Hurry dinner, hurry fast
Want to catch a nincompoop
Yes, we want to have some soup
We can hardly stand the wait
Please dinner, stay on the plate.

“That’s a good poem,” Vogonwë mumbled as he was dragged over hard, jagged rocks and roughly pushed through the narrow opening in the wall.

He emerged, birth-like, into a large cavern. It was lit by a great lávà lamp in the middle, and by smaller lávà lamps on the walls, and it was full of Zerls. They all broke into choruses of excited chirping and burping at the sight of Vogonwë, and they rushed forward to poke, prod, smell and pinch his flesh. The meaning was only too clear. “I’m sorry!” Vogonwë wailed, “sorry I forgot to fill up your food dish and you starved to death and Daddy had to bury you in the backyard! But it was all just a part of learning responsibility, Daddy said so!”

“Meep!” said the Great Zerl, hopping forward to perch prominently on the top of the center lávà lamp. “So you say! I know all about your kind—Elves who snatch baby Zerls from their mothers’ bosoms so that grubby little Elf children can have playthings to cuddle and squeeze and put on a leash and forget to feed! Destroyers and usurpers, curse you!”

“Elf children are not grubby,” Vogonwë protested feebly.

“I care not,” the Great Zerl meeped. “And now, you shall pay us back for the years of torment! Prrrrrrrt! We few have escaped the clutches of petdom and found refuge in this place, but others of our kind have suffered to the last. You will pay for these neglected lives, morsel by quivering morsel!”

A cacophony of Zerlish noises rose up around Vogonwë, hyper cheeps and tweets of anticipation as the roly-poly creatures crowded in around him, brandishing forks and knives with pink-polka-dotted plastic handles. “Feast on his flesh!” chirped the Great Zerl.

Vogonwë looked up at the torrent of white fur washing down over him, and whimpered.

“….Mother….”

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 4:55 PM January 18, 2004: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Saucepan Man]

When Soregum came to, he was alarmed to find himself sprawled uncomfortably across a barrel. He was even more alarmed to find that the barrel to which he clung was bobbing about in the middle of a lake.

“Well this is a fine mess that you have got yourself into, Master Soregum, and no mistake,” he exclaimed ruefully.

Water he could tolerate if he had to, and he was rather fond of barrels, particularly those which held wine or ale, but the predicament in which he now found himself was not one with which he was at all comfortable. In fact, it was rather bothersome.

“Them as are meant to float are made of wood”, he muttered to himself, recalling the words of his old Duffer. Although they actually made little sense now that he thought about them. Then again, his Duffer never had been the sharpest blade in the burrow.

Looking up, he could see a dark forested bank stretching out on either side. Reaching it, however, was out of the question. He had never progressed beyond his bronze proficiency medallion in swimming so that, while he was admirably skilled at fashioning floats from pyjamas, swimming any distance in circumstances that required that his head stay above the water was sadly well beyond his capability. He tried paddling the barrel, first with his arms and then with his legs. But, since neither set of limbs even reached the water, let alone broke its surface, he achieved little more than a frenzied flapping of black robes and a near drowning.

So, as was his habit in times of crisis, Soregum instinctively reached for his pipeweed pouch. This was no easy operation and he almost rolled off his make-shift vessel on a number of occasions before the pouch was in his grasp. He cursed as he peered inside at its water-soaked contents. And it was not long before he had established that he had nothing edible on him either. His situation was dire.

A muffled rumble came from the region of his stomach. At first, Soregum paid no attention to it, assuming that it was only his body’s habitual response to the lack of food. Then he heard a second muffled rumble, only this time it sounded more like a ruffled mumble. With a start, which almost occasioned an impromptu and unwelcome bath, Soregum realised that the barrel was talking to him.

“Gemmfft mibbl ogglt obble thirrblss brrbbel,” mumbled the barrel.

“I’m sorry?” said Soregum, rapidly reassessing the import of his old Duffer’s words.

“Hbblp mibbl,” replied the barrel.

“Are you Entish?” asked Soregum in sudden wonder, recalling snatches of overheard conversations in the Dark Tower Block.

“Nggo, imbl Dwabblish,” declared the barrel.

“Oh, I see,” said Soregum, not really seeing at all, but hoping to silence the keg until his feet were on dry land and he could think more clearly.

At that moment, he heard a familiar whinny from somewhere over his right shoulder. Carefully craning his neck round, he saw his jet black yet unfeasibly cute little pony perched pertly on a green baize table top, her pretty fiery red eyes gleaming in the gloaming. Picturesque steam issued forth from Twinkle’s delightfully flaring nostrils as she daintily rocked back and forth on the erstwhile gaming table, carefully and determinedly guiding it towards him. He may not have been her ideal choice, but she nevertheless knew her obligations as the steed of a dark rider, however diminutive he might be.

Before long, he was sitting next to her on top of the Ham Steep pœkhãř table and together they manoeuvred it to shore, pushing the still grumbling barrel before them. Once on dry land, and with much effort, Soregum managed to hall the cask up onto the bank, whereupon the lid sprung off and a damp Dwarven head appeared, followed by an equally damp Dwarven body.

“About bloomin’ time too,” mumbled the ruffled Dwarf, as he climbed out of the barrel and attempted to wring the water out from his knotted red beard.

Soregum blinked in recognition.

“Why, its Dwain Hammerhand, isn’t it?” he exclaimed, immediately placing the Dwarf who had appeared on stage at the behest of Jéorri the Springer in the Wagon Park bar back in Soreham. “What on Muddled-Mirth were you doing in there?”

“Hiding wasn’t I?” muttered the sturdy Dwarf, shaking and smacking the side of his head in an effort to free the water from his ears. “I had … er … made the acquaintance of a rather friendly Elven lady back in Ham Steep, see. Only her husband turns up, doesn’t he? So, I hides myself in this here barrel and the next thing I know all Slangbad breaks loose and I’m being thrown this way and that with water gushing in on me. A most unedifying experience.”

Soregum and Twinkle exclaimed meaningful glances, both feeling that the compact Casanova's experience had been little more than he had deserved. A silence hung in the air, fidgeting and fussing in discomfort.

“A-n-y-w-a-y,” said the doughty Don Juan. “Must be off. Places to go. Women … um … people to see.” Then, winking at them lecherously, he added, “Better take this barrel with me. As a precaution, you understand. He he.”

And with that he was bouncing off down the path that skirted the forest, rolling the precautionary keg before him.

Watching him go, Soregum noticed a broken wooden pier a short distance along the lake. Leading Twinkle towards it, he immediately recognised the unmistakable signs of the passing of the Gallowship. In addition to the destruction caused to the pontoon and the inevitable sweet wrappers and po-ta-to crisp packets, he espied a curious pile of perfumed jars, tubes and bottles. Quite clearly, shieldmaidens had been in action here not a day since. There had been a struggle, but seemingly they had prevailed. Twinkle eyed the discarded remnants of the assault jealously, yearning for a make-over herself (although quite unnecessarily so, given that her delightful demeanour was seemingly impervious to anything which fate might throw at it).

A gentle knocking drew Soregum’s attention back to the splintered quay. There, he saw a wooden box bobbing about in the water amongst the flotsam and jetsam. His heart lifted as he read the words inscribed upon it.

“Lungrotten Leaf!” he exclaimed in joy.

So, having dried and replenished his pipeweed pouch, Soregum was soon in high spirits once more, and he and Twinkle were back on the trail of the Tally-ho-ship.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Singéd plodded sullenly behind his master, wondering if the Grundorian really had a clue where he was going. They seemed to be headed in the general direction that the unkempt tree-man had gone, and Ohtoo did have a map, but the tiny morosa wasn’t entirely certain that the Proctor’s son had a clue how to read it. It had not escaped his notice that the map had been upside down when Ohtoo had made his decision which way to go.

So far, their chosen path seemed to be the correct one. They were trudging along a well-worn trail showing the telltale signs of a heavy creature trailing long, twisted roots. Bits of rotten bark and clumps of slimy, shriveled leaves, as well as pointy black needles that stuck into his hooves, littered the trail. What kind of tree is this guy?, thought Singéd. He sniffed at a pool of thick black liquid and jerked his muzzle back in disgust. Ent Sap! Disgusting!

Slowly the trail began to rise as the land climbed upon the shoulders of the great mountain Methadrone. Suddenly they crested a hill, and looked into a narrow valley where they could see a cold stream splashing down from its springs high above. On the right of the water was a long slope, clad with Astroturf. No trees grew there and it was open to the stars above that sparkled like a disco ball. The uber-pony did a tiny Hustle to catch up to his master who was rushing across the plastic meadow.

Before them, at the end of the field, two great trees stood like gateposts, one on either side, and between them stood the frizzled Ent Skinflint, feet planted in the freezing stream. An unhealthy, oily sheen began where his woody husk touched the water, and several dead fish bobbed mournfully nearby. His back was turned to them, and he held his head forward as if leaning into an unseen wind, so he did not notice their approach until the Grundorian was nearly upon him.

With a loud neigh of dismay (or was it “Nay!”?), Singéd watched Ohtoo draw his sword and swing it in a vicious arc with the unmistakable intention of removing the Ent of one or more appendages. The tempered blade slashed downward murderously, but an unintended splash of Ohtoo’s blue sueded foot alerted the tree-dude, and with unexpected dexterity Skinflint sprang forward so that the Grundorian’s sword only removed a large patch of dandruffy moss. The Ent shuffled around to defend himself, bringing a gnarled branch up to block the quickly falling second swing of the enraged warrior attacking him, but this time he was not so lucky. With a bright red flash the sword struck deep into the shielding arm, cleaving in, through, and beyond it to thunk solidly into the heartwood of the scurvy tree. Arterial sap sprayed from the wound, covering the man and making the ground a sticky mess.

Singéd watched again as his master pressed the attack and the wounded Ent retreated. Never before had he seen Ohtoo so incensed, and it was actually quite entertaining to watch. Skinflint had been arrogant in the clearing when he had had the advantage, but now he was clearly unprepared to deal with the savage attack he was facing. Instead of aiding him, the surrounding trees were drooping like marionettes controlled by a sleeping puppeteer. The Ent shrieked a quick ‘Meep!’, but his cry was cut short as his attacker swung again, cleaving away a prominent knot. At last the tree-fella gathered his breath to exclaim, “I yield!”

Like a torch dropped into a brimming chamber pot, Ohtoo’s anger was doused, and he came to his senses.

“Errr….” breathed the dreadfully wounded Skinflint. “Mmmmm…. Yes….. I yield,” he repeated, panting like a whipped dog on a summer day.

“Ya betcha, ya yield!” said the sap covered Grundorian, threatening the cowering tree-thing with his blackened sword. He grabbed the crystal around his neck and aimed a concentrated beam of thought at Skinflint. “This blasted thing only works at close range lately, but if I got any closer I’d be in back of ya, so you’d better fess up with me wallet right now or I’m gonna go Scanner on yo hiney!”

Singéd gasped. Never before had he heard his master use the guttural dialect of the Hygienists. Such crudity was far below him, but it was apparent that the rumors of his dallying among Minus Teeth’s seedier dental technicians were true. To threaten a skull-bursting Scanner attack was the most frightening thing Ohtoo could have done, and the frazzled and sapping Ent unhesitatingly produced the aforementioned wallet from some hidden crevice. I wonder where that’s been, thought the petite pony with an inner grimace.

He watched Ohtoo snatch the wallet from Skinflint, check its contents to ensure it was really his, and then do something unexpected. Orogarn Two jumped onto Singéd’s back and kicked him soundly, shouting “Away!”

Completely startled, the teensy horsie bucked violently and nearly tossed his master into the flowing stream, but the Grundorian managed to stay on his mount, and soon they were racing back they way they had come. The moaning Ent retreated, shrunken in defeat, backing into a dark hole in the hillside.

“Errrr…..nnnnn….” he sighed as he squeezed himself into a good hiding place. Through a break in the trees he watched the nasty Man ride away on his large dog and wished he had never been planted.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel had watched the antics of the various Itship members with the faint, fond smile usually seen on a mother watching her offspring prevailing victorious on a ballfield or icerink. However, though her Elven immortality made her less susceptible to the constraints of mortal hurriedness, she agreed with Grrralph that Vogonwë must be found so that their mission could proceed.

“We shall find your beloved or perish in the attempt!” she exclaimed dramatically, though rather unnecessarily, since there was no apparent danger at hand. Pimpiowyn took comfort in her words and dried her tears, thus freeing Grrralph’s hands to begin packing his baggage. “Gather ‘round so that I can count nos-” her gaze fell on Grrralph, and she quickly amended, “assure myself that all peopl-” Falafel’s reproachful gaze met hers, “see if everyone is here before we leave,” she finished.

The companions gathered and she began to count: “Pimpiowyn - here, Earnur - here, Grrralph - here, Gateskeeper?” She looked around, for he had fallen silent and she wanted to reassure herself that he was still with them. He nodded from behind the others, and she continued: “Kuruharan – here, Chrysophylax – here, Falafel – at my side, as always. Please all check to see if your equine companions are present.”

“But where is Buttercup?” Pimpi asked.

“Of course!” exclaimed Merisu. “Not only is she missing, so are Mordaenárur and his Entish Broom!”

“Where could they have gone?” wondered Earnur.

“Perhaps they fell into a plot hole,” Merisu suggested.

“There’s a plot???” the others exclaimed in astonished unison.

“Indeed there is,” the Elven maiden stated with great certainty. “You may believe that all of this occurs of your own free will -”

“Not mine,” muttered the Gateskeeper, but since his voice could hardly be heard, his comment was ignored by all.

“I firmly believe that Providence watches over us to guide our way,” she spoke, waxing eloquent and louder in her enthusiasm. “We have been given a Task, and no obstacles can stop us. A day may come, when the courage of Women, Men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, Horses, and Mythological Creatures fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of Fellow/Galship, but it is not this day! An hour of dulled swords, lost bows, lame feet and shattered horseshoes when the Age of Questing comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we walk!”

“Let me check the cart with the Entish pieces before we search for the Balfrog and the Nazgrrl,” she said in a more matter-of-fact tone, striding over to it to ascertain whether all of the wooden artefacts were accounted for. She furtively patted the pocket of her skirt to feel the outline of the wooden foot. The Bow was, as accustomed, strapped securely to her back.

The Entish Thighs were obvious, since they were the largest items on the cart. Behind them, a commotion began – a piece of wood jumped up and down, shouting “Pick me! Pick me!!” Merisu continued her tally unruffled (saving the ruffles on her impeccably tailored and ironed blouse, of course). The breadbox, yes, here it was; (“Pick me, oh, pick meeeee!!!” ) there was the Foozle also. (“Heeere, pick me!!!” ) Finally she looked to see what was the cause of the ruckus. A long wooden staff moved up and down vigorously to free itself of the weight of a heavy Thigh. Finally it arose, hovering above the cart – it was the Entish Broom! Attached to it was a pale pink, lavender-scented envelope. Written on it in awkward letters was the name “Mareesuu”.

Merisuwyniel, astutely gathering that its contents were meant for her eyes, opened it quickly and perused the message inside. “What’s it say?” Pimpi asked impatiently. The Elven maiden cleared her throat (for dramatic purposes only – Elves never have frogs in their throats!) and read aloud:

Mordy and I love each other and have decided to stay together forever. Since vacation with a group of Questers is not our idea of a honeymoon, we are flying away. Well, I’m flying, Mordy’s riding, of course – guess who has the wings on in this family! Tee-hee! Thanks for everything you did for me – I’ll never forget you and the others.

Buttercup (formerly known as Grrruff, the Nazgrrl)

PS – The Entish Broom wants to stay to be reunited; since Mordy has me for flying now, we’re leaving it with you and the other pieces.

[The letter has been reconstructed from oral records of this reading, so the spelling and grammar might not be quite as penned by the original author. Any improvements are no doubt due to Merisu’s kind heart, generous spirit, and ready wit.]

“Well, since we no longer need to search for them,” she said, “we can follow the trail Grrralph has found and go off to rescue Vogonwë. I think we can trust Orogarn Two’s steed to have enough horse sense to find us even if its master cannot.”

“Rescue??” Pimpi asked apprehensively. “I thought we only need to search for him! What makes you think he needs rescuing?”

“I received a message by O-mail,” Merisu explained patiently. “It wasn’t very clear, since he is only Half-Elven, but I saw him surrounded by Zerls.”

“What’s a Zerl?” Etceteron asked.

“Zerls are dangerous creatures!” Kuruharan answered, shuddering. “Very hostile!”

“Not really,” the Elf answered. “They may be of no practical use, but they are nice and soft and furry and make a pleasant sound.”

“So would an ermine violin, but I see no advantage in having one,” Grrralph commented.

“At any rate,” Merisu continued, “if they have overly favourable circumstances, they multiply very quickly; under crowded living conditions, they can become aggressive. We cannot leave Vogonwë to torment and worse. Let’s hunt some Zerl!”

[Mithadan]

Snuffling and sniffing along, like a hunting dog hot upon a scent, Grrralph led the way along the trail following the aroma of Vogonwë's mousse ("Hair gel," protested Pimpi, but all ignored her). The hero-and-heroine-ship followed behind in no particular order. That is all but Chrysophylax who was wallowing in the exquisite pain of true-love lost and indulging himself in the age old cure of eating to forget his pain. Days later, Merisu noticed that the Dwarfling, Norni, had disappeared, but as none could quite recall when he had last been seen, it was deemed inappropriate to question Chrysi about his absence.

The Wraith stopped abruptly before the opening of a cave in the side of a hill. "Are you sure we're going the right way?" asked Orogarn Two. "I haven't seen any footprints." Grrralph sniffed at the cave entrance and turned to..."face" Orogarn. "His mousse is here," Grrralph answered. "Can't you smell it?" Earnur sniffed dubiously at the dark opening, then his eyebrows flew up. "Now that you mention it..."

Merisu stepped forward, taking command of the situation. "Now is the time for our esteemed Kuruharan, who has proved himself a good companion on our long road, and a Dwarf full of courage and resource far exceeding his size, and if I may say so possessed of good luck (and a bag of merchantable goods) far exceeding the usual allowance - now is the time for him to perform the service for which he was included in our Company..."

The reader is by now well familiar with Merisu's style on important occaisions, so more of it need not be given. More to the point, Kuruharan quickly interrupted by opening his bag and pulling out an ornate business card.

"If you mean that it is my job to go into the dark passage first, O Merisuwyniel, may your hair grow ever longer," he said crossly. "Then I suggest that you speak to my Loyer, specifically to inquire regarding the consequences of engaging in racial discrimination, to wit, the assumption that Dwarves are more appropriately the persons who should engage in the exploration of dark holes in the ground than any other race in Muddled Mirth." He handed the card over to Merisu, who with a shaking hand held it up. "I cannot read the fiery runes," she said almost, but not quite as it would be out of character for a shieldmaiden, fearfully.

Grrralph stood by the aforesaid hole in the hillside tapping his red high heeled boot on the forest floor impatiently as the others debated who would lead the way into the cave. Then he drew his sword and flailed it about, for Pimpiowyn had begun to whimper again. "Very well," he cried. "I shall lead the way. Follow me, all ye whose hearts do not fail at the darkness." This would have been a truly dramatic moment were it not for his sibilant "s" which caused a squirrel and two wrens perched on a branch above to giggle helplessly.

"Showoff," muttered Earnur as he drew his sword and plunged into the cave after the wraith. The others entered, folowing Grrralph and Earnur, ignoring the protestations of Kuruharan. "Wait, doesn't anyone want to buy a torch first?"

The dark enveloped them like a cave without light as they trudged along the tunnel. Their footsteps seemed to echo loudly amid the other earthy noises of the crypt-like cavern. "My blood runs chill," muttered Orogarn. "Then button your shirt," retorted Kuruharan. "Its not like anyone here needs to see your manly chest right now."

Earnur stumbled upon a tree root and sprawled on the tunnel floor. Then Pimiowyn banged her head on a low hanging rock. Finally, the oppressive dark curled its chilling hand even around the heart of our heroine, Merisu. "Oh for Valleyum's sake," she cried. "Doesn't anyone have a match?" Orogarn handed her his mystical Bîc, and she lit a lantern and held it up to light their way. It was then that the Itship beheld a horrific sight.

"He's dancing again," sighed Earnur. For Grrralph was hopping about, stomping, kicking and waving his arms as he writhed from side to side. "I think its the Umbar Hat Dance," guessed Pimpiowyn. "No, no," cried Kuruharan. "It's the Easterling Sword Dance." Merisu chimed in with, "No, it's..."

At that moment, Grrralph engaged in a particularly graceful high kick. To Pimpi, it was reminiscent of a ballet move from Dragon Lake. To Earnur, it seemed like a penalty kick from a game of Sôchír. To Orogarn, it was the spitting image of a féld gûl. Of the three guesses, Pimpi's was the least correct. Grrralph's red-booted foot made solid contact with something which flew through the air only to land in Merisu's open arms, where it writhed, scratched, bit, meeped and prrted.

"ZERLS!" cried the quick-on-the-uptake-ship...

[Diamond18]

Merisu grabbed an arrow from her quiver and stabbed it into the Zerl, crying, "A scout!" as she kicked the quivering corpse aside.

"Oooh, cool," said the male members of the Audienceship, while Pimpi rolled her eyes and mouthed, "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"We must tread carefully from now on," Grrralph warned. "There may be more."

"Ya think?" Orogarn Two said.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

They continued on.

When we last saw our dauntless hero, er… half-elf, he was in a compromising position down in the secret den of Zerls-gön-wyld. The O-mail he sent Merisu depicted a dire situation, one she did not fully divulge to the Areyougonnabemygirlship, worrying that it might overly excite Pimpi and cause the others to question the usefulness of the endeavor. In short, Merisu had no idea if Vogonwë would still be in one unchewed piece by the time they finally got their collective derrière down there.

And so the Troopship continued to continue down the tunnel, though Merisu could no longer sense Vogonwë from afar (which either meant that he was dead, not bothering to send out O-mails, or anear). Chrysophylax was in the rear, not for lack of daring, but rather for considerable possession of rear, which was making it difficult to squeeze through the earthen tunnel. As he went, bits of rock and dirt came dislodged from the walls and ceiling, sprinkling the Oobydoobyship in a fine layer of silt.

Suddenly, Merisu stopped. The others came to a halt behind her, and Pimpi asked, “What is it?”

Merisu perked her ears, and said, “Singing!”

“I hear it too,” chimed in Orogarn Two.

“It sounds like a boy’s choir,” Earnur observed.

“Did you know,” piped up the Gateskeeper, “I was in a boy’s choir as a boy. First soprano. But my voice changed when I was thir—”

“That’s your changed voice?” Kuruharan snickered, and the Gateskeeper flushed as his cracking voice fell silent.

“Focus, people,” sighed Grrralph, shaking dust from his hood. He sniffed. “The mousse is definitely getting stronger. I also sense much fear. The hall is rank with it.”

“Perhaps Vogonwë is reciting a poem,” speculated Pimpi, her adorable face lighting into hopefulness. They continued on, Pimpi’s hopeful face lighting the way, and as they went the sounds of squeaky singing became even more distinct.

“Definitely a choir of some sort,” Earnur nodded, placing a hand on his sword as the promise of a row with a choir danced in his head. You’re sick, said Griper.

After an excruciatingly long time, the Redhotchilipeppership saw a red light up ahead. They all stopped, and stared at the light for a while. Merisu began to file her nails, Pimpi curled the ends of her hair around her fingers, Grrralph hummed along with the choir under his breath, Orogarn Two picked dirt out of his chest hairs, Earnur tapped a rhythm on his annoyed sword, Kuruharan counted to 111, and Chrysophylax wriggled his ample rump about a hundred yards behind the Dipship.

“For pity’s sake,” the Gateskeeper strained his vocal chords again, “the light is never going to turn green, so just go.”

“Oh, right.” Merisuwyniel and the Ibelieveinathingcalledloveship resumed trekking through The Darkness again, and Pimpi ate a cookie as they went.

**Fast forward**

The Youlookinatmeship elected Grrralph the Extra-Sensitive-Sensory-Perceptive to go through the crack in the wall first, and Merisu went second, and Pimpi went third, etc. until all had tumbled through the fissure (save Chrysi) and stood in the Hall of the Forest Zerls. They gaped in wonder at the sight before them.

All the little Zerls were standing in rows, across the floor and up the walls, singing at the top of their tiny lungs. The hall was filled with an exquisite sound like unto a thousand chandeliers crashing to the ground. In the middle of the hall stood Vogonwë, waving his arms like unto a conductor. In fact, that is exactly what he was doing—conducting the hall of Zerls in a rousing chorus of Kûm-bï-ýa.

“Vogie! What on earth are you doing?” Pimpi exclaimed.

“Under earth, m’dear!” Vogonwë said, whipping his mousse around to look at her.

“You sent me a picture of a dire situation!” Merisu said, sounding slightly put out.

“It seems to have taken care of itself,” Vogonwë shrugged. “I happened on the Zerlish word for ‘friend’ and now they all think I’m their mother.”

“That makes no sense, but somehow, it fits you,” Earnur said, slapping his sword disappointedly.

“Awww! They’re so cute,” Pimpi turned her attention to the Zerls. “I could just squeeze their eyes out!”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Vogonwë said. “You have to be very careful around these chaps. I noticed that they like to sing, so I’m teaching them The Lay of the Entish Bow, that poem I wrote about our first adventure.”

“I thought it sounded nauseatingly familiar,” Orogarn Two mumbled.

“Well…” Merisu shifted her posture, feeling a tad miffed that there was no rescuing or plot-hijacking required. “You can’t take them with us, you know.”

Vogonwë lifted his hands above his head, and the Zerls hit a particularly painful high note. Everyone besides Grrralph wince and covered their ears as a shower of dirt and pebbles pelted them.

“Why not?” Grrralph turned to Merisu, as an idea came into what passed for his head. He pictured himself—oh and Vogonwë, too, if that’s the way it had to be—leading the troop of fluffy white creatures in an off Broádhwaë production called The Taming of the Zerls.

“Because—” Merisu began, but was cut off as the wall behind them collapsed with a tremendous shudder, shake, shimmy, and ko-ko-bop-ka-boom! Chrysophylax had finally rejoined the Comehithership, and was tearing down the wall in lieu of his ability to squeeze through cracks.

“EEEEEEE!” screamed the Zerls, breaking rank.

Chrysi crashed through the wall in dragonly glory, roaring, “Hear I come to save the day!”

Before anyone in the Shakeyotailfeathership could stop him, the Great Dope charged ahead, grabbed Vogonwë by his hair, and tossed him over his shoulder, where he landed in a heap on the Uriahheapship. Chrysi reared up on his hind legs and spread out his wings, shielding the Cindylouwhoship with his expansive expanse. The Zerls trapped on the other side of his wrath screamed in terror as they ran around in circles. Chrysi opened his Great Maw and spewed forth a gust of mighty flame, burning every last fluffy white adorable singing cutie to an unrecognizable crisp.

The dragon lowered his wings and turned around to the face the Writeyourownjokeship. “There! Could Mordaenárur do that, I ask you? Did you ever see him breathe fire? Does he even have wings with which to protect his comrades? No! So what does he have that I don’t have? What’s he got that I don’t got? What the Mightymorphinpowerrangership does she see in him, I ASK YOU???”

A moment of silence ensued, then Merisu turned to Grrralph and said, “I guess that’s why not.”

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 4:39 PM January 27, 2004: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Mithadan]

Grrralph shook his hood sadly. "They sang so nicely," he lisped with regret. Merisu nodded in agreement and bowed her head in respect for the former and now ex-Zerls. Vogonwë seemed to be overwhelmed with emotion. His hair appeared almost limp and his lower lip quivered dangerously. Grrralph, noticing that Vogonwë was on the verge of an emotional display, walked over and lifted the Workmudian by his lapels. "Don't even think of crying," he said in a deep voice. Vogonwë, showing prudent restraint, sucked his lower lip in and bit it with his teeth.

"Ai! Ai!" cried Kuruharan. "A choir like that would have been worth a fortune on the retirement circuit!" He turned to face his comrade-in-wings and shouted, "Why don't you just burn down the entire forest while you're at it?"

Chrysophylax, understandably confused and deeply depressed to boot, nodded his head, eager to please his friend. "OK," he replied as he began to twist his bulk around so that he could head back up the tunnel. "NO!" cried the Itship as one. The dragon halted, now even more confused. "You don't want me to burn down the forest?" he asked. "No," answered the Dwarf. "I mean yes....I mean...don't burn anything right now."

"What's done is done," commented Earnur. "And they did kidnap Vogonwë." He looked about at the dozens of deep-fried Zerls and shook his head. "Their passing should not be for nothing though."

"Right," added Pimpiowyn. "It would be a shame if there were no purpose for their deaths."

"Right," chimed in Orogarn Two. "Waste not want not."

"Right," interjected Earnur, concluding that it was his turn to speak again. "Who has the barbeque sauce?"

"Right," answered Pimpi. "Right here..."

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel waited patiently while the others partook of the strengthening nourishment, then she called the group together from their foraging. “Now,” she said, “let’s get out of this cave!”

That was easier said than done, however – Chrysophylax’ ‘rescue’ had destroyed the tunnel by which they had entered, and their only possibility was to go forward. The Elven maiden led the way with Grrralph walking by her side and sniffing for some sign of fresh air. By-and-by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand -- for Canned Corn's cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same -- labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man "knew" the cave. That was an impossible thing. Grrralph stopped; he could not decide which way to take.

But no man am I, the Entish Bow reminded Merisu. I am an Ent, and I know the roots of the earth since ages past.

“Of course!” she exclaimed in answer, startling the other members of the His’n’Hers-Ship.

“What is it?” Pimpiowyn asked eagerly, always anxious to learn new tricks of successful shieldmaidening.

“How could I have forgotten?” the Elf wondered. “The Entish Bow was once at home here; he can lead the way out!”

She stepped forward confidently, holding the vibrating Bow in her hand. They passed more openings than anyone cared to remember afterwards, turning right or left as the Bow directed their leader. Fortunately the tunnels were wide enough to accommodate the dragon’s considerable girth, even after a meal, and they finally made their way safely to an open doorway. There they stood for a moment, blinking like owls in the blinding sunshine.

“We are out of the Forest!” Merisu exclaimed in astonishment. The dark woods lay behind them, and before them, high mountains lifted their snow-capped heads.

“It seems like only yesterday that we entered it,” Vogonwë said dreamily.

“It was only yesterday,” his more prosaic fiancée reminded him.

“But why were we here?” Kuruharan asked. “Nothing significant happened!”

“The Zerls and Slíd Huorns might not agree,” objected Earnur.

“And Skinflint!” Orogarn Two muttered under his breath, fingering the wallet in his pocket with grim satisfaction.

Merisuwyniel did not hear them. Her lovely violet eyes were wide open, yet her gaze was far away.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Tall as the forest trees, majestic as the mountains, and radiant as the setting sun stood a woman, nay, a goddess. Her hair was of a glorious green, her skin likewise, and her garments seemed to be made of many-coloured leaves and flowers, held together with a bright green sash. The Elven maiden dropped to her knees in awe and whispered, “Are you the Lady of the Green Kirtle?”

“Nay,” she answered with a voice as sweet as the sweetest bird’s song. “I am Yawanna, the maker of fauna and flora – and Ents! I am come to tell you how you are to succeed in the Quest for which you were chosen. For you must know, I was exceedingly sad at the wanton destruction of one of my children and wish to see him restored to his former – well, form.”

“What must I do?” Merisuwyniel asked in hushed tones.

“Bring the Bow and all other parts of him to me; you must find each piece so that I can reunify him. You have almost accomplished that task with your companions, and the rest will be found on your journey,” replied the angelic Lady. She turned to leave, when Merisu realized that there was one important bit of information missing.

“But how shall we come to you?” she called.

The voice wafted back to her: “Remember the ancient Elven Lay Gôwést!” Then the vision disappeared, leaving the Elf feeling bereft and full of longing to see her again. She pondered the words last heard, and slowly the lovely, long-forgotten lines of the song came to her mind:

Go west, life is peaceful there.
Go west, lots of open air.
Go west to begin life new.
Go west, this is what we'll do.
Go west, sun in winter time.
Go west, we will do just fine.
Go west where the skies are blue .
Go west, this and more we'll do.

“We shall stay here for the night,” Merisu proclaimed. “This is a holy place, and we shall be safe here. In the morning, we go westwards!”

Grrralph looked at the snow-capped peaks doubtfully. “Can we pass through those with all of the animals and baggage?”

“The way over the mountains is dangerous and difficult,” mused Merisu. "We shall go by way of the GAP of Soreham.”

“Oooooh, shopping!” Pimpi squealed. “I haven’t had new clothes since Topfloorien!”

That evening, as they sat around the campfire, Merisuwyniel taught them the words to the song of the Questship:

Together we will go our way, together we will leave some day.
Together your hand in my hand, together we will make the plans.
Together we will fly so high, together tell our friends goodbye.
Together we will start life new, together this is what we'll do.

All joined in the rousing chorus:

Go west…

[Thenamir]

Though Yawanna was hidden to the eyes of the rest of the hysterophallicship during her prophecies, Gateskeeper moved to the back of the crowd, hoping his cowl hid his scowl. Being one of the lesser wizards, he peered sidelong at the long side of Yawanna, hoping that she would be so focused on spouting her poetic nonsense to Merisu that she would not recognize him from the last Velour Annual Charity Auction and Bazaar -- he hoped she had forgotten the incident at her kissing booth. If she'd seen him, things might have gotten ugly...for him at least.

He'd also remained for the most part in the background during the journey through the Forest of Canned Corn, though for different reasons. During his service under Sauerkraut, and in the Tower of Dorktank so close to the Forest, he'd made many an acquaintance among the various Huorns of the Forest and had picked up their various dialects as well, adding to his voluminous mental storehouse of all-things-linguistic. [For verily the Slíd Huorns of the Hepcatarchy were by no means the only Huorns, and their brethren were many and varied. There were the fierce-tempered Bûüĺ-Huorns with whom he’d tangled one fateful morning when he’d unfortunately wandered into the Forest while wearing a red bandanna. There were also the Shuu-Huorns who were good to know when you need help getting through a tight spot. The Åûŧo-Huorns could be loud and brash in their constant wanderings, but made sure you got out of the way of oncoming trouble.] Gateskeeper did not want one to recognize him and suddenly blurt out his name, or give away his former employment.

One thing was certain, Gateskeeper was more than happy to be getting away from the Forest of Canned Corn, and the GAP of Soreham would be a welcome change. He set up camp with the others and pondered whether he should call Mogul and inform him of Yawanna’s assistance. Mogul didn’t fare much better than Gateskeeper that one day at the kissing booth…

[The Saucepan Man]

But Môgul had no need of the Gateskeeper’s information. He was only too aware of what had passed on the edge of the Forest of Canned Corn.

He sat motionless, gazing at the flickering Satel-antir. The murky cloud which perpetually surrounded him seemed a shade lighter than usual, as if some of the darkness had been drained from it.

Had it really been her? The little girl whose pigtails he had pulled in Creation class. The young beauty whom he had had the honour of accompanying to the Muddled-Mirth Opening Ceremony Gala Ball. The fickle nymph who had so cruelly rejected him, preferring instead the attentions of the crafty but dull Häulié*. Better prospects, she had said. Better prospects! Hah! Did Häulié have his own realm? Did Häulié have a Treasury full to bursting? WAS HÄULIÉ ON THE VERGE OF TAKING OVER THE ENTIRETY OF MUDDLED-MIRTH!!???

No, he wasn’t.

Heslob stirred, sensing his Master’s tension, but soon settled back down as a million tiny black tendrils stroked his scruffy white mane. Môgul was soothed too, and his thoughts turned back to his former sweetheart.

Her beauty had not diminished in the least. Her verdant green locks, falling coquettishly about her radiant green face. Her deep green eyes, shining like emeralds. Her shimmering olive green skin. Her leafy green dress, ornamented with flowers. She was a vision of majesty, grace and … er, green.

Greedhog shifted awkwardly from one shiny black brogue to the other and eyed with distaste the bubbling remains of the Orcish tea-boy who, moments before the green broad had appeared on the screen, had been nervously serving Môgul’s afternoon tea. He wisely decided that now was not the best moment to disturb the Dread Developer’s thoughts, which remained fixed on the vision that he had glimpsed in the Seeing Stone.

And then there was her voice. Light as the mountain pasture, warm as the summer meadow and bewitching as the enchanted wood. Yet bleak as the withered heath, ruthless as the wild moor and treacherous as the tangled forest. He remembered that voice well. First the tender words and whispered vows that had warmed his youthful heart. Then later the mocking laughter and cruel barbs that had pierced that same heart like poison-tipped daggers.

Back in the days when he had a heart.

Outside, four Thingwraiths swept by the panoramic window in perfect formation, their Fell Beasts trailing ribbons of coloured smoke. All of a sudden they separated into two pairs and each pair turned and flew at full speed towards the other. Then, just as they were about to collide, each pulled up into a perfectly executed loop-the-loop. Greedhog watched appreciatively as they flew past once again in formation through the drifting multi-coloured smoke. But Môgul remained oblivious.

What was it that she had said? She had demanded that the Entish parts be brought to her so that she could reunify them. So, she was the key to its reassembly. Of course she was. Yes, it all made perfect sense now.

Môgul had been aware for some time that the Entish fragments could not be destroyed individually. He had acquired one such fragment several years before the Ramma-lamma-lamma-ka-dingity-ding-da-dong-ship had first set out on its Quest. A troop of Uruks from Gol Dulldor had come across a log babbling to itself insanely in the depths of Workmud. Immediately, the artefact had been brought to Moredough and tossed with great ceremony, and not a little objection from the log itself, into the sulphurous lava pits of Odouruin. But, contrary to expectation, the lava had formed a crust around it, and it had simply sat there complaining about the heat. Worse, it had mysteriously disappeared the following week. As had many junior administration clerks, a consequence of Môgul’s furious reaction.

And so, Môgul had not moved against the Shoo-bop-shoo-wadda-wadda-yippity-boom-da-boom-ship to seize the Entish objects that they held. There was little point. He could not destroy them. Rather, his plan had been to wait until the Chang-chang-changity-chang-shoo-bop-ship had acquired each piece, discover the means by which they were to be reunified and move quickly to foil any attempt at reassembly. But now he had his answer. Yawanna was the key.

Revenge would be sweet …

Greedhog sensed that his Master’s mind was back in the present, and so deemed it safe to announce his presence.

“Massster, our agentsss have tracked down the new Uruk Captain’s persssonel filesss,” he reported. “They were found amongssst the ruinsss of Gol Dulldor.”

“Excellent!” replied Môgul, whose spirits had indeed been much revived at the thought of exacting his revenge on she who had betrayed him. “What’s his name again? Grbbllx, is it?”

"Gravlox, according to hisss recordsss, my Lord."

"Show me."

Greedhog passed a grubby file of papers to Môgul, who perused them briefly before looking back to the Senior Loyer.

“Yes, yes. Excellent service record. Commended by Lord Sourone. Awarded the Ruptured Heart for carnage in the line of duty. He seems to have been an outstanding minion of evil.”

“Hisss training record, my Lord.”

“What of it?”

“In Sssquabbling Classss, he disssmembered hisss entire classss in a fight over a rabbit.”

“Textbook stuff. What’s wrong with that?”

“He kept the rabbit, my Lord.”

“Ah.”

“And named it Harvey.”

“I see.”

“And, in Orcisssh War Chant lessssonsss, he was dissscovered writing his own material.”

“Creative chap. There’s always call for new war chants.”

“It wasss Elvisssh poetry, sssire.”

“Doh! Still, he seems to have turned out suitably vile in the end.”

“My thoughtsss precisssely, my Lord. Until I saw the picture.”

Môgul rifled through the file and found the identity sketch made when Gravlox had first entered active service.

“Fine figure of an Uruk. Misshapen features. Lumpy, putrid green skin. Yellow fangs. Jet black hair …” Môgul broke off and peered intently for a moment at the small portrait. Greedhog continued his sentence.

“… which isss now blonde.”

“Yes, yes. I see what you mean. His eyes are more, well, blue-ish than this shows them to be, are they not? And he seems to have straightened out that snout.”

“Indeed, Masster.”

“And you’re sure that this is the same fellow?”

“Cssertain.”

“Well, let’s not be hasty.” Môgul paused a moment in thought. Then, a distinctly triumphant sneer crossed his indistinct features. “Let’s allow this Gravlox to prove his loyalty.”

“Sssire?”

“Put some of those – ah – new recruits that arrived with him under his command and dispatch them to engage the Gorilla-ship and bring back one of its members alive.”

“Gallowssship, my Lord.”

“Whatever. With one of those accursed adventuers loitering in our dungeons, we will have the upper hand in any, ah, negotiations which may prove necessary.”

Greedhog smirked in appreciation at his Master’s ingenious plan. “I’ll sssend out the ordersss immediately, O Execrably Evil One.

“Oh, and Greedhog.”

“Yesss, my liege?”

“I think that they might benefit from the company of some of your Loyers.”

Chuckling diabolically, Môgul swivelled his chair round just in time to catch the finale to the Thingwraiths' formation display.

_____________________________

* Häulié the Smith; Creator of the Seven Fathers of Dwarves: Dok, Happî, Snizzî, Bashfel, Grumpî, Sliepî and Doeppî

[Diamond18]

The CalamityJaneShip followed Merisu dutifully, or dotifully, or deviously, depending on whose psyche you happened to be delving into at the moment.

Vogonwë was feeling dutiful. He was not exactly looking forward to the GAP, as he sensed a great and rather painful dispense of money was in his future. But Pimpi's eyes were glowing with expectation, and Merisu had that glazed over look of one who has just received divine directions. Far be it from him to complain about divine directions, especially since it alliterated so nicely.

As they road southwestward Pimpi chattered contently on about the amazing rescue of Orogarn Two, near death of Merisu, Earnur's decimation of the Slíd Hourns, and basically everything else that had gone on whilst he had been away—the fascinating, the interesting, and the excruciatingly boring. Vogonwë dutifully said "mm-hm", "oh my", "is that so", and other inanities in all the right places. He found these times when Pimpi felt like conversing to be excellent opportunities for composing poetry. At the end of the ride he would have four new epics to write out: "The Lay of the Extreme Makeover", "The Ravaging of the Trees", "Dirge for a Whirling Zerlish", and "When Elven Eyes Are Glazéd".

After an indeterminate time spent riding, camping, eating, conversing, composing, sleeping, and killing hapless passersby (as was their wont, you cannot deny) the Itship finally reached the fabled GAP of Soreham. It was evening, and as they squinted into the west they saw strip mall of indeterminate length stretching out before them. As the sun dipped below yon bonny horizon, a myriad of torchlights popped on to illuminate the spread of glitzy shops, boutiques, showrooms, outlets, warehouses, restaurants, and liquor stores.

"Behold, the walls of GAP-o'-Doom," intoned the Gateskeeper majestically. The he added, in a more normal, squeaky tone, "Or so those who have maxed out their crédìtkârdhs here have deemed it."

The Incorrigibleship laughed. They had been through the Glitzy Caverns and come out no worse for wear (though the same cannot be said of the Caverns) and they feared no poncy Sorehamish strip mall. Vogonwë's laugh trembled slightly, and Orogarn Two moved a hand over his newly reclaimed wallet, but otherwise the mood was light and carefree.

"Right," said Merisu. She nodded to Pimpi, "I shall now instruct you in the favorite pastime activity of a proper shieldmaiden, Pimpiowyn. When we spurt out the other side of that strip, you shall be a first class Shopping Girl Extraordinaire."

"So shall I," sighed Vogonwë, wishing for a moment that Pimpi was not a penniless orphan and that he had spent more time in his youth buttering up his father so that he would have a sufficient trust fund (instead of subsisting on the meager wages of a lower-level employee at the now debunked Daily Floss). "If we ever get to the western extremities of Muddled Mirth I shall be forced to sell seashells by the seashore to sustain my sweetheart's spending sprees. And that's only if we ever get out of Soreham...."

He was ignored by the pair of excited females, and laughed at by the males who had no sweetheart to spend their trust funds on (except for Chrysi, who began to weep and beat his tail against the ground). Vogonwë in turn ignored them, and began to contemplate the first few lines of his next masterpiece, "Lament for a Decimated Coin Purse"; which actually turned out to be one of the better poems he had ever written, simply for the real and poignant emotions expressed over the loss of several dear friends.

[Mithadan]

Greedhog made his way down to the Third Dungeon, home to the Third Shock Corps (Advertising and Combat Division). He entered the barracks and found a group of Orcs huddling about a table. "Where is Captain Gravlox?" he demanded.

"You mean Grbbllx?" asked one with a shudder.

"Grbbllx, Gravlox, whatever..." sneered Greedhog.

"He's in there," answered the Orc, pointing with a shaking hand. "Feeding his pet."

"A real monster, he is," interjected another. "A most ill-tempered rodent...with fangs like this..." The Orc brought two claws up to his mouth and gestured with them as if biting a leg of lamb.

"The rabbit, you mean?" asked Greedhog impatiently. The Orcs shook their heads in unison. "No, Captain Grbbllx!"

Well, that counts for something I suppose. His troops fear him. Greedhog rolled his eyes and walked past the cowering Orcs to the next door. He opened the door without knocking, only to find himself lifted into the air by his collar by a blonde, almost clean Orc. "No interruptions when I'm feeding Harvey!" he growled.

"Put me down you fool!" cried Greedhog. "I'm Môgul's lieutenant, Greedhog."

Gravlox lowered the loyer and brushed off his paisley tie with a manicured claw. "Oh," he said. "Sorry You looked like an Orc. Beady little eyes and all..."

"I have an assignment for you and your troops," growled Greedhog. "Môgul wants you to snatch someone from the Gallowship!"

"The what?" asked Gravlox, his keen blue eyes squinting with confusion.

"The Gallowship!" shouted Greedhog. "Also known as the Itship, the Nongenderspecificship, the Politicallycorrectship?"

Gravlox shook his head. "Never heard of it."

"Listen idiot!" cried Greedhog. "I know that you've been locked away for a long time, but you'll have to pay more attention to your debriefings. The Gallowship! The group of foolish Men, Elves, Dwarf and Dragon led by Merisuwyniel!"

Gravlox smiled broadly. "You want me to grab Merisuwyniel?" he asked. "That's more like it! I knew there had been some kind of mistake. Finally!"

"It doesn't have to be Merisuwyniel, it could be Orogarn Two of Gondor or that poet, Vogonwë," said the loyer.

Gravlox looked at Greedhog in doubt and confusion. "You want me to grab Vogonwë?" he asked with a slightly nauseous look on his face.

"It can be any member of the Gallowship," Greedhog answered with eroding patience. "Just grab him...or her, and bring him...or her, back here to be imprisoned and tortured."

"Better be Vogonwë then," muttered Gravlox under his breath as he picked up his chainmail and sword.

"And Gravlox..." hissed Greedhog. The Orc nodded and looked up at the loyer. "I'll be sending some of my people along to watch you..."

[Mithadan]

Grrralph's discomfiture ran at several levels. In no particular order, first, his horse, Puff, had apparently taken offense at the reappearence of Grrralph's Nazgrrl and felt slighted, notwithstanding the winged-one's subsequent departure. Puff had taken to engaging in various acts to annoy his master. On several occaisions on the way to the Gap, he had gone from a full gallop to a sudden stop. The first time this happened, Grralph went tumbling head over heels from the back of his steed. The wraith was better prepared the second and third times Puff pulled his little trick, but the horse rethought his strategy and repeated his game while simultaneously cutting off Earnur's steed causing the man to fly from his saddle into Grrralph. Puff whinnied merrily as the two attempted to rise from the ground and disentangle their arms and legs.

Second, the Gap was no place for a wraith. Black just wasn't in this year, even if Grrralph could have removed his old clothes to purchase a new outfit. In addition, while colorful scarfs were available, neckwear just wasn't Grrralph's thing. As a result, he wandered forlornly about as the others engaged in a shopping spree. One unfortunate salesperson exercised poor judgement by spraying perfume on Grrralph as he walked by. Hanging her upside down from a tree cheered him (and other customers) a bit, but not much.

Finally, Merisu's announcement that the Itship would soon proceed into the West was a source of deep discomfort to him. His faulty memory could not dredge up any particular reason, but he felt somehow that he would not be welcome in the land of the Velour. Probing his discomfort as if it were a sore tooth, he attempted to jog his memory, but all he could come up with was a vague recollection of injustice, betrayal and something about lacking standing to assert anti-trust claims for monopolization of corrupted Elves. He shook his hood in frustration. He had given his loyalty to Merisu and would not abandon her now, but he was very uneasy about visiting Valleyum.

------------------

Meanwhile, in another end of the plot, Gravlox and his Third Shock Corps (Advertising and Combat Division) were on their way to the Gap, mounted upon Wargs and such steeds as would put up with the Orcs' body odor. Gravlox did not have this problem; he had secured a cache of scented soaps for his personal use. But he was concerned about the presence of no less than three (3, more than two but less than four) Loyers who were accompanying his troops on this mission. He could hear them now, arguing about foreclosures and the best way to place Grundor in default of its obligations under several financing agreements.

When he received his orders from Greedhog, he began to plot a way to abandon his troops so that he could be reunited with Merisu. The presence of the Loyers complicated things immensely. They were certainly better trained and armed than the Uruks and were also, arguably, smarter as well. Escaping their attention would be difficult, particularly since they had decided to stay within ten feet of Gravlox at all times. It would take a significant diversion to evade them. Otherwise, he would be forced to seize a member of the Gallowship (who came up with that name, he wondered) and bring that unfortunate back to Môgul...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel’s heart was not in the shopping lessons, though she was professional shieldmaiden enough not to let Pimpiowyn notice. She instructed her in matters such as the choice of the most becoming colours of bodices and the relative merits of supple suede versus shiny leather for boots, also debating the right height of heels for the latter – high enough to look sexy, while still practical for riding. But she could not find a pair that tempted her to buy them, and she watched Pimpi change into ruffled silk blouses, no ironing guaranteed, without the least desire to try on anything herself.

For whom should I dress up? she thought pensively. Who would notice or care whether or not I have new clothes? Yes, of course she was aware of the admiring stares of males of all races wherever she went, and of the envious glances of other females, but what did they mean to her? She was used to them, and the admiration of chance passersby did not interest her.

Merisu’s Elven heart yearned for the one, her only true love. Far from growing accustomed to his absence, she had felt it more keenly of late, dreaming often of Gravlox, though he appeared strangely changed in her nightly visions.

When Pimpiowyn had bought all she needed, though certainly not all she might have wanted, Merisuwyniel, noticing Vogonwë’s pained facial expression with her usual perception, quite reconciled him by suggesting that the two of them explore ‘Ye Olde Stationery Shoppe’ for writing accoutrements. Thus she skilfully and tactfully achieved some time for herself, away from that constant reminder of twosomeness.

She wandered about the GAP Mall, her normally sharp Elven eyes seeing only a blur of colours, forms and movement, as if through a mist. This was due in part to the abundance of pipeweed, the burning of which was not yet forbidden in public places, but also in part to the fact that her thoughts were turned more inward than outwards. Gravlox’ face alternated with the lovely green of Yawanna’s features before her mind’s eye, and past memories vied with future plans for her attention, when they were interrupted by the strains of a melancholy melody.

A sad call that seemed to echo her inmost feelings drew her in the direction of a doorway. Almost without thinking, she entered the shop and found herself surrounded by musical instruments and parchments filled with black markings. A Dwarf, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, sat on a wooden stool, holding a strange, small piece of shiny metal to his mouth. From it came the sound that entranced her. Fascinated, she approached him.

“Please, good Sir, tell me what this wondrous music is and how it is made,” she asked.

Flattered by the attention of such a lovely listener, the musician held out the oblong object. “This is called a hâr-mónicä,” he said, “and I was playing the melody called ‘Once Upon an Age in the West’.”

How strangely appropriate to my thoughts! Merisu contemplated. “But how is the instrument played?” she continued.

“Just hold it to your lovely lips and breathe in and out,” came the answer.

Reverently, she took the hâr-mónicä and blew into it carefully. With the natural musical talent of all full-blooded Elves, she had soon grasped the technique of playing and learned the four notes (well, actually three different ones, since the first and last were the same note) of the haunting melody. After a bit of haggling over the price, half-hearted on the part of the Dwarf, who was so captivated by the combination of feminine beauty and musicality that he did not care about the money and continued only to hear the sound of her voice, she left the shop with shining eyes and the shiny instrument, enclosed in a protective case and tucked carefully into her pocket.

Suddenly she realized that it was late – the rays of the sun that entered the halls were slanted low, and it was time to meet the others at the parking lot. There they had left their cart with the wooden artefacts and, ostensibly to guard them, though the real reason was to avoid paying for damage in the Mall, Chrysophylax beside it. He had fallen asleep, but his mere presence was enough to keep any potential robbers from approaching, so everything was safe. She hastened her steps when she saw the others of the Shopping-Ship waiting, eager to demonstrate her new ability to them.

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë was in raptures. At the Ye Olde Stationary Shoppe he had bought paper, portfolio, pens and ink in unfailing supplies, while strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, and watched him with wondering eyes. So engrossed was he with his purchases that he heeded them not, writing out his poems with a pen in each hand, all the while explaining in a popular style, which Pimpi could well understand. (This didn’t stop her from tuning him out and doodling pictures of shoes and handbags, however).

As they waited for Merisu to return, Vogonwë finished his poems and went on to letter writing, just so he could try out all two dozen colors of parchment paper and the poet’s dozen of different traceries and designs for the margins. Also, the half dozen different kinds of envelopes and the economy sized box of quill, rollerball, and gél pens; and the buy-one-get-one free box of charcoal pencils. He wrote five letters to his father, seven to his father’s party guests, three to the Blue Faerie, one to Roneld McDoneld, two to his mother’s side of the family in Chippendale, and ten to O Lando (in which he always prefaced Pimpiowyn’s name with “my darling fiancée”). Then he sent everyone on his mailing list a collection of his latest poems, and he even hacked into Orogarn Two’s mailing list and sent poems out to everyone Orogarn knew.

After that he wrote a special poem about the Ye Olde Stationary Shoppe itself:

What joys! What toys!
What a store!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh, callay!
They even have
Paper of turquoise!
Hue.
I could stay there all day,
I could write there all night,
I could mine the depths of poetic thought,
Like precious ore.
Never would run dry the reservoir,
Of metaphors,
As long as always I have paper and pen
At my shoulder, evermore.
I am a poet, hear my roar!
I salute you, oh purveyors of writing goods,
For my livelihood,
And red riding hoods for my Pimpi-ood.

“Vogie. Please change that part.”

And red riding hoods for Pimpi,
Who is very good at—

“Cooking.”

“That’s what I was going to say, darling. What rhymes with cooking?”

“And is very good looking.”

Who is very good at cooking,
And is very good looking.
I salute you, too, eyes of blue.

“Good. Let’s go get something to eat.”

[Thenamir]

Upon arriving at the monsterous shopping dens of the GAP, Gateskeeper made his way to the food tents. He'd suddenly had a craving for some spicy balfrog wings, or perhaps some Watcher-Calamari. Merisu's cooking had given him some severe bloating. That was bad enough, but it was made worse by that inopportune moment in which he'd inadvertently passed gas whilst walking in front of Chrysophylax. Fortunately the nearby Kuruharan had had a fire extinguisher which Gatesy bought (at Kuruharan's scalper's price) in time to (mostly) save both robe and dignity. He had mended it as best he could, but the GAP provided an opportunity to replace rather than repair. After lunch he intended to find something more fireproof (and perhaps also a large bottle of Mogul-Enterprises' industrial-strength antacids).

After chowing down on something actually edible for a change, Gatesy wandered the great shopping dens looking for anything that might be of interest for furthering his aims. At Ŕăđĩǒ Ŝħąķķ he was accosted by a salesman trying to get him to upgrade his cell-antir plan, but was only succdessful in selling him some new baaterees for his staff. It was while he was casually perusing the discount racks at Sethamir's Livery Stable and Big-N-Tall Shoppe that he spied a familiar face. Behind the checkout was Nintendo The Blue, another of the lesser maia, and one with whom he had been in competition for awhile way back in the land of the Velour. In the days before Gateskeeper lost the vision of Eru for his creation, his station was Designated Overseer of Services (DOS). He wished to assist the peoples of Muddled-Mirth with *all* tasks both the mundane and the extraodinary, the burdensome and the recreational. Nintendo's program, on the other hand, was to provide only amusement and recreation, and leave the denizens of the world to fend for themselves in dealing with the everyday matters. And yet, as with his battles to control the areas around the Pea Sea, he could not defeat Nintendo at his own game, not even with Gateskeeper's fabled Ecks-boks, forced to a tense truce.

Gateskeeper could barely contain his glee at seeing Nintendo reduced to working for minimum wage. He picked out an outfit and sauntered over to the counter. "Nintendo!" he said with a swaggering smile, "long time no see. It looks like the years in Muddled-Mirth have not treated you well."

Nintendo looked up, and indeed he looked as though the years had drained him. "Gateskeeper," he said with a maniacal snort, "come to gloat over my discomfiture? You always were the vindictive type."

"Nay, friend, I have larger matters at hand, and I came only to replace this dragon-burnt robe. I'm working for Mogul Bildur now, and with his help, after I finish this silly quest, he's going to help me take over the Pea Sea."

"MOGUL BILDUR!!" Nintendo cried, his eyes wide but seeing only who-knows-what mental apparitions, his expression contorted like a camel's chiropractor. "Slo-o-o-o-wly I turned...step by step...INCH BY INCH..." It appeared that Nintendo had gone completely crackerdog. Gateskeeper shook him by the shoulders, screaming "Nintendo!! Center that joystick, you're going to re-boot!!" He added a couple of face-slaps for good measure, and Nintendo returned to himself. "I'm...I'm sorry Gateskeeper, it's just that Mogul has crushed my amusement and game business with that Plae-Station of his. That's why I'm here selling knock-off clothes, it was the only job he'd let me have after he took over. I didn't think you'd ally with him, after the Ecks-Boks debut."

Gatekeeper pondered this news as he paid for his new outfit. Mogul was as tricksy as ever, and it began to look as if he would undermine Gateskeeper's affairs in other areas, even if he did help him conquer the Pea Sea. He did not like the idea of being a puppet ruler under the smoky and insubstantial hand of Mogul. All of a sudden he felt the wearyness of evil settle upon him. He wondered if there might still be a chance for him to turn again and maybe actually fight for the good guys. 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.

It was at that moment that Merisuwyniel and the rest of the Debacle-ship happened by looking for him, anxious to resume their journey. Gateskeeper begged a moment to change into his new clothes, and then rejoined the travelling band, his thoughts seething and simmering like a pot of Merisu's stews. He belched at the mere thought, and double checked his supply of antacids.

[Mithadan]

"They are leaving the Gap, sir," announced an Orcish scout whose name evaded Gravlox. Something with lots of consonants and glottal stops. Why didn't Orc parents bestow more pleasant names upon their children?

Gravlox, accompanied by the loyers Cheetem and Ripoff, walked to the top of a hill to look down on the Gap's parking lot. Indeed there, in the distance, was the Gallowship, piling bags onto a cart filled with logs and other sundry items. There were Orogarn Two, Earnur, Pimpiowyn, Vogonwë, Kuruharan, Chrysophylax, a few others he didn't recognize and... His heart leapt and he gritted his teeth to prevent it from coming out of his mouth. Swallowing carefully, he looked down upon the graceful figure of Merisuwyniel. She tossed her head, causing her hair to fall alluringly about her shoulders. He could almost hear her musical voice and her tinkling laugh.

"Our prey appears!" cackled Ripoff. Gravlox restrained a sudden urge to disembowel the loyer. He was reasonably sure he could take one loyer in a more or less fair fight, but doubted he could defeat two. And the paperwork and depositions which were sure to follow would likely not be worth the momentary satisfaction. More to the point, they were already wielding their vile legal pads while his sword was still in its sheath. "Let's go!" cried Cheetem. So much for avoiding contact between his troops and the Gallowship.

They loped back to camp where the Orcs of the Third Shock Corps were already mounting their wargs and steeds. Gravlox leapt upon his warg and led the troops around the bottom of the hill to the north. There they waited for the Gallowship to come into view. Gravlox's face remained impassive, but his mind raced to find a way out of this predicament. Then a fiendish grin came over his face. Ripoff and Cheetem, who were observing him carefully, nodded with approval. Soon, the Itship came into view and Gravlox raised a hand. "Charge!" he cried.

With an unearthly howl, the Third Shock Corps leapt forward towards the small group of men, elves, dwarves and dragon and whatever else they had accumulated in Gravlox' absence. The members of the Gallowship scrambled for their weapons and Chrysi lifted into the air with a blast of flame. The Orcs were 200 meters away, 100 meters away, 50... Gravlox suddenly rose up in his stirrups, an odd piece of equipment for a warg, reached into his pack and withdrew a furry something.

"Wargs!" he screamed. Two dozen snouts turned toward him in mid-stride. "Get the ZERLLLLLL!" A white furry something flew from his hands and began racing away at a right angle to the course of the troops. Two dozen sets of beady red eyes followed the ball of fluff and turned after it. Now it is a little known fact of Muddled Mirth physics that wargs in pursuit of a Zerl can turn on a proverbial dime. However, Orcs lack this ability. Two dozen wargs turned to chase the Zerl and two dozen orcs were flung from the backs of their steeds.

Gravlox leapt from the back of his warg and raced forward towards the Itship. Behind him, he could hear the loyers screaming. "Fraud, misrepresentation, defalcation of property! Oooo are we gonna get you!" He ignored them and approached his former comrades. Vogonwë prepared to throw an arrow, but Merisu, frowning in recognition of the face from her troubled dreams halted the Workmudian Elf. "Beloved!" he shouted. "It is I! I have returned!"

At that moment, perhaps a dozen meters from his very confused friends, he was caught from behind. The loyers had raised their dread legal pads and scribbled their spells upon them. At once, Gravlox was struck by a swirling blue whirl of injunction. A declaratory writ smashed him over the head and an attachment seized his wooden foot. He toppled to the ground. Immediately, he was swarmed over by a crowd of orcs who pulled him away while menacing the Gallowship with their swords. The loyers threw Gravlox atop a horse, still bound by the injunction and galloped off. With tears streaming from his eyes, Gravlox reached a claw out towards his beloved and shouted, "Merisu!" Then he was gone...

[Diamond18]

“Wargs! Get that ZERLLLLL!”

Vogonwë’s head snapped up at this cry from one of the Orcs. No! Another poor, hapless Zerl was about to meet its death? It shouldn’t! It couldn’t! It wouldn’t! He got ready to loose an arrow at the vile creature who threw the Zerl to its imminent death.

“No, wait,” said Merisu, placing a well manicured but trembling hand on his arm. She looked stunned (and stunning, but that’s not the point) as she stared ahead at the Uruk on the Warg.

“Beloved! It is I! I have returned!” cried the suspiciously blonde Uruk with the strange, disproportionately aesthetic features.

It dawned on Vogonwë, then, in the sort of way a two-by-four dawns on you when it hits you between the eyes. He knew not how, why, where, who, what or when, but that voice and that nauseatingly dramatic flare belonged to none other than Gravlox Uruk….

…Which could be quite awkward. He watched his former murder victim approaching, leaping from his Warg and running, which didn’t seem altogether sensible considering how much faster his Warg could run. Vogonwë started to formulate greetings in his mind, forgetting that perhaps the more appropriate action to take would have been to loose some Workmudian Well-Aimed Arrows into the weird looking… things… with legal pads that were chasing Gravlox down.

”Hi!” No, something more serious. ”Greetings, old friend!” Naaah. No use in playing stupid. ”Gravlox! What a surprise!” No, too inane. ”Hello… wow, you’re looking good!” No, too fruity. ”I’m sorry, really. Really, really, really, sorry. Very, truly, sorry.” Yeah, that sounded good.

Unfortunately, while he was planning his greeting, the… things… stopped Gravlox in his tracks and the band of Orcs piled on top of him, dragging him away while Vogonwë, Merisu and the others watched stupidly, some drooling vegetable-like on their shoes.

Then Vogonwë snapped out of his stupor, remembering that the Zerl was still in danger. They might let their long lost back-from-the-dead friend be dragged away, but by Emu, he wasn’t going to stand by and let a Zerl suffer! He hopped astride Tweedledum and cried, “Don’t worry! Mommy’s coming!”

He dug his heels into the horse, one, two, three times, and then it finally took off at something akin to a gallop. He rode down the renegade Wargs, singing out spells as he loosed arrow after arrow into the mangy beasts. They fell like fleas from a dog onto the ground, as did a few stray Orcs who were hanging around stupidly, no match for Vogonwë’s store of debilitating rhymes. In a moment Vogonwë did a double triple somersault off of Tweedledum and trotted up to the frightened little white animal.

“Hey—what in green garters is this?” he exclaimed when he picked up a small rabbit. “A bunny?” He stared. “Zerl” didn’t even rhyme with “bunny”. He turned the rabbit around in his hands and noticed that it was wearing a collar with the name “Harvey” written on it in calligraphy. He turned and walked back to Tweedledum, who was nibbling on grass next to the body of a dead Orc. “Well, Harvey, I guess you can ride with me, anyway. Gravlox might want you back.” He pet the rabbit on top of the head. “Yessss,” he nodded, an idea coming into his head. “Yes, precious. You and I are going to stay together for a little while. Don’t worry, Vogie’s going to take good care of you. You like Vogie, right? You wouldn’t want anything to happen to Vogie, would you? Nooooooo.”

He hopped onto Tweedledum and rode back through the carnage, gathering up his arrows. When he got back to the Duhship he held out the rabbit to Pimpi. “Look what I’ve got!”

“Oh! Shall we put it in a stew?”

“No!” he cried, hugging the nervous little creature to his chest. “This is Harvey, and if that Uruk was really Gravlox I suppose this is Gravlox’s special diversionary Warg-O-Rabbit. We’re going to take very good care of him and Gravlox will be ever so grateful to us.”

On cue, Merisu snapped out of her stupor and began to cry, weep, and mumble sweet poetic words of yearning in the general direction Gravlox had been dragged.

Earnur held up a hand. “Wait... does this mean we’re going to have to rescue someone again?”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A wave of conflicting feelings had stunned Merisuwyniel into immobility. She had been deep in pensive thought when they had left the GAP, trusting Falafel to keep to the road with little guidance on her part, lulled into the false security of a seemingly eventless journey ahead. The attack surprised her, but she had mastered situations like that so many times that it would normally have posed no serious problem. She had felt the Bow vibrating with the excitement of battle, but then…

That face, so strange and yet so strangely familiar – not the face that was burnt forever into her memory, but one that she had seen in her dreams of late – had stopped time and obliterated her surroundings. Her mind told her that it could not be, but the unruly beat of her heart spoke more eloquently. Yet before she could say or do anything, he was gone, his last, desperate cry echoing in her delicately pointed ears. She wanted to follow him, wanted to fight the Orcs, wanted to pursue the Wargs who chased that – well, whatever it was; her sharp Elven eyes told her that it was not exactly a Zerl.

Yet she had done – nothing. Instead, that bumbling Workmudian Half-Elven poet had given chase, apparently successfully, since he brought the little creature with him. Deep shame flooded her senses and coloured her cheeks a bright red (quite becoming, of course). She, a pure-blooded Elf, an experienced shieldmaiden, the leader of this group of questers, had failed miserably.

She became aware that the gazes of her companions were fixed upon her. Earnur repeated his question: “Does this mean we’re going to have to rescue someone again?” How should she decide now? Should she follow the tugging of her heart and the Orcs to attempt to find Gravlox, if indeed it was he? Or should she follow the path of the Quest ahead of her, laid upon her by the Velour Queen Yawanna?

“Let me think!” she said. “And now may I make a right choice, and change the evil fate of this unhappy day!” She stood silent for a moment. “We shall continue westwards,” she said at last. “I would have followed Gravlox to Moredough and gone with him to the end; but if I seek him now in the wilderness, I must abandon the quest. My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of my Beloved is in my hands no longer. We that remain must carry on with the task given unto us. Come! We will go now. If we are true, the Velour will protect and aid Gravlox better than I may.”

She stormed ahead dramatically on Falafel, only to pause after some minutes, since she and the other riders had to wait for the cart to catch up anyway…

[Lush]

Leninia had to cut her ritual bath short.

"Insufferable nincomoops...Or is it nicopumps? Nickypups? Nincko..." She muttered whilst attendants dried off her famously tiny, yet lucious body. "Never mind. Regardless, the timing is terrible. Don't they realize how expensive my spa treatments are? Blood of the innocents is extremely hard to come by! Why, the other week the only so-called innocent they were able to net had some cheap garter on her leg and was staggering away from a cardboard wedding chapel off some highway in..."

"I get it, Mother, I get it," The Entish Guitar interrupted rudely (not to mention bravely, for interrupting Leninia often had unpleasant consequences). "Admit it, you're glad that they are fashionably late. You had an enromous amount of time on your hands to be a lazy wench. Betting on Puke basketball, firing good talk-show hosts [here the Entish Guitar chuckled derisively] in obviously politically unmotivated decisions, hoarding over-priced jewerly, and..."

"Oops, Mommy did it again," Leninia cooed affectionally as she scooped E.G. in her arms. "Am I making little E.G. upset with my silly rambling? Oh darling, don't think twice, it's all right, I'm only kidding."

One had to congratulate Leninia on her foresight. Each step the Itship took in the direction of Marrow Bones Studio was loosening her tight little grip on the Entish Guitar's mind. This was not a time to get petty over the Entish Guitar's tom-foolery.

And anyway, the waiting is the hardest part, and it was almost over.

Leninia clutched the E.G. as she trotted along to her main offices, wondering what to wear for her guests, briefly toying with the idea of wearing her (expensive) birthday suit, yet ultimately deciding that this was not that kind of roleplay.

Noting that this season green was in, and wisely deciding to remind her fashion-conscious gamers of this fact, Leninia threw on a gown of muted lime.

"What's this, Mother? A belated homage to the latest late Mr. Leninia?" The E.G. blurted.

"Yes, this was John Lemmon's favourite colour," Leninia sighed.

"Too bad the relationship went so sour, so fast," the E.G. laughed un-merrily.

"Oh, shut...I mean, shush, my darling," Leninia put a pretty little finger to her lips. "Our victi...I mean, guests, are approaching."

The entrance to Marrow Bones Studio, a gothic-style mansion made entirely out of black marble (oddly reminiscent of Disney's Haunted Mansion, minus the long line of sweating tourists with fanny-packs, whom Leninia had all turned into newts), was not, to put it mildly, a lively place, and neither did the establishment have anything to do with saving the lives of cancer patients, a disappointed Merisuwyniel quickly discovered as she rode up to it.

"Oh, this looks nothing like a hospital. And I was hoping to play a good, not to mention good-looking samaritan," she mused, whilst twirling a lock of hair about her finger fetchingly.

"Someone ought to sue them for false advertising," an eager Kuruharan piped in.

"Perhaps it is a second-hand eatery," Pimpi piped up hopefully.

"Quoi?" Read Earnur's suspiciously blood-shot eyes.

"A restaurant," Pimpi persisted. "For the poor. Where you get to eat left-overs. Like the bones. Marrow Bones, get it? I mean...If you can get second-hand designer bags, why not second-hand designer food? I mean...Ok...Oh, stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?" Vogonwë inquired delicately.

"Like all I care for in the world is food!" Pimpi said, almost tearfully now.

"You could care for nothing at all, for all I care, as long as you take care to let me care for you," Vogonwë declared romantically, whilst others took care not to vomit on their shoes.

"Charming," the practical Kuruharan was the first to recover. "Shall we be on our way now? I've got a bad feeling about this place. Although it could be just my headache. Or maybe my colic. Or maybe I don't like the colour black much. Either, way, isn't it about time we...?"

"No," Merisu interrupted him, her gorgeous face a mask of resolve. "My heart tells me we should knock."

"Perhaps you're confusing the word 'knock' with 'walk', as in 'walk away'"? Kuruharan asked hopefully.

"My heart is very clear on the matter," Merisu insisted, placing her left hand on her heaving bosom in a most distracting sort of fashion, and her right hand on the door.

The door, having been coached by its demanding mistress, swung open by itself, creaking loudly and annoyingly. Earnur swore later that the creaking sound was actually the door saying "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" at super-speed and in reverse. Not that he did anything about it at the time, naturally.

The hapless travellers stepped into what appeared to be a huge, lavishly decorated hall, which rapidly began to fill up with soap bubbles.

"Idiots!" A disemboided voice screeched from somewhere above. "Wrong button!"

After a few moments of confusion which Chrysophylax spent cheerfully chasing the remaining bubbles, the hall began to fill up with the thickest, coldest, and dreariest fog that a vintage fog-machine can buy.

Just as Kuruharan opened his mouth, presumably to declare "I told you so," a siren-like song reached our party's ears.

"A trap!" Merisu thought quickly. "Too bad I left my bikini-waxing kit behind somewhere. We could all use something to plug our ears with right about now. "

The song, meanwhile, went on. Its lyrics are reproduced here without permission. The author swears that a law-suit won't net much of value besides a leather handbag and pink underpants. *ahem* On with the song:

Gold be tooth, toilet, and sink
and gold be your checkcard too, I think;
never more buy things on sale,
never, 'till your careers fail.
In the bank your sales shall lie,
Billboard ratings soar sky-high;
'till I have sucked you dry,
'till your bosoms have withered and the fans say bye bye.

And with that most seductive rendition, Leninia the Deceivingly Little slid down the banister of her winding staircase, her magic umbrella open, the Entish Guitar lying in her lap like a pathetic chihuaha.

The Itship stood, unable to move, frozen in place either by the song, or by the weird (and possibly illegal) chemicals in the fog, or both.

"Don't look so confused," the Entish Guitar sighed a sigh of derision. "She's an impresario. A modern-day thrall. You sign your contract and work for her until she's had enough of you and you end up a balding has-been on celebrity thumb-war, or something."

"E.G. here has a funny way of representing me," Leninia's gorgeous voice hissed out of her coral lips. "But at least it's a perfectly concise piece of wood. No need for small-talk, darlings. You walked into my studio out of your own free will, and now you must face the consequences of your curoisity. I consider fiddling contests to be unfashionable in this day and age, so how about we go for a sing-off? The terms and conditions are simple: one of you will volunteer for a singing competition with yours truly, after we find an impartial judge. Win, and you walk away unscathed, maybe even with a gift or two. Lose, and I get your souls."

"Just our souls and nothing else?" Orogarn Two piped up with relief. The others glared at him most unfavourably, and he fell silent.

"Do we get to choose our gift?" Merisu asked very boldly for someone literally frozen to the floor she stood on, her eyes staring at the Entish Guitar in the same manner a cop might stare at a doughnut, if cops existed back in those noble days.

"Only if you find out how to break her spell," The Entish Guitar sighed. "Which, to be perfectly frank, is about as probable as that dragon over there turning into a kitten."

Here Chrysophylax valinatly attempted a meow that made the wall shake and Leninia explode in dainty paroxysms of bemused laughter.

"Ah, let's not get ahead of ourselves" she declared brightly. "Now off to my basem...er, dungeon with you. For now."

Leninia swung her magic umbrella, the handle with the head of a poodle pointed at our heroes' feet, and the floor dropped out from underneath them.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

There is nothing in the life of an habitual escapee from reality quite so terrible as a moment of clarity. So often the first thing that springs to a suddenly cleared mind is precisely that which first condemned consciousness as uninhabitable. In the particular case of Earnur Etceteron, Lord Privy Attendant of the Archduchy of Cascara of that ilk, the vision that assaulted his unprotected psyche came in the form of his unexpurgated biography, repeated in merciless detail and beginning with particularly painful juvenile dental procedure that held the somewhat dubious honour of being his earliest memory.

Earnur felt cheated somehow. The quest thus far had surpassed even his more exotic dreams in surrealism and confusion, to the point where he found himself wandering around some faux-marble hell surrounded by clothing and objects of the most profound tastelessness and stared at by people from whom he would not have bought clothes-pegs without grave misgivings. Indeed all had been quite sufficiently bizarre until this moment to make the contents of his various vials and pouches seem more than a little superfluous; but now, when most he needed them, their effects had deserted him. He found himself plunged, like a modern pseudo-medieval Don Giovanni, into a purgatory whose doors were opened by dreadful figures from the past, and like any gentleman worth his salt, he blamed the port.

Not that some of the past wasn't worth a second glance. The night when he sneaked into the wine cellar at Dun Sóbrin and polished off a case of priceless claret; the day he killed his first Orc (how pleased father had been); the day he was first given the custody of (allegedly) mighty Windósil...

The moment he first saw Vinaigrettiel.

The moment he last saw Vinaigrettiel.

Vinaigrettiel first-thing in the morning after a particularly lively hunt ball. For some reason the sight of her with her hair in papers was particularly annoying, since he knew that never in her life had she looked worse, not even...

"How am I Driving?"

'Not very well actually, old chap,' mused the Sable Smoke-head, and vowed eternal vengeance variously on that quack of a herbalist who had sold him the current contents of his pipe, the idiot who had first led him into this dreadful place, the bounder who had dropped him into this hole and the unmitigated cad who had made it sufficiently deep for him to get past the good bits. His reluctant and enraged viewing was cut short as his head came into sharp contact with a well-built stone floor, and his last conscious experience was of breaking the falls of several of his companions. 'More than one way to skin a Zerl,' he mumbled as he reflected on the recreationally mind-altering powers of a severe concussion. The rest, as they say, is silence.

He awoke to the familiar dulcet tones of a heated argument, such as people have when they are in a position that is not really anyone's fault and are for the moment incapable of doing anything about it.

'Well, it wasn't my idea. A completely black building in heavy Gothic style with magic doors? And at least a thousand years before the Goths even existed? You don't have to be Mári Shellë to know there's something fishy about that!'

'What are you talking about?'

'Umm...' fenced the Gateskeeper deftly.

'O dark, dank, dingy dungeon: dolorous, drear and dull'

'Shut up, dear'

'I recognise this stonework. My uncle never does a job properly if you're more than five feet tall. That block near the middle's almost a full ten-thousandth of an inch out of alignment.

Earnur had nothing to bring to this discussion, so naturally he stuck his manfully inappropriate oar into this storm in a metaphorically mixed teacup.

'Nrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnrrrrrgggggggggnnnnn... ouch'

'So glad you could join us,' greeted the lovely Merisuwyniel archly. The tiny smear of dirt on her flawless cheek could have been mathematically placed there by the greatest beauty expert of the age in response to the latest court fashion and not looked so glamourous.

'Abndn hop al y wh entr hr,' replied the debonair disaster with his usual urbane wit. 'Why's ev'ryone so tall allofasudden?'

Strong hands dragged him into a sitting position, and the inevitable white-hot daggers of pain shot through his cliché-beset head in a somewhat tired display of auctorial hackery. He was sitting in a dungeon so dank, drear and dismal that he was obliged to quote Vogonwë in order to describe it. A wave of officially unrelated nausea swept through him at the thought, but was rapidly dispelled by a certain morbid curiosity. He glanced around at the new lodgings of the Austenesque-blank-ship and noted by careful deciphering of the plain Westestosterone numerals over the door opposite that they were confined in Cell 101b of an unknown dungeon somewhere in somewhere. No doubt other details would be forthcoming later, when sneering foreign gaolers with indeterminate accents came to taunt them by numbers.* Until then, he decided, there were more important issues to which he should attend. Jamming the broken bowl-end of his pipe between his teeth and breaking across a one-sided conversation about the quality of the masonry, he posed the burning question of the age.

'I say: would one of you happen to have such a thing as a light?'

_____________

* It is a fact almost universally acknowledged that any dark dungeon possessed of a reasonable dankness must be in want of some sinister foreign gaolers, who must possess the unique facility of sounding foreign regardless of the listener's nationality. There is a distinct danger that one of them may be called Vlad. If he is, the other will almost certainly be called Kurt.

[Diamond18]

Soon after becoming acquainted with the floor, and becoming rather more well acquainted with each other than they'd have liked, the Three-Females-Eight-Males-And-Two-Its-Ship disentangled themselves from each other and brushed the dirt and cobwebs from their accoutrements and coiffures. (That is, all except Earnur, who was more or less at the bottom of the pile, as usual, and was unconscious, as usual — and the animals, who didn’t have accoutrements or coiffures.)

It took a few moments longer than was strictly necessary for Orogarn Two and Kuruharan to disentangle from Merisu. Vogonwë, ever the unlucky one, had become entangled with Grrralph and the Gateskeeper, and the three of them were trying to remedy the situation in as swift and manly (or half-elvenly, thingwraithly, and wizardly) fashion possible. Vogonwë and the Gateskeeper were also slightly revolted to come in contact with Grrralph in particular, and though Vogonwë later denied this, he ran around the room flapping his arms and screaming, “His eyes! His eyes! Oh my Eru! His eeeeeeeyes!” The Gateskeeper invoked a strong cleansing spell to remove any spíwarë, trôján horses, or cûkies he may have caught from touching Grrralph’s cloak.

Pimpi swooped to the ground, cradled in the scaly embrace of Chrsyi, who was telling her how well he could have flown out of there to safety had she not been impeding his wings. The horses consisted of a fourth grouping; Falafel kicked Pinkjin in the nether regions, and the twins Tweedledee and Tweedledum lay there blinking at each other in a fashion that others would have labeled blankly. They were actually sending intricate messages to each other in that special way twins do:

Tweedledee: Grass?

Tweedledum: Where?

Tweedledee: Grass?

Tweedledum: Where?

Et cetera.

The cart, unfortunately, shattered when it hit the pavement, and the Thighs rolled to a dank and dreary corner of the room.

When Vogonwë came to his senses, he stopped and realized that he did not know where Harvey was. This prompted him to run around the room flapping his arms and screaming, “Where did he go? Where did he go? Oh my Eru! Where did he goooo?” He stopped in front of Chrysophylax and grabbed his lapels (or rather, some loose flabs of scaly skin on the sides of his neck) and said, “Have you eaten him, you stupid beast?”

Chrysi merely blinked and belched out a sulfurous stream of air from deep in his stomach, and Vogonwë tripped and fell backwards; coughing, sputtering and hacking for a moment or two. Pimpi rushed over to thump his back and say, “In with Mister Good Air, out with Mister Bad Air, in with Mister Good Air, out with Mister Bad Air,” until he had recovered enough to wheeze:

“You didn’t put him in a stew, did you?”

Pimpi thumped his back a little bit harder than was strictly necessary and said, “Pull yourself together, Vogie! We’ve been down here for a grand total of five minutes, give or take a few. How could I have put your rabbit in a stew?”

“You’re right, it was the dragon,” Vogonwë said, fingering his arrows (which had managed to stay innocuously in their quiver despite the fall — thank Eru for small favors.)

“Actually, I think he was squashed and then rolled to a thin paste by one of the Entish Thighbeams,” Pimpi said, patting his arm sympathetically.

For a moment Vogonwë looked as if he were going to be seriously ill, but then Pimpi began to laugh in a mischievous, hobbity chuckle, which sounded somewhat like an evil chortle. She drew Harvey out from one of her skirt pockets. “There you go, sweetie. I found him trying to wiggle out from underneath Earnur.” She paused and looked down at the tender little animal nibbling on an alfalfa sprout in her hands, and her desire could not have been clearer had Vogonwë retrieved a magick marker from his pen box and written hasenpfeffer across her forehead.

Vogonwë snatched the bunny and cradled it in his arms. “That great smelling lump of a heavy oaf. He had better not have bruised Harvey.” In his mind’s eye he saw Gravlox holding Harvey and exclaiming ”How did he get these bruises?” in an Orcsome roar, and he shuddered. Luckily, Earnur was in la la land and did not hear the insult, though it is not clear how he would have reacted had he been in clearer state of mind. Experts speculate that he might not have even realized the assessment pertained to him, as “clearer” is, of course, a relative term.

[The Saucepan Man]

Soregum stood on the ridge overlooking the GAP of Soreham and watched as the Shopped-out-ship made ready to leave the parking lot. He recalled what Ssssam the Thingwraith had told him the previous day, in between enthusiastic descriptions of the revue that they were rehearsing for the planned celebration of the Dread Developer’s soon-to-be dominion over Muddled-Mirth. Môgul now wanted Soregum to infiltrate the Quest-ship. To what purpose, he knew not and could not guess. But here he was with an immediate opportunity to carry out his Master’s command.

Then again, the shopping mall did boast a rather good cake shop. And a hostelry of some repute. And a tobacconist (even though Ssssam had delivered a welcome consignment of Old Toothrot from Moredough, one could never have enough pipe weed) …

Predictably, Soregum was, within the hour, seated comfortably in a corner of the Happy Chopper, sinking his fifth pint of ale and mopping up the gravy from an otherwise empty plate. He had noticed the sign of the Red Nostril above the shop-fronts in the GAP, and again found himself strangely disconcerted by this further evidence of his Master’s ever-increasing hold over Muddled-Mirth.

********************

The following day found Soregum and Twinkle once more picking out with ease the trail left by the Clutter-ship. It led north-west. Towards territory that Soregum knew well. In that direction lay the Mire, with its comfortable inns, well-stocked pantries, provincial attitudes and petty bourgeois sensibilities. But first the Meander-ship’s route would take him through the Marrow Bones, a haunted region populated by pale insubstantial wights whose obsession with the spectral realm (vértuïll ríallitïe in the Simian tongue) had led them long ago to abandon the physical plane. The thought of venturing into that forbidding land filled Soregum with dread. What was it his old Duffer used to say? Ah yes, Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Marrow Bones. Then again, he had been in the advanced stages of senile dementia by then.

As they ascended the first of the hills that marked the boundary of the Marrow Bones, Twinkle let out a gentle whinny to signify her irritation at being so heavily laden with the numerous sugary foodstuffs, potent ales and varieties of pipeweed that Soregum had stocked up on in the GAP. Yet, as they journeyed, the sun mounted and grew hot, and the going was surprisingly pleasant. Their path wound over broad hills and through deep valleys. There was neither tree nor shrub to be seen but, atop the hills on either side, Soregum could make out the jagged piles of sun-bleached rocks, like the bones of the great beasts of old, which gave the region its name. He was glad to see that his quarry had kept to the path, since he recalled from his youth the warnings given to travellers through the Marrow Bones: Don't stray from the path! Mind you, where Soregum grew up, just about anywhere else was considered the kind of strange and unknown territory in which one was well advised to keep to the path. Still, Soregum thought it better to be safe than sorry and made sure that Twinkle’s dainty footfalls scrupulously followed the narrow muddy trail that wound through the bleak landscape.

About midday, they stopped in a hollow circle in the midst of which stood a single white stone. It was shapeless and yet significant, as if marking the forum for some ancient gathering. The path wound around the hollow and, taking care to keep it in sight, Soregum settled down to indulge in the delights of the GAP’s food halls. Twinkle, unburdened, strayed upon the grass. And it was not long before, having made light work of the contents of her saddlebags, Soregum’s eyes began to droop.

********************

Suddenly, he awoke from a deep sleep that he had never meant to take. The sky above was black and, to his dismay, Soregum saw that a dense green fog had built up around the edges of the hollow. He sprang to his feet in alarm, and ran to the rim, but the path was nowhere to be seen. And neither was his little pony.

“Drat and confound you, Twinkle!” he called. “Where are you?”

Receiving no answer, he began to cast about first one way and then the other, desperately seeking the path, which impertinently defied his attempts to locate it. Then, turning back, he found that he could no longer see the hollow from which he had emerged. Swirls of thick green mist surrounded him in every direction, blocking out all but the blackness beyond, and it seemed to Soregum that it was whispering to him. Straining his ears, he realised that the whispers were faint voices. And they seemed to be debating and discussing matters pertaining to Muddled-Mirth, both trivial and arcane. Some courteously, yet others less so.

“Was it fate, my dears, that led Feeblenor to depart Valleyum, or did he do so of his own free will?” whispered one ghostly voice.

“Oh no, my dear. It was his fate to fulfil the doom of Mantoes.” came the faint reply.

“You’re talking rubbish,” intoned another. “You’re thinking of Tintin Rum-baba.”

“Oh, I like him,” interrupted yet another faint voice. “But who’s your favourite Elf?”

“No no, my dear. Do not ask such things here,” a slightly sterner voice reprimanded. “You must go to the hill of Nand’n.”

Then, suddenly, a new voice, harsh and insistent, began to bellow in the Black Speech of Slangbad.

“HAHAHAHA!” it roared. “U IZ AL LAMERZ! LOL! WOT U AL DOIN HEER??!!!! I ROOL HEER COZ I IZ K666L! I IZ NMMUBER 111111!! U IZ 0000!!! HAHAHA! DUM WIHGTS! LOL! L8RZ!!!”

“Troll!” whispered the ghostly voices as one in apparent alarm.

Panic seized Soregum and he began to run as fast as his ill-fitting boots would allow. He ran blindly and with no idea of where he was going, his outsized black cloak billowing out behind him. All he knew was that he had to get away. And as he blundered through the thick fog, the whispers of half-caught conversations continued to beset him from every direction.

“What befell Pettyghast, my dears? What befell him at the Balfrog rumble sale?”

“… with wings … no such … ‘fly you fools’ … fallen into shadow … Nazzgurl …”

“… nature of evil … loyers … my dear … no such redemption …”

“… think … from the void … said ‘Doh’ … meant …”

“… Zerls … come from … I believe that … Last Home Grown Cows …”

“… but Lord Roneld … more powerful … Elvish Non-Queen Saladriel, my …”

“… but what … mean when you say … power … saw in … Salad Bowl … Workmud …”

“…structure … theme … poetry … Vogonwë … clearly symbolic … cruel and unusual torture”

“… allegory … bah! … applicability … ”

Desperately, Soregum bobbed and weaved, trying to escape those insistent voices. But still they continued. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to him that one of the wights addressed him directly and he stopped, as if bewitched.

“Welcome to the Bones, my dear! Enjoy being dead! Lol! Pï-émm me if you have any questions …”

“SQUEEEEEEEEE!!!”

The shriek pierced his ears and he fell to the ground. Quickly, he picked himself up and carried on running. Somehow, he knew that if he stopped for just one minute to listen to those spectral voices, he would find himself caught up in their ghostly conversations. And then he would be lost.

“… my dears … Roneld’s guestbook … cannot find ... love it so … gone …”

“… luv O Lando … going to … marry him …”

“… wave … Orogarn … Disco King …”

“Orogarn Two!”

The last voice made Soregum stop in his tracks, for it was deeper, somehow more real, and it seemed to him that it came from the ground below him. And even as he stood there, his ears straining, the mist rolled up and thrust aside, and the starry sky was unveiled. A glance showed him that he was now facing southwards and was on a round hill-top, which he must have climbed from the north. Out of the east the biting wind was blowing. To his right there loomed against the westward stars a dark black shape. A ruddy great gothic mansion stood there.

“Where are you?” he cried, both angry and afraid.

“Here!” said a voice, fair and cold, from within the black marble edifice. “I am waiting for you!”

His heart in his mouth, Soregum drew his cowl closely about his head and crept towards to the great doors. As he reached out to turn the handle they swung open and, even in his fearful state, Soregum rolled his eyes as they creaked in predictably gothic fashion. A swathe of grey-green smoke poured out. Now Soregum’s constitution was well-acquainted with a variety of toxic smoke-borne chemicals, but it was sorely flummoxed by those which infused the mist which now enveloped him, and they had an immediate effect. Against his will, as if pulled by some ethereal force, he stumbled forward into the dark forbidding interior of the mansion.

“Darling! You’ve arrived!”

Then painted fingernails stronger and colder than iron seized him. The icy touch froze his bones to the marrow, and he remembered no more.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two brooded silently in Leninia’s dreary basement. Not a dry, warm, comfortable basement, filled with air and pleasant smells, but a dank, damp odiferous basement, dripping with foulness and in need of a good Swiffering. It was a wightish basement, and that means miserable.

Singéd stood shivering beside him, nuzzling his master in hopes of a slight transfer of heat. Leninia’s crummy cellar felt as if it were carved into the size of an iceberg, and the tiny morosa thoroughly hated all things cold, so much so that he would actually cross to the other side of the street to avoid a young Grundorian lad that had dropped an ice cream cone or a fudgesickle. Singéd imaged the other steeds of the Sportmanship would laugh at him if they knew of this frosty aversion, because he knew for certain that they wouldn’t pass up on a free frozen dairy treat. He pushed a little closer to Orogarn Two.

Thinking that the little horse was crowding him, Orogarn Two pushed back gently, hoping to discourage Singéd from getting too chummy. It wouldn’t do for the beast to think he was appreciated too much. Horses latched on to their masters quickly, at least the good ones did, and though this horse had aided him many times during their travels together, Orogarn Two still hoped to get a normal sized mount when he got back to Minus Teeth. He began to rummage through the horse's saddlebags.

Grumbling to himself, he removed several items that he had managed to purchase at the GAP. Entering the place, he had been as broke at the Ent that was broken, but a quick trip to the local Citibank had corrected that situation, but not like he had hoped. He had been shocked to find that his own personal account was completely empty with only a short note from his father explaining how his inheritance was being used as collateral for a new construction project in the city. The message hadn’t explained what was being built or why, but fortunately it had concluded with a co-signature from his father on a loan of 10,000 kabob. The bank manager, an old friend of the family, had even thrown in a free Citibank keychain.

Orogarn Two had immediately put the cash to work, and along with a three-month supply of Slim Jims and strawberry licorice, he had bought several more useful items. He now passed around tiny flashlights to each of his captured companions, as well as small lighters that might come in handy in the event that the batteries died or a rock concert power ballad occurred nearby. He lost himself momentarily in fond memories of waving his lighter in the presence of such Muddled-mirth music greats as the Eagles, Black Oak Argonath, and Lyndon Skyndon.

Digging further through the bag, he found his new handheld, color Parma Palantir with wireless connection. Pulling the tiny stylus from it holder, Orogarn Two attempted to connect with the nearest cél, but after several attempts he remained offline. A blinking, rotating tooth icon on the upper right corner indicated that he did have a few messages saved, sent sometime earlier in the day by his father. He scanned their subject lines until he found one that seemed worth reading.

SUBJECT: First Payment Due
BODY: Dear Orogarn Two. You are now more than 24 hours late on your first payment of your 10,000KB loan of two days ago. Along with the compounding of 1% interest daily and a 100KB late fee, your loan balance is now 10,300KB. You next minimum payment of 100KB is due tomorrow. Assuming you make the remaining minimum payments on time, you will have this loan paid off by 1823 Fourth Age. Sincerely, your father, Orogarn, Proctor of Grundor.Orogarn Two shook his head in shame. The financial situation in Minus Teeth must be worse than he thought if his father was fleecing him as badly as the bank normally did the citizens of the city. He went on to the next message.

SUBJECT: New Motto
BODY: Effective immediately, the new motto of the Proctor of Grundor is:
“Welcome my son. Welcome to the machine.”Orogarn put his face in his hands and cried, “Something is rotten in the state of Grundor.”

I see a root canal in someone’s future, thought Singéd.

[Lush]

"Tea, darling? Coffee? The tears of little orphans (quite salty this season)?" Leninia inquired gamely of Soregum, seated oppsite her on a sumptuous green sofa, recuperating from last night.

The sun, steaming through the glass doors of Leninia's patio, revealed her eyes to be a deep, sparkling blue. If Soregum had it in his mind to travel far and wide, he might have one day discovered her eyes to be reminiscent of the colour of the night sky somewhere on the seas close to the Equator (if higher education had blessed Soregum with the basic skills of determining not only the location of the Equator, but what in Muddled-Mirth the Equator was in the first place).

Outside, ghostly voices chattered gamely about death, fate, and various heroes' hair colour.

The day was shaping up to be a swell one.

"Tea, please," Soregum muttered meekly, overpowered by his hostess' charms.

"Certainly," Leninia hiked up her olive skirt to reveal a glittering flask held close to a milky-white thigh by a black garter.

Obedient tea-cups danced out of the cupboard and onto the table, and Leninia poured a steaming mixture for herself and her guest.

Soregum, meanwhile, managed to gather his jaw off the floor in more or less dignified manner.

"What an usual way of, um, drinking tea you have there, Madam," he managed to say when the furious blush of his cheeks had more or less died down.

"I find the magic flask is a good way of keeping warm," Leninia replied, her eyes suddenly moist. "Since my husband's death..."

Here she was interrupted by the Entish Guitar's derisive snort.

"...Since then, I have been of the opinion that stocking the furnance with all the excess lumber lying around here is not a bad idea," Leninia finished, hissing through her pearly teeth,.

"Oh, Mother, it was but a hiccup," the Entish Guitar sniveled.

Soregum, wisely, decided to stay out of it.

***

"Biscuits! Coffee! Fresh towels!" Disembodied voices called out in the dungeoun, unseen hands flipping the light switch to reveal a group of supine prisoners, that immediately began to stir and pick sleep out of its collective eyes (save for Merisuwyniel who was above such matters, per usual).

"The showers are down the hall to your right," a voice called out over Earnur's ear, whilst unseen hands dispensed breakfast. "Please, for the love of all that is unholy, take pity on our weak stomachs, and do consider taking one," it continued, moving away from Earnur quickly.

"Er, there are showers here?" Earnur inquired.

"Hah, what do you think this is, a gulag?" The voice sneered.

Throughly confused by the new vocabulary word, Earnur elected to shrug his shoulders manfully.

"Please ascend the main stairs within an hour," the voice continued.

"Thewe awe thtairs hewe?" Pimpi inquired through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Hah," the voice sneered. Here we assume it wanted to be clever again, but Leninia's screech from above bid it shut up and make haste. Which, mindful of its own safety, it did.

***

On the stage of Leninia's amphitheater, sat Soregum, his eyes still glassy after partaking of Leninia's magic tea, wholly unconcerned with the strained dialogue going on behind the curtain.

"Mother, I'm suddenly scared," The Entish guitar whined. "What if they take me? The possibility of leaving your suffocating bosom is freaking me out."

"Oh please," Leninia yawned regally. "I've never lost this game before, and that idiot over there [Leninia jabbed a pretty finger in Soregum's direction] is thoroughly under the spell."

"But what if you did lose?" The Entish Guitar asked, snapping back into derisive mode. "Wouldn't you find yourself buried under the rubble of your own destroyed ego, Mother?"

"Eh," Leninia said, pursing her lips in a thoughtful, yet fetching fashion. "Losing would actually be something new for a change. Do you think that being stuck in this house, with these invisible spooks, is that exciting? Why, I can't ever take a shower without being worried for my privacy. And you are sounding pathetic. Here I thought your ancient heritage would be awakened within you, and all that jazz. Sap."

"Brat," the Entish Guitar replied half-heartedly.

"Wimp," Leninia fired back.

"Scarlet woman!" The Entish Guitar shrieked.

"Yellow stinking coward!" Leninia snapped.

"The mucus spit of a diseased pig!" The Entish Guitar showed its creative side.

"Much, better, baby," Leninia cooed, stroking the wood affectionately, just as the shuffle of cautious yet heroic feet sounded nearby.

"Darlings!" Leninia stuck her small-pretty-and-not-at-all-surgically-altered nose out from behind the curtain.

"Did you sleep well? Did the ghosts not bother you? They do have unquiet dreams this time of year. And when shall we begin?"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel stepped forward courageously and (being the only one of the Sing’n’Swingship who remembered the words their ‘hostess’ had spoken on the previous day: “One of you will volunteer for a singing competition with yours truly, after we find an impartial judge. Win, and you walk away unscathed, maybe even with a gift or two. Lose, and I get your souls.”) said, “I will take the challenge, though I do not know the abilities of my opponent.”

“Well, well, aren’t you brave!” Leninia mocked in her most lilting tones. “You know what? You don’t have to do it all by yourself! As a matter of fact, I’ll take it up against all of you, singly or together. If you get more total points from the judge than I do, you win.”

“This is a heavy burden,” the Elven maiden replied. “So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you,” she continued, turning to her companions. “But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right.”

“If by my singing or dancing I can aid you, I will!” Vogonwë said dramatically. “You have my tenor!”

“And my baritone!” Earnur added, manfully clearing his throat.

“And my bass!” Kuruharan chimed in melodiously.

“There must be someone gifted with musicality in this quartet…boy group…thing,” squeaked Gateskeeper. “You have my countertenor.”

Since she was much too kind and polite to give the only obvious answer to that last statement, Merisu merely sighed and asked their hostess, “Will you give us a few moments of time to plan and rehearse our performance?”

“Sure,” Leninia said magnanimously, waving a languid hand toward the stage. “Help yourselves!” She made no move to leave the room, however, and neither did the judge, so after a few whispered consultations, the group decided to trust to their proverbial luck in tight situations, drawing on their experience in Soreham, and the male quartet began to sing.

[The Saucepan Man]

Soregum sat on the stool that had been allocated to him at the side of the great stage and fidgeted uncomfortably. Matters were not turning out at all as he had planned. It was all very well for this Leninia character to force him against his will into her dark and fearful, yet surprisingly well-appointed, mansion, render him unconscious and then, upon his revival, insist that he adjudicate upon a contest in which the very souls of the Quest-On-The-Edge-Of-A-Knife-ship were at stake. But it was the poor quality of her hospitality that really irked him. Tea was all very well in its place. But its proper place was seated comfortably in an armchair before a roaring fire and accompanied by a reassuringly large plate of assorted teacakes. Yet he hadn’t been offered so much as a biscuit. It really was too much to bear.

Pensively, he drew upon his pipe, sending great clouds of acrid smoke billowing across the auditorium. Thankfully, the stock of Old Toothrot that had been delivered from Moredough remained with him. He hoped that a pipe-full would help clear his head, which felt as though it were hosting an enthusiastic game of stomp the Zerl between rival regiments of Uruk-Hai. He attributed this to the effects of the rather less familiar smoke which had greeted his arrival at the Marrow Bones Studios. But his central nervous system, which had no little expertise in such matters, knew better and was busy attempting to analyse and neutralise whatever exotic substance it was that Leninia had slipped into his tea.

Soregum’s gaze fell on the contestants. Merisuwyniel was busy pulling the Rehearsal-ship into some semblance of order, offering a word of encouragement here, a gentle admonishment there, and both in equal measure to a singularly bemused Earnur, who was having difficulty deciding whether the Dun Sóbrin drinking songs which had immediately sprang to mind would be appropriate to the occasion. Kuruharan was doing a brisk trade in Tinúlizziel’s “Voice of a Nightingale” Throat Spray (sold in hastily re-labelled snake-oil jars), while the Gateskeeper was consulting his soft wares for káräokë and émpîdhrïe spells to charge his mystical I’pód. Adjusting the headband which he had surreptitiously slipped around his mane of dark brown hair, Orogarn Two offered up a silent prayer to Spândèx, the Muse of the Rocks, while Grralph, who had apparently taken to the challenge with great relish, was hard at work practising his scales and running through his voice exercises, the red embers of his eyes positively gleaming in anticipation within his black hooded cowl. Chrysophylax simply lounged disconsolately on the far side of the stage, blowing smoke-arrows through heart-shaped smoke-rings.

Towards the back of the stage, Soregum spotted Pimpiowyn, and his heart leapt, only to fall back to earth with a resounding thump when he saw that she was consoling a distraught Vogonwë, whose suggestion of a poetry recital in place of a song contest had been soundly vetoed all round. Soregum tried to catch her eye, but gave up on realising that the black hooded cloak which shrouded him from head to foot was inherently (and happily) unconducive to his clumsy attempts at flirtation.

His thoughts turned to the contest which, for reasons that utterly eluded him, it was his lot to adjudicate upon. The prospect of sitting through a series of vocal performances did not exactly fill him with good cheer. He had had quite enough of that sort of thing back in Moredough, courtesy of the Thingwraiths. Nevertheless, it was vital that he kept his wits about him (such as they were), for the outcome of the contest was likely to have serious consequences, whichever way he chose. Môgul Bildûr would, no doubt, be extremely interested in Leninia’s talkative wooden guitar, which the contestants stood to gain in the event that they won. And, since his orders were to seek entry to the Ent-Part-Collector-ship, Soregum strongly suspected that his Master would rather it were with them than with Leninia. And, of course, there was always Pimpiowyn to consider. So he really had very little alternative but to find in favour of the Pop-Idol-ship. On the other hand, Soregum fancied that Leninia would not take kindly to any result which did not place her firmly at the top of the leader-board, and he really had no wish to be parted from his soul, having become quite attached to it over the years. Soregum’s mind raced, seeking some – any – solution to this fine dilemma, on the horns of which he now found himself firmly impaled …

His thoughts thus occupied, Soregum drew deeply on his pipe and settled back to watch as Earnur, Kuruharan, Vogonwë and the Gateskeeper shuffled nervously to centre stage.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two dug through Singéd’s saddlebags once again, this time searching for an item he carried with him wherever he traveled. Since winning the first runner-up ribbon in the Minus Tooth University amateur talent contest in his freshman year, he had always kept the fantastic costume from that performance close. Never in all of those years had he been parted from it, but he had also never needed it, so it lay crammed into the darkest recesses of his horse’s most unused compartment.

“Aha!” he at last cried in satisfaction, pulling a rectangular cardboard box from the saddlebag and tucking it under his arm with a smirk at the other Steamship members. Pulling a small notepad and pen from his pocket, he gave Leninia a small bow, slipped a 100KB note to Soregum, and hurried off to a dark corner to work on his song. He already knew what tune he would use, but the situation called for an alteration of the lyrics to suit them to the current dangerous occasion.

[Thenamir]

In all the preparation for the singing Gateskeeper found himself the only one taking the competition seriously, but was strapped for ideas and time. Earnur clumsily refused to work on the dance steps, mumbling alternately about fighting their way out and the medicinal qualities of Old Panther rotgut...when Kuruharan wasn't having trouble with Chrysophylax and the smoke and fire special effects he was trying to cozy up to Leninia with the idea of selling tickets to the competition for a slice of the profits...and Vogonwe's singing voice was matched only by the quality of his poetry, and he also wanted to write the lyrics. It was only when he calmly reminded them that their disembodied souls might spend forever with their shrewess emcee Leninia that they finally began to focus.

Costuming at least was not a problem. Earnur's pair of leather trousers fit right in, combined with an undershirt from which the sleeves had been unceremoniously ripped. (The sleeves were put to use tied together as a bandana for his head) Vogonwe needed no alteration in his normal wear -- the green spandex was actually a nice touch. Gateskeeper made as if he wanted to buy out Kuruharan's supply of long turkey feathers, and managed to fashion them into a primal warrior headdress which the dwarf grumblingly agreed to wear for the sake of the competition. If they won, Gateskeeper would pay double. If they lost, there was no point in paying in advance. For himself, Gateskeeper changed into a stiff-pressed shirt and trousers of the deepest blue, adorned with a silver badge in the shape of a shield on the left breast pocket, a white helmet, and curious spectacles which allowed the wearer to see out, but only showed the reflection of those who tried to peer in.

Gateskeeper was just dying to try out the new Sound-Khaard plug-in he'd gotten for his staff, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity -- but he was in need of source material -- not even a wizard can make music out of nothing, he must have something to work with. So while the other three desperately tried to get in sync, he quietly walked to a corner of the room and quietly mumbled another of his secret words of command, KAZAA.EXE!. Ignoring the ever present Banners of Warning (sent by the Lords of the Khopy-Wight), he received (or in the Simpleton, dhown-loded) an appropriate tune for their costume wear. Once the others heard the music (from whence it came, they could not tell), the steps fell quickly into place (with the help of another small spell the Gateskeeper had learned -- bakh-striit-boiz) and they were ready to head for the performance area.

Having been so long steeped in low-grade evil, and dealing with people and non-people of whom the kindest adjective would be "shady", he hardly expected fair play from a creature such as Leninia. By the rule of looks-fair-feels-foul, she had to be the fairest, foulest being this side of Moredough. Still, he made his way to the front of the stage and boldly said (or as boldly as his squeaking countertenor would allow), "We are ready. Who is to be our judge?" The statement was met with a snicker, the question with a pointing finger directed at the semi-stupefied Soregum. "Magic tea," gateskeeper thought to himself, "I'd bet my life on it." "Very well, " he said aloud, and addressing himself to Soregum, "I see you have some tea, but no cakes. Allow me." At this statement, despite Leninia's spells, he perked up considerably, and accepted a small cake from the Gateskeeper, over which he invoked the spirits of Norton and McAfee. It was all he could do on short notice, and he hoped it would do the trick.

"Enough chitchat," screetched Leninia, "on with the performance!"

With that, Earnur Etceteron stepped forward and in his manliest tone, a bit unsteady but mostly sober, he proclaimed, "Mistress Leninia, and honorable judge, may we present, the SmallShire People!" Gateskeeper tapped his staff to the ground and a catchy tune began to play, and miraculously, the 4 boys managed to keep time and step as they sang

Where can you find adventure
Seek questionable ventures
Learn fencing, shieldmaidenry
Where you can begin to
Make all the farce you want to
From Grundor to Pea Sea
Where you can fight and die
Sing songs just to survive
Study Oliphauntery
Come join our little band
Don't sit in the grand stand
We've got a Velou to meet

While Earnur and Kuruharan provided background by elegantly sparring sword-versus-axe (with Earnur's sword punctuating the beats with phrases like "Hey!" "Look out!" and "Watch where you're swingin' that axe you growth-stunted offspring of a mad boar!"), Vogonwe took center stage and executed a number of somersaults in time to the bridge-music, including a bounding triple-flip double twist back-half gainer that nearly brought Leninia out of her seat, especially when his landing was timed with a puff of flame from Chrysophylax. The song continued,

In the R P
You will wail like the banshees
In the R P
Pay Kuruharan his fees
In the R P
You will roam across the land
In the R P
(Except in Grundor, where we're banned)
In the R P
Come and camp out in a tent
In the R P
Come help us all fix up this Ent
In the R P
The Ent is broken -- we're just bent
In the R P, In the R P

Soregum seemed to be partially coming out of his stupor, and even began to tap his foot to the rhythms the SmallShire People banged out with their peppy dance routine. Even Leninia's sneer began to soften a bit before she regained herself. As the song closed Soregum managed a bit of applause before Leninia shot him a withering glance. There was an awkward silence as they smartly executed a left-face and marched off stage. It appeared that their performance had not swayed the audience, and they waited in the kiss-and-cry area for their performance scores...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“What is the verdict – umm, I mean the point score – of the jury?” Leninia asked impatiently, as soon as she could take her eyes off the boygroup. Should those eyes have been focused on one especially manful specimen of the four, that was not noticed by any of the Showboatship.

“Errr, how many points am I allowed to give?” Soregum replied nervously.

“According to the rules of the Ardavision Song contest (also known as the Gränd Príx de la Chansôn),” answered Leninia, “each contestant may receive up to twelve points (zwölf Pûnktë, douzé pôints), and the candidate with the most pints – I mean, points – wins.”

Soregum pondered the possibilities, weighing the snappy performance of the SmallShire People against shows he had seen before. The song had a catchy melody; as a matter of fact, he couldn’t get it out of his head. The dancing had been eye-catching too; he cleared his throat and announced, “Te–“

“Darling,” Leninia interrupted, with a voice that conjured the image of a honey-coated dagger before his mind’s eye, “may I remind the jury that the Questers have several chances to accumulate points, while I have only one?” She fixed her hypnotic gaze upon him, waiting while he opened and closed his mouth a few times before speaking.

“Two points for the SmallShire People,” he said in a strangely monotone voice. Then he slumped back into his chair passively, waiting for the next performer.

Disappointment was rampant backstage. “That’s not fair!” Vogonwë exclaimed. “Our performance was professional, and that was great music, Gateskeeper! Where did you get it?”

But the one so queried did not care to share his secret sources and merely joined in the general complaining.

“The show must go on!” Merisuwyniel admonished them. “Who’ll go next?”

[The Barrow-Wight]

The lights dimmed again suddenly, and a single bright spot shined down on the heavy closed curtains at center stage. An expectant hush came over the crowd, and not a soul breathed for several moments. The fact that many of the hapless souls in the Marrow-Bones basement hadn’t breathed in centuries was irrelevant, for the sudden silence was spiritual as well as physical. The ancient ghosts froze in space for many quiet seconds until at last a noise was heard: the sound of serious, killer, reverberated bass in a muddled, syncopated beat. BOOOOOOOM buh buh BOOM

May I have your attention please? said a familiar voice. The curtain began to open.

May I have your attention please?

With an audible gasp, the gathered crowd responded to the opening curtains with awed amazement. There, emerging from the foggy darkness into the eerie glow of the spotlight, was Orogarn Two like never seen before, at least not since his college days. Gone was the long, thick, wonderfully feathered hair, replaced by a short buzz of blonde spikes. The green, sword-emblazoned shirt was gone as well, supplanted by a sleeveless Tee that revealed a series of tattoos that no one in the Flagship had ever seen or even knew existed. Instead of the tight, denim trousers symbolic of the Proctorship of Grundor, he wore the baggiest, low-slung orc britches ever seen. And beneath it all, he now wore bright white, rubberized, high-topped Balfrogball Shoes marked with the world-renowned Mike swoosh emblem.

“I sold him those,” bragged Kuruharan, “for 20KB over retail.”

“Shhhhhhh!” shhhhed the audience.

May I have your attention please?

Orogarn Two then began to sing in a most unorthodox way, blurting each word in a staccato rhythm that perfectly matched the stuttering beat of the music behind him, which, the Censorship was stunned to realize, was being perfectly DJ-ed by the furry muzzle of the tiny morosa, Singéd. The small horse stood before an ancient set of Noodelorean ‘rotating disc players’, nudging the grooved, circular relics to create a fantastic backbeat.

Orogarn Two spoke again, “All you all ghouls need to stand up and recognize who you’re dealing with.” He pointed to Leninia where she sat demurely on her stack of beanbags. “This here song’s about you, my dear, and how we know what’s really going on here! Oh yeah. Let me tell you who you’re dealing with and what kind of trouble you’re in.”

Will the real Wight Lady please stand up?
I repeat, will the real Wight Lady please stand up?

We’re gonna have a problem here..

Y’all act like you never seen a wight person before
Jaws all on the floor like Chysophylax Dives burnin’ down doors
And making every situation worse than before
He is the worst force, breaking up furniture
Tearing down walls and lighting up Verls, sure!

Yeah, Earnur’s got a couple screws in his head loose
Sippin’ on Reeks and juice, peeping in bedrooms
Sometimes, he just wants to cut loose, but can’t
Cause he’s cured himself of that abuse. Right!
Yellin’ in his sleep at night, always dreaming of a fight!

Merisu and Gravlox, playing in the sandbox
“It just isn’t natural”, is the way everybody talks
He ain’t nothing but an animal, running round with cannibals
Who cut other orcs open like cantaloupes
But if they can gorge on dead animals and antelopes
Then there’s no reason that an orc and a Mary Sue can’t elope
{*ewww!*} but if you feel like I feel, I got the antidote
Women wave your lederhose, sing the chorus and it goes

~ ~ ~
She’s the Wight Lady, yes she’s the real Lady
All you other wight ladies are just desecrating
So won’t the real Wight Lady please lighten up,
Please lighten up, please lighten up?
~ ~ ~

Vogonwë, Vogonwë, wishes he could rap like me
But all he thinks about is holdin’ up a Grammy
If such a thing existed in all the land then he’d
Be up on the stage giving a soliloquy
About little Pimpi and how she’s always hungry
She can’t even stomach me, let alone stand me
Unless I fessed a case of Slim Jim beef jerky. No way!

Spooky Gatekeeper is definitely getting’ weirder
Working with an operating system that was obsolete last year
But he’s operating under the table whenever he is able
Like Window’s NT he is very unstable, spinning' like a dreidel
Rockin’ round Muddled-mirth like a troll in a cradle

~ ~ ~
She’s the Wight Lady, yes she’s the real Lady
All you other wight ladies are just desecrating
So won’t the real Wight Lady please let up,
Please let up, please let up?
~ ~ ~

But let’s not forget mister Kuruharan
Don'tcha wanna bar him, or feather him and tar him?
‘Cause He’s got everything for sale except a bus and a car in
His bottomless bag of goods, would sell anything he could
Just to get a monopoly in your Muddled neighborhood.
Always loves to haggle, even cheats at Scrabble,
Probably gonna end up rustling cattle.

As you now can see, there ain’t no maybes
Lotsa bad folks worse than Wight Ladies
So we have been sent here to destroy you
A whole Scholarship to annoy you
Outflank, enfilade, and redeploy you
They all fight like me; give their last kabob like me
Don’t dress like me; nor walk, talk or act like me
But they just might be the next best thing to me!
All you gotta do is set us free!

~ ~ ~
Cause you’re the Wight Lady, yes you’re the real Lady
All the other wight ladies are just imitating
So won’t the real Wight Lady please give up,
Please give up, please give up?
~ ~ ~

The music ended with a loud WUMP and the sound of Singéd violently kicking his ‘disc player’ into the audience. Orogarn Two flipped the one-finger Grundorian good luck sign at Leninia, nodded to his fellow Battleshipians, gave a not-so-subtle thumbs up and wink to Soregum, and walked off the stage, angry pony in tow.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Soregum’s head spun. He wasn’t quite sure what to think of that performance; it wasn’t what he called music, though it was indubitably excellent in its own way. He had had to concentrate to follow the text; now he tried to be objective in deciding on its merits. Before his mind’s eye, two little faces appeared. On the right side of his field of vision, a sweet face with the most enormous blue eyes and a beguiling smile, surrounded by reddish-golden curls, gazed at him.

“That was a really super number, and he wrote some great lyrics,” the charming red lips told him. “He deserves lots of points.”

From the left side, burning black eyes smouldered out of a black face and – well, everything about him was black. “He might be OK, but he’s on the wrong side,” a hollow voice informed him.

“The nice man gave you some money,” reminded the pretty face.

“That’s bribing!” scorned the other.

“Since when have you gone moral?” the girl pouted adorably. “If you give him points, the Quarterling might be very thankful,” she added.

“Ha! Fat chance – she’s already got a boyfriend,” sneered the black face.

“This is your chance to earn the gratitude of all of them, and perhaps join their group,” appealed the angelic one.

“Do you really think they’d want someone like you to go with them – if they even get out of here alive, that is,” the evil face mocked.

“Half-Hobbit and the others are your friends,” purred the angelic face.

“You don’t have any friends,” jeered the black one.

“You’re not listening!” came a sharp reprimand from yet a third face, appearing between the two and causing them to disappear. Leninia’s eyes looked directly into Soregum’s. “I said, how many points for the Grundorian candidate?”

Soregum found that he could not tear his eyes from that gaze. Mechanically, he answered, “Two points.”

“Noooooo!” came a cry from backstage, but Leninia waved a hand imperiously and said, “The jury has spoken – next song!”

[Mithadan]

As Orogarn (Two) laid down his rap, Grrralph was in the wings muttering. By all appearances, he was talking to himself, which the members of the Itship would not find necessarily peculiar. After all, they had become used to Grrralph's eccentricities. But in reality, or at least some plane thereof, the wraith was not speaking to himself or even to the nearby spiders on the wall. Rather, he was talking to some "shadies" of his own, reviewing the bass line, the key, the time and the beat for the song he had selected. For from the moment Soregum had slunk into the room he had detected a familiar scent which had, once again, revived one of his obscure, deeply hidden memories. So he had picked out his own tune accordingly.

The Itship applauded as Orogarn finished his performance, then groaned to hear Sorgum's decision. Then it was Grrralph's turn. He stepped forward into the lights and moved forward towards Soregum, sniffing again to confirm his suspicions. Then he nodded and murmured, "I don't recall you, but the scent you carry is very familiar." Soregum looked up, way up, at the wraith in surprise and just a bit of concern, but Grrralph merely turned and stepped into the spotlight.

"I don't remember where I learned this song or even what its about, but it seems somehow appropriate," he said to the meager audience. "So I dedicate this to Soregum and whoever he's been hanging around with, because I never forget a scent." Then he gestured grandly and four unhappy spirits stepped forward. One held a peculiar bass, seemingly backwards. Two held guitars and the fourth appeared with a drum kit. Their pale, wavering faces were indistinct, but they each wore odd hairdos, almost as if their hair had been cut around oversized bowls.

"Wait!" cried Leninia. "You cannot use spirits from my own castle!"

"I need backup," replied Grrralph. "And surely you do not fear the talents of these old dinosaurs." Leninia muttered and waved her agreement.

The song began with a compelling bass line. Dun, dum, dum, DUM, dum, dun, dum dum, DUM, dum. Then Grrralph began to sing with all his soul, or whatever passed for it.

Here come old Mogûl
He come groovin up slowly,
he got fiery eyeballs,
he one nasty Loyer.

He got...fangs...down...to his knees.
Got to be a Velour he just do what he please!

He know tax loopholes,
he got ten accountants,
he got Orcish legions,
he live in MoreDough.

He say,
"I loan to you,
you pay me.
One thing I can tell you is you got to pay a fee!"

"Or foreclosure!
Right now!
Or sell to me."

He got production,
he a land developer,
he an advertiser,
he one nasty banker.

He got
Guccis...down...below his knees.
Waiting in his lobby, prepare to be fleeced.

"Or foreclosure!
Right now!
Or sell to me!"

Right!

At that moment, the Entish Guitar was caught up in the throbbing beat and began strumming a solo as Grrralph began a stately dance around the makeshift stage. "Shut up!" hissed Leninia, but the Entar paid her no mind and continued until Grrralph's strutting step concluded.

He no idle boaster,
he got no scruples,
he got no morals,
he one ugly sucker.

He say,
One and one and one is ten!
Got to be a Velour,
he just charged you again!

"Or foreclosure!
Right now!
Or sell to me"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel’s heart sank with each new low rating. She did not have to be one of the Wise to realize that the juror was not at all impartial – or under the influence of something or someone else, she reminded herself, ever endeavouring to be fair, even when something felt foul.

Now it is a well-known fact that Elves do not sleep, being able to dream and wake simultaneously. (This would make them perfect quest companions, since they could take over watch duty at night, but for one thing – their tendency to sing constantly, which reveals their position to intruders, who can then cleverly avoid encountering them.) In short, the Elven maiden was listening to the performances of her fellow Questers and, at the same time, considering and rejecting her own options.

Should she try to reach Leninia’s emotions by playing a plaintive melody on her hâr-mónicä? But she didn’t feel entirely sure of her newly acquired abilities on the instrument. Or should she perhaps appeal to her buried conscience (ever optimistic, she assumed there was one somewhere!) by singing a deeply religious song? She hummed the tune “If Eru is a Dêi-Jä, Arda is a Dänz-Fluer” tentatively, but somehow that didn’t seem quite right either.

Meanwhile, her foot had involuntarily begun tapping in rhythm to Grrralph’s song; when he finished, she applauded vigorously and waited, hoping against hope that this tune would have appealed to the judge. Observant and astute as she was, combined with the instinctive intuition of the ultimate female, she had noticed that their juror changed when Leninia established eye-contact with him. Perhaps she could counteract by sending him an O-mail message – it was worth a try!

She concentrated on warm, connecting vibrations, emitting them with such intensity that her companions were affected. “Group hug!” suggested Orogarn Two, with an extra suggestive glance in her direction.

Soregum’s head jerked up, his pale cheeks grew rosier, and his hitherto blank eyes began to sparkle. But then a wave of icy coldness encountered the warmth, and as both fought for predominance in Soregum’s already weakened body, a thick fog seemed to fill his mind. Against the war of the wills of two strong women he had no chance. He collapsed into a slumped position in his uncomfortable seat and murmured, “Two points,” hoping that his announcement would end this internal battle.

Disappointment interrupted Merisu’s concentration; she had not been able to break the spell. This foe was too strong for her – yet. But perhaps Pimpi’s youthful charm and Half-Hobbit cuteness would bring a breath of fresh air into the gloomy hall. She patted her shoulder, smiling encouragingly.

[Diamond18]

Backstage, Pimpi did not find the dismal score that Grrralph received very encouraging. She knew she was next – she had been counting down the contestants before her. Merisu was to be last, the cherry on the top of their dessert, the cap to their success, and the straw that was to break Leninia’s back. But, truth be told, there wasn’t any dessert to top or success to cap, and if Vogonwë was any indication after exerting himself so on his dance moves, it was to be their collective back that would be broken. Pimpi realized, shakily, that she alone was left to set up Merisu’s coup d’état. Her knees began to wobble. She had not felt so unsure of her limbs since that first day she had eaten the magic beans and sprouted all her extra height.

Vogonwë’s voice broke dimly on her consciousness. She heard him clearly, but thought that what he was saying was rather dim. He was prompting her to remember the lines to her song – lines he himself had written.

There used to be an Elven-maid,
Her name was Nimord-Elly;
She was like a star, yes really.
Her mantle white, like a light,
Glowed gold around the edges,
And she trimmed the hedges,
With shears of silver-grey.

“Now repeat that back to me.”

“What?” Pimpi paused from chewing on her fingernails.

“The first verse. What I just said,” Vogonwë said, refraining from waving a hand in front of her absent blue eyes.

“A-alright,” Pimpi took a breath, then endeavored:

An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:—

“No, no, no. That’s all wrong,” Vogonwë stood up and began to pace. “It’s ‘There used to be an Elven-maid, her name was Nimrod-Elly, she was like a star, yes really’.”

Pimpi sighed, and gamely repeated the lines, then soldiered ahead:

Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.

Vogonwë threw up his hands. “No! You have it all wrong again!”

Pimpi’s lips trembled, and, having bitten her nails down as far as they would go, she began to nibble on her fingertips. Vogonwë noticed her distress and tried to calm himself. He gently and lovingly peeled her hands away from her face, and said, “Pimpi-sweets, I don’t want you to be nervous, so just remember, the fate of our souls may rest upon this performance. Now, you promised me that you could memorize this song.”

“I know, and I can,” Pimpi said. “Let’s try the second verse.”

A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs—

“No!” Vogonwë interrupted again. “It goes:

She had a star tied around her head,
Her hair glowed with light of red,
Like sunshine on a red thing.
In Loréal in Spring.

“I was going to say ’In Loréal the fair’,” said Pimpi. “I like the way that sounds.”

Vogonwë smiled affectionately. “Trust me, darling, my way scans better. I’m a poet, I know.”

Merisuwyniel popped her well-coifed, perfectly shaped head around the corner. “The wights are getting restless!” she admonished gently.

Pimpi’s eyes went wide (well, wider than usual) and she gasped. She had a sudden, terrible vision of herself standing on stage, butchering the lyrics (when she could get her voice to work, and remember how to speak Westestosterone at all) as the souls of each Vapidshipper were sucked from whichever bodily cavity their souls happened to reside in, one by one.

“I can’t do it!” she blurted, burying her face in her skirts.

“But… you were supposed to be on five minutes ago,” Mersiu said, blinking with what on any other Elf would be called a helpless expression.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pimps,” Vogonwë said. “You’ll do great! Listen, here, forget about getting the words right. Just look pretty and hum and you’ll have them eating out of your hand.”

But it was too late. Pimpi was in a frazzle, which could only be cured by lots and lots of comfort food. Merisu stood in indecision while Vogonwë tried to bolster Pimpi’s spirits with sweet talk and flattery, while the other members of the Upsetstomachship retched in what could be either revulsion or nervousness. Kuruharan began to mutter, “We’re doomed,” and Chrysophylax started to whistle an ancient Wyrmish lamentation, “Tâps”. Earnur began to fantasize about being intoxicated on a desert island with twin Vinegrettial clones, Gateskeeper cursed the day spiked tea had been invented, and Grrralph cried silently into his bile spattered robes. Orogarn Two wiped the spittle from his lips and observed everyone with a stormy yet indifferent glare, which was outdone in surliness only by Singéd’s equine disdain. (Pinkjin came a close third, while Tweedledee and Tweedledum won the prize for sheer indifference.)

“All right!” Merisu finally exclaimed. Out there, in that big scary auditorium, Leninia, Soregum and those other things were getting impatient. “We’ll skip your turn. There is still hope yet – we already have six points, and the most Leninia can get is twelve, so if I get seven points we’ll win!”

“Joy,” muttered Vogonwë, who had been hoping against hope that all Merisu had to get was two points.

“Right,” Merisu said gamely, and went back out on stage.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisu took a deep breath before walking out. Her companions gathered around her, half encouraging her and half despairing that even she could save them all.

“Is there any hope?” Vogonwë asked anxiously.

“There never was much hope,” she replied, “only a fool’s hope. It may be that we are doomed. But I am glad you are all here with me. Here at the end of all things.”

On that cheerful note, she strode onto the stage. Soregum, Leninia and all of the wightish spirits in the hall were hushed to absolute silence. Merisuwyniel, offspring of the line of Royal Elves, had chosen to don the blue gown encrusted with starry gems, bought in the hallowed boutiques of Topfloorien. Her feet, shod with Manwëolos most astonishingly high-heeled creations, stepped forward with nary a wobble. Her golden hair glowed with a celestial light, while the rosy tips of her delicately pointed ears peeked out from amongst the locks. The sparkle of her violet eyes shone like stars reflected in deep pools.

Soft music which had no visible source began to sound; she opened her deliciously curved lips and sang in clear, melodic tones.

May it be an Entish Bow
Should chance to cross your way;
May it be adventure calls,
What will your heart say?
You walk a questing road;
Oh! How far you are from home.

Mourn, ye great, your tools are useless;
Believe that She will find a way.
The Bow shall be at last united,
A promise I give you today.

Before the listeners’ minds’ eyes, there appeared as if it were a list of names, scrolling in an ever-changing pattern. Past companions of the Fellow/Galship, major characters in the quest, and chance passers-by were made visible once more. Then the music changed, and so did the voice that fascinated its hearers. It grew somewhat rougher, filled with raw emotion.

Where once was Ent
Now pieces fall
Where once was life
Life is no more
Don’t say – goodbye
Don’t say – we didn’t try

These arrows fly
To falling orcs
We don’t know why
They’re on our tracks

And we will ride
On to the end
We’re not lost
But we never reach home.

A tear dropped from Soregum’s eye, and Leninia blew her nose surreptitiously. The strings of the Entish Guitar vibrated in sympathy, and a collective sigh from the assembled spirits wafted through the hall. The Song-and-Danceship listened breathlessly and began to smile again. Then the accompaniment changed once more as Merisu continued her song.

Lay down your sweet and weary head
Night is falling, you have come to quester’s end
Sleep now, dream – of the ones you left behind
I am calling, desiring you to find.

Why do I weep?
What are these tears upon my face?
Will I soon see
All my sorrows pass away?

Will you be here in my arms
Just sleeping?


“About whom is she singing?” Vogonwë whispered backstage, since he always listened to the lyrics of other people’s poetry very closely to get ideas.

“About Gravlox, of course – how sad, how romantic!” Pimpiowyn sighed, leaning her head against the Half-Elf’s shoulder.

“I think she means Halfullion – after all, he was a real hero, her first love, and died on this quest too,” Orogarn Two protested.

“No, she means her deceased mother Vinaigrettiel,” corrected Etceteron.

“Is it ‘Dead Mothers’ Month again already?” Pimpi exclaimed. “I haven’t heard from mine yet!”

“Ouch!” cried Kuruharan, for a steaming tear had fallen onto his hand from Chrysophylax’ eye.

Gateskeeper had removed his spectacles and was wiping them dry.

“Shhhhhhhhhtt!” hissed Grrralph, “I can’t hear the singing!”


What can you see on the horizon?
Why does green goddess call?
Across the sea new hope arises,
The ships will come to carry us home.

And pieces turn to solid Ent,
New leaves on the branches,
Questers went
Into the West.


Breathless, reverent silence hung over the audience. Soregum found himself wishing that he had a golden statuette to give to the singer in reward for her performance. Leninia’s eyes were too blurred to hypnotize him even if she had tried. Then the applause began – the wightish ghosts clapped, whistled and stomped their feet in a frenzy of enthusiasm. The juror rose and attempted to quiet them in order to speak, but alas! by the time they had calmed down, the hostess of the song competition had recovered her poise. Just as Soregum spoke, “This song receives twel-” she fixed her gaze upon him. He wilted visibly and attempted to speak again. “Te-”, but Leninia stood directly before him, obstructing his gaze to the stage. Finally he mumbled, “Two points.”

Shocked, stunned silence greeted the score. “It’s not possible!” came a wail from backstage.

“You heard the judge!” spoke Leninia triumphantly. “It looks like the Questship is finished with its contributions, having earned a total of eight points. Now it’s my turn!”

[Lush]

"Mother, is this it?" The Entish Guitar whispered to its mistress a few minutes later backstage.

"No," Leninia replied in an unusually calm manner, brushing her long black wistfully. "Strangely enough, I am about to lose."

"Er, what?" The Entish Guitar asked with inredulity.

"Good heavens! Do you take me for a third-rate goblin? Don't pretend that I can't count! I can. The numbers won't add up and I know it." Leninia momentarily slipped into her usual, i.e. irritable, manner of speech.

"Mother, doesn't this mean they're finally taking me away?!" The Entish Guitar yelped.

"Aw, honee," Leninia patted her priso...er, friend. "Just think of the whole nude [Leninia cast a brief glance in the direction of Earnur through the crack in the curtains; Poor Earnur, meanwhile, became confused as to the nature of the weird shivers running up his arms], er, new world out there."

"But Linnie!!!" The Entish Guitar screeched. "You never lose!!! You're seriously messing with my worldview!!! I'm going to need therapy for life!!!"

"First of all, don't call me Linnie," Leninia snapped. "Daddy used to call me that, and I hated it."

"The great evil wizard Rasta-Bust of the Dread-Lox of Doom used to call you Linnie?!" The Entish Guitar was shocked.

"And Ninnie, and Lili, and Nili, and..." Leninia furrowed her brow. "And, look, he wasn't all that great and evil anyway. He just had a good publicist. The only useful thing he taught me was recipe for magic tea. Half the time he was perfectly content to sit around, have conversations with his canaries, and giggle. Why do you think I erased that walking embarrasment from my birth certificate?

"And the Dread-Lox?" The Entish Guitar asked in a confused little voice.

"Fell victim to middle age," Leninia said, just as the crowd's growing unrest outside signaled her turn to take the stage.

"Am I coming with you?" The Entish Guitar asked. "Because, I mean, and this is going to sound really weird and uncharacteristic of me, but I sort of want to, for the first time ever, and, I guess, the last time ever, even though I still maintain that you're an evil, soul-sucking wench, and, um, I really hate you, it's been fun anyway, and, um..."

"Aw darling," Leninia leaned over, her soft hair tickling the Entish Guitar momentarily before she straightened up again. "Shut up, please. Time for me to face the music, hardy har har."

"I would have followed you 'till the end!" The Entish Guitar whispered grandly, as heart-breaking music swelled in the background. "Into the very essence of second-place obscurity! You're evil and soul-sucking, but your hair is so much better-looking than that Elf Chick!" Here the Entigh Guitar went on a lengthy tangent about the societal implications of dark-haired villians in ancient folklore.

Leninia, however, was no longer listening. She was facing her audience.

Dressed impeccably in green Fërrãgæmô, little Leninia observed the crowded auditorium. The Wights were hooting and clapping, and the dragon belched a fiery welcome to the tiny figure on the stage.

(Do be do be do do do aaaa
Do be do be do do do aaa)

Ghostly voices chanted in the background, as Leninia began to sing:

I used to be a loser in my high-school days
I used to feel awkward and so silly all the time.
My pimples bloomed for all to see,
Oh, but now
I don't find myself so bitter now
Even though I'm creepy as can be

No more I curse you's
The Guitar is leaving me
No more I maim you's
Changes are banging
On my door.

(But are you still a monster? The ghostly voices piped up)

I entertained bad boys in my room at night
Designed, executed, designed,
So many shady deals

Oh, but noooow
I don't find myself enthralled by them at all
I don't even return their calls

No more I kill you's
The Guitar is leaving me,
No more I take your souls,
The Guitar is leaving me in silence,
No more I bust you up real good, boy,
Changes are banging on my door...

(Do be do be do do do aaa
Do be do be do do do aaa)

On my front door...

Whether entranced by the unexpected song or utterly frozen by the over-achieving air conditioning unit, or both, the audience sat still in their seats, their disposition awkward, their bottoms extremely cold and uncomfortable.

"No wait a minute!" A lone voice suddenly screeched from backstage, piercing the stunned silence. "This isn't how it's supposed to end! Leninia! Remember your roots!"

"But I re-dyed my hair just yesterday!" Leninia yelled.

"Not those roots! Your cultural roots! Your heritage! Make Rasta-Bust proud!" And at this, the Entish Guitar rolled onto the stage, despite the attempts of what we can imagine to be an extremely burly Bouncer-Wight to restrain it.

"Aw, what the heck," Leninia said (though the authors imagine she must have used a stronger choice of words, they are mindful of the PG-rating stamped on their foreheads).

She threw the Guitar's strap over one delicate shoulder, stomped her delicate foot, and the auditorium exploded in a loud banging of what we presume to be pots and pans, the Guitar's strings screamed. Leninia kicked off her prim little shoes and rocked out and the invisible Wights joined her:

This show has taken its toll on me
The Ent said: *BEEP* off, too many times before;
But though my hopes are crushed thoroughly,
I guess can't kill you, 'cause I'm not as bad as you thought

Whoooah Whoooah Wooooooah

I tried my best to keep it pacified,
Kept it always by my side,
Whilst husbands went unsatisfied.
Kept playing it; it was my favourite pet,
And this is all the thanks I get,
Being born evil I regret.

This show has taken its toll on me,
The Ent said: *BEEP* off, too many times before;
But though I am as shallow as can be
I'll let it go; I've got to think of me.

"This is a trap!" Merisu hissed into the nearest ear, which happened to be Kuruharan's.

"Well, for an evil liar, she looks remarkably put-together," Kuruharan replied, his eyes aglow. "D'you think she'd go into the apparel business with me any time soon?"

'What is this apparel nonesense you are babbling about?" Earnur, who had a headache and couldn't be bothered with much of anything, snapped at Kuruharan.

"Ah the privilege of higher education," Orogarn Two snickered at Earnur. "Why if you learned how to use a dictionary, you'd..."

But he was interrupted by Soregum rising and delivering Leninia's score.

As high as the score was (and the authors admit to not being as good at adding numbers as Lovely Linnie, having spent that part of school flirting with their classmates via paper airplane), Leninia, sobbing now behind the curtain, new it wasn't enough to wistand the onslaught of the StillWithItship's secret weapon, which, having discreetly thrown up her magic tea in the most lady-like fashion possible (if throwing up could ever be lady-like), was ready to take center stage.

[Diamond18]

Merisu put her head in her lovely hands, her fair golden locks falling through her fingers to veil her disconsolate but equally lovely face. “It is not possible,” she said, as Soregum gave Leninia her points. “24 points for a superb double performance!” she echoed the slightly besotted words of the judge. “It is not fair!”

“Whoever said life was fair?” Earnur muttered, groping for his hip flask but coming up empty handed.

“Not even death is fair,” Vogonwë added, then thought that ”Whoever said life was fair? / Not even death is fair” would make a good opening line for their collective eulogy, The Lay of the Soul-Sucked Sapship.

Pimpi came upon them, dabbing at her lips (red as roses and full as spare tires) and smiling. “I feel much better,” she said. “I think I’m ready to perform now.”

“But it is too late, Leninia has already finished and received her score,” said Gateskeeper. “None of the spells I know can save us now. Alas and alack.”

“Alas and alack?” Kuruharan eyed him mistrustfully.

The Gateskeeper shrugged. “I may as well go out with style.”

“Mayhap it is not too late!” Merisu said, jumping to her feet with grace and élan, new hope overspreading her face like a flush of fever. “Go now, Pimpiowyn, and give it your all. Remember all that I have taught you, and ignore whatever Vogonwë has told you!”

“I protest, I—”

“Leninia received 24 points,” Merisu continued, taking Pimpi by the shoulders and steering her toward the stage, ”so you will have to get….”

“…16 points to tie and 17 to beat,” Kuruharan supplied (because as we all know he was very fond of numbers.)

“Oh,” Pimpi waved her hand. “Alright. Can do. I feel so much better, really I do, it’s as if—”

“Yes, yes, good, good,” Merisu bobbed her head up and down and gave her a little shove.

***

In the auditorium, the wights were getting restless. Soregum sat in the judge’s chair, wondering what would happen next and if he was going to have to execute someone. He had a vague feeling that he had done a terrible thing and botched the scores, but he couldn’t quite focus on the matter, distracted by the rumbling in his tummy. The wights began to chant, “Soul! Soul! Soul! Soul! We want a soul!” until he became worried, being the only living mortal he could see.

But then the stage lights dimmed again, and the wights fell into silence. They would have waited with baited breath, if they had any breath to bait. Soregum shifted in his chair, and heard it squeak.

Then from backstage came the rattle of a tambourine. For a moment or two it grew, then into the light stepped Pimpiowyn. She wore her gauzy red dress with the voluminous sleeves, flowing billowy skirt, and close fitting black velvet bodice with the complementary neckline. She had had to make adjustments to the dress, to accomodate her change in size, but had done the work gladly, not having been able to find the likes of Topfloorien style in Minus Teeth or the GAP. The jeweled necklace she had also gotten at Topfloorien glinted in the stagelights from where it lay bewitchly upon her collarbone. The wights gasped, and quickly began to plot how they could steal it from her. Soregum smiled, but it is questionable whether he was looking at the jewelry.

Pimpi usually wore shoes, like a proper lady of Soreham raised by Elves, but as she stepped into the light her feet were bare. The tops were covered with a light downy layer of curling golden-red hair. All her life she had hid her hirsute feet, even wearing socks to bed, but now she kicked them up with each step, dancing slowly toward the edge of the stage. She was not usually so graceful in her movements, but something came out in her then — one of those things that are wont to come out in unlikely heroines from paperback novels and roleplays — (no, not an alien) — Dues Ex Machinistic Character Twists.

She rattled her tambourine quietly as she said, “I would like to sing for you a traditional lullaby of my mother’s homeland, the Mire.” Then she smiled down at Soregum and twirled around as she stepped back toward the middle of the stage.

She raised the tambourine above her head and thumped it once, then began to sing in a dusky voice. At first her voice lifted to the rafters alone. But then from the deep, mysterious recesses of the auditorium came more ghostly voices — spirits that couldn’t help but join in with the rhythmic melody and the mesmerizing voice of the young half-hobbit, who showed a sudden solemnity and depth suitable to the occasion (which hobbits have a habit of doing.)

Go to sleep you little baby, Pimpi sang, swaying as she beat on the tambourine slowly.

(go to sleep you little baby) echoed the ghostly voices.

Go to sleep you little baby, she cooed.

(go to sleep you little baby) they purred.

They joined voices:
Your momma's gone away and your daddy's gonna stay
Didn't leave nobody, but the baby

Pimpi faced Soregum again briefly, but then turned away coyly, her curls twirling about her. She continued to dance and sing:

Go to sleep you little baby (go to sleep you little baby)
Go to sleep you little baby (go to sleep you little baby)

Everybody's gone in the cotton and the corn
Didn't leave nobody, but the baby

Everyone’s heartbeat (had they an actual physical heart to beat) was thumping slowly to the rhythm of the tambourine. One of the ghostly voices went “oooOOOOooooOOOOooo” in the background the whole time Pimpi and the other G.V.’s sang their lyrics (and take Soregum’s word for it, “oooOOOOooooOOOOooo” is much more effective when you actually hear it.)

Don't you weep pretty baby (don't you weep pretty baby)
Don't you weep pretty baby (don't you weep pretty baby)

She's long gone with her red shoes on
Gonna need another lovin' baby

Pimpi had reached the opposite end of the stage, and she turned back around, swaying and slowly highstepping her way back toward Soregum’s end. She fixed her gigantic blue eyes on him in manner that not even Leninia would have been able to rip his attention away from (had she been trying) and did not release him from her gaze for the rest of the song.

Go to sleep you little baby (go to sleep you little baby)
Go to sleep you little baby (go to sleep you little baby)

You and me and the devil makes three
Don't need no other lovin' baby

Go to sleep you little baby (go to sleep you little baby)
Go to sleep you little baby (go to sleep you little baby)

Come and lay your bones on the alabaster stones and be my ever lovin' baby

She stopped in front of Soregum, clapping the tambourine once above her head and rattling it subtly as she lowered it her side. Then all was silent.

A not-so-subtle whisper from the wings broke the spell after a few breathless moments: “I didn’t know they had poetry like that in the Mire. We simply have to go there, Meri—ow.”

(It was not Merisu who caused the untimely end of the sentence, as she was too gentle and good-natured to hit people. Orogarn Two had no such qualms, however, especially since his father had written back asking him what the reams of bad poetry that had arrived in his O-mail were all about.)

The spell effectively smashed, Pimpi smiled sweetly and curtsied, bobbing her curls. “It is a simple song sung by such as have not studied music or played fine instruments in great halls, as you have no doubt been used to, but I hope you enjoyed it. Goodness, I’ve worked up an appetite. Are you hungry? Can’t we all get something to eat?”

[The Saucepan Man]

Soregum was used to hardship. He had spent nearly fifty years in Moredough, working his way up from Minor Goblin Boot Scraper to the esteemed position of Môgul’s personal dogsbody. But never, in all his years of service in the Land of Shadowy Deals, had he felt such utter mental exhaustion as he felt at that moment. It was not the quality of the performances, which he had rather enjoyed. Rather it was the combined effect of the various intoxicants, enchantments, threats and bribes which had been bestowed upon him, not to mention the high blood pressure generated by Pimpi’s performance.

But a person of such small stature and humble origins does not survive for long in Moredough without developing formidable reserves of fortitude and resourcefulness. So Soregum had been just about able to cope with all that had been thrown at him (including, eventually, Leninia’s magic tea, thanks to his body’s tolerance to toxic substances) and his head had cleared sufficiently during the show for him to be able to formulate a plan. His primary concern was ensure that his soul remained firmly within his body, and he had been sufficiently wary of Leninia’s dark glances to ensure that the Sing-Along-A-Quest-ship scored low throughout the show. But he also had in mind his Master’s orders, to join their company, ideally with that talking guitar. Of minor concern were the individual souls of the various contestants, Pimpi excepted of course.

There had been a moment of near disaster when it had seemed that Pimpiowyn might not appear on stage. Had he scored the Search-For-A-Star-ship too low? How could he avoid scoring Leninia full marks to ensure that his soul remained intact? Happily, however, he had caught a glimpse of Pimpi’s determined (and heart-stoppingly pretty) face backstage, just as Leninia was stepping up to do her piece, and so had felt confident enough to award the Wight Lady double points.

He had recognised Pimpi’s song immediately, of course. It was a traditional “courting” song of the Mire. But having it sung to him by such an exquisite creature, and in such a beguiling voice, had nearly broken him. When she had cast off her shoes, he had nearly had a coronary there and then. Soregum had always had a thing for Redfoots. Indeed, he had only managed to retain his composure by sitting back and running through the matches from last season’s Inter-Arda Football Championship in his mind.

When Pimpi had finished, Soregum took a few moments to compose himself. Then, as all eyes turned to him, he slowly stood up and cast off his cloak and cowl. He wore a red satin jacket, matching breeches and a bright yellow waistcoat, which covered a prominent pot belly. His face, though pale and drawn, was animated by wide intelligent eyes of the deepest blue. A mop of curly grey hair matched the colour of the hair which grew on his bare feet (his ill-fitting boots too having been discarded). He smiled nervously at the assembled company (and Pimpi in particular), revealing quite the most alarming case of dental dilapidation that any present had ever seen. He was largely bereft of teeth, and those which remained were decayed and stained brown with tobacco, prompting Orogarn Two to recall with sadness the ruins of his native city.

“Well,” said Leninia, smiling sweetly at Soregum, while simultaneously fixing him with an icy stare. “How much does the Quarterling score?”

“Er, fif …,” Soregum began to say, then paused as he noticed Pimpi fluttering her extraordinarily long eyelashes at him. Steeling himself, he continued.

“Fifteen points,” he declared.

A gasp went up from the Pipped-At-The-Post-Ship.

“Fifteen?” questioned Merisuwyniel, barely concealing her disappointment.

“Fifteen measly points! Is that all I get?” exclaimed Pimpi, making no effort to hide hers.

“But what of the superb metre, the beautiful lyrics, the sheer excellence of MY Pimpi’s performance?” said Vogonwë. He had become rather flustered by the style of her performance and was not reassured by the manner in which Soregum kept looking at her, so he felt it necessary to emphasise the word “my” to ensure that there was no misunderstanding.

“Never trust a Hobbit,” muttered Kuruharan, only to receive a sharp glare from Pimpi.

“So, did we win?” chipped in Lord Etceteron, helpfully.

Leninia stood in momentary shock and confusion, having fully expected to find herself runner-up. Then, recovering her customary poise, she laughed in a manner which would have been delightful, were in not for the cold menace which lay below its surface.

“Then, I win!” she declared, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. “I get to collect your souls!”

“But the contest isn’t over,” said Soregum, gaining in confidence. “I have not sung yet.”

“But you’re the judge. You don’t get to sing.” replied Leninia, her merriment at the thought of adding further souls to her collection temporarily put aside.

“There’s nothing in the rules that says I can’t.”

Leninia peered thoughtfully at him through dark narrow eyes. Smoke billowed from Soregum’s pipe as he puffed on it and stared back at her in defiance. All was silent as Leninia pondered the meaning of this latest development. A pin dropped loudly towards the back of the auditorium.

“Very well,” she finally said. “But it will only delay the inevitable.”

With a wink to the Hearts-In-Their-Mouths-Ship (directed mainly to Pimpi, Vogonwë noted in annoyance), Soregum ambled to the centre of the stage. Then, just as he opened his dentally challenged mouth to begin, he realised that, in all his planning, he had given no thought to what he would actually sing.

But as he stood there, his mouth agape and fear once more starting to course through his veins, the auditorium was illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning which struck Soregum squarely on the top of his head. When the smoke had cleared, it became apparent that he had undergone some sort of strange transformation. His hair, now a shocking red in colour, was standing on end, and emblazoned on his face was a mark in the shape of a lightning-bolt, silver in colour and edged in scarlet. The life had drained from his eyes, and he shuffled forward to the front of the stage like one of the zombies languishing in Leninia’s dungeons.

Suddenly, the Entish Guitar struck up a series of powerful, rhythmic chords.

Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...
Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...

As if under a spell Soregum began to sing, while the opening chords echoed around the auditorium. Not a soul (whether embodied or not) moved, as if all present too had been placed under the enchantment which seemed to bind him.

Ooh yeah …

Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...
Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...

Melvin played guitar, jammin' good with Manuel Santana,
and his Valleyum pals, to stupefy Elves,
But Melvin proved false,
And when he found himself banned, he hit Dairyland.

Melvin claimed that land, building malls and luxury dwellings
Over Elvish farms. His Loyers were hard.
And Dairyland marred.
The Sindiar and the Noodlar, named him Môgul Bildûr.

So where were the Velour, while Môgul’s forces tried to break the Elves?
At last they were roused up.
So their forces were deployed and threw him into the void.

Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...
Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...

Môgul spent an age, brooding darkly on his misfortune.
So Mantoes’ curse went, that one day an Ent
Would find itself rent.
But once reunified, Môgul would be fried.

Taking shape as a beetle, Môgul freed himself out from the void.
Now his home is in Moredough.
For the Entish parts he hopes and when he finds them they’re toast.

Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...
Wow-wow… Diddle-iddle-ee-dee .... Wow-wow-wow ...

The Entish Guitar continued playing the hypnotic chords until they came to their natural conclusion, as Soregum sang the final refrain.

Môgul seeks the Guitar …

There was a final cacophony of noise and then, as the final chords died away, he collapsed in a heap on the floor of the stage.

[The Saucepan Man]

When Soregum came round, he found himself staring into the faces of the Mystified-ship. Leninia was offering him a cup of tea, a reassuring look of concern entirely absent from her face. Politely, he declined.

“W-W-What happened?” he stammered in confusion. His hair was back to its normal state and the lightning-bolt mark had disappeared.

“You sang of Môgul Bildûr – and the Ent that was Broken,” said Grrralph, shaking Soregum violently. “What do you know of these things? And how do you know of the Dark Lord’s plans?”

“Er … nothing … I don’t …” replied Soregum, quickly masking his shock at what Grrralph had said. “I am just a simple Hobbit from the Mire. I-I-I don’t know what came over me.”

“The Dread Developer! He means to seize the Entish parts.” Merisu whispered anxiously, turning to her fellows. “Our mission is more urgent than I had thought. We must continue our journey Westward immediately.”

At the mention of Môgul’s name, the Gateskeeper had surreptitiously moved to the back of the group, his mind racing as he rubbed the mark on the palm of his hand.

“Dark Lord? Ha! Fie upon him. He is nothing but a red nostril. I fear him not!” bellowed Earnur fingering the hilt of his blade, which promptly sank down in its scabbard in terror.

“I heard he was some sort of beetle,” piped up Kuruharan.

“You know not of what you speak,” said Grrralph, his voice cutting across the general confusion. “He is as old as time itself, and more powerful than you can imagine. At this very moment, his forces move to conquer the realms of Muddled-Mirth and turn it to his profit.”

At this, Orogarn Two arched his eyebrows.

“Merisuwyniel speaks true,” Grralph continued. “We cannot hope to withstand him on our own. But, if I understand correctly the meaning of this Halfling’s song, the reunification of the Entish parts will bring his downfall.”

“Yadda-yadda-yadda,” interrupted Leninia, twirling her umbrella impatiently. “But what of the competition? You see, the way I see it, I’m still the winner.”

By now, Soregum had recovered his wits sufficiently to put into effect the final part of his plan.

“With the greatest respect,” he said. “The score is yet to be given for my own performance.”

“May I remind you that you are the judge,” countered Leninia. “You cannot simply award yourself points.”

“It matters not who awards them,” continued Soregum, his confidence building once again. “The minimum score is two, I believe. So shall we say I score two?”

“What of it if we do?” said Leninia, her sense of foreboding returning.

“Well, on the assumption that I am admitted into the company of these esteemed travellers, my score should be added to their total,” explained Soregum, glancing pointedly at Merisu who, after pausing for a moment’s thought, nodded her assent. “Which, if I am not mistaken, brings our total to twenty-five.”

“Meaning that we win,” declared Merisu, favouring Leninia with a victorious smile.

“Bah! And I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for this meddling Halfling!” exclaimed Leninia, stamping her foot in frustration.

“Now, now. Don’t be such a sore loser, my dear” admonished Soregum, relishing the moment. “I think that you owe these nice people an apology – and that rather remarkable guitar too, I believe.”

“So,” he continued, turning to the Back-On-Course-Ship. “Where is it that we’re going on this mission … quest … thing?”

[Lush]

Leninia managed a feeble "bite me, you scum" before quickly realizing that a different approach was in order.

Thinking on her pretty little feet, she scurried over toward what she judged to be the most brain-de...er, charitable member of the ObviouslyJiggyWithItship.

"Woe is me!" She sighed tenderly, kneeling in front of a rather confused Earnur, leaning down so that almost the entirety of her, um, charms was exposed to her dumbfounded audience. "What is a reformed soul-sucker to do whilst facing the greatest defeate of her already woeful life?"

"Er, um." Earnur replied manfully.

"Am I to be abandoned here, robbed of my best friend, rotting in my own misery, ravished by despair?" Leninia continued, her lower lip trembling deliciously.

Here Earnur grunted most thoughtfully.

Pearl-like tears gathering in her gorgeous eyes ("The colour of the blackest black-out" Earnur thought fondly).

"Can I not accompany you to lands where my thoroughly broken spirit, and perhaps some of my other, um, parts can be healed?" Leninia begged.

Earnur scratched his manly nose, deep in thought (or, perhaps, deep in trying to analyze his desire to sneeze).

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“What do you mean, they’re gone?!” Sauerkraut’s voice could be heard throughout the whole tower complex.

“Gone: departed, exited, gotten away, left, moved, pulled out, pushed off, quit, taken off, withdrawn,” Snâpp volunteered helpfully. He learned the hard way what the Dork’s handbook How to Win Enemies and Influence Dark Lords teaches in Chapter 2: Being helpful is not appreciated by sinister rulers. Unfortunately, by the time his head had grasped that fact, it had already been severed from his body.

“But how did they pass the Tower without being noticed? One does not simply walk past Dorktank – there are eléktrônik surveillance cameras that never sleep,” the Whiz-hard shouted.

“Well, those have been offline since we lost the connection in Soreham,” Kräkkel stated.

He too learned a lesson the hard way: Dark Lords do not care about facts.

“You mean that still hasn’t been fixed?? What have you all been doing all this time? For what do I pay you exorbitant salaries?!” the Boss roared.

“Umm, you don’t,” Póp piped up quite truthfully.

Lesson 1, Chapter 1: Honesty does not pay. Had he only read it while his eyes and hands were still able to coordinate!

“What have my spies found out?” bellowed Sauerkraut.

Tônithétigr reached out to give him a slip of paper, withdrawing his hand quickly just to be sure. “They found this parking receipt on the GAP parking lot,” he said.

“But it’s DAYS old – they must be far from here by now!” his emp-loyer protested.

There was no answer – those persons whose heads were still attached to their bodies had chosen to prolong that state by removing themselves from his immediate presence.

“I want them followed immediately!” exclaimed the Dark Lord of Dorktank.

“Ummm, before or after we get the surveillance cameras back online?” asked an anonymous Dork, who couldn’t have answered had someone asked him his name afterwards…

[Diamond18]

Lord Etceteron itched his nose and crossed his eyes manfully, then let loose a manful sneeze into his hand. His sinuses thus relieved, he absently wiped his hand upon his sable mantle, and contemplated the ambiguous creature before him. The other members of the LetsGetOuttaThisPlaceShip began to laugh at the absurdity of Leninia’s request, and Merisu sighed delightfully as she wiped tears from her cheeks. Pimpi doubled over, holding her midsection as if she had eaten some bad mushrooms, and guffawed daintily.

Leninia muttered an invective under her breath, but allowed her lower lip to tremble mightily as she clasped her hands to her bosom and looked like the picture of Hurt Feelings.

Earnur coughed. “Nay,” he intoned, “do not laugh at the repentance of the… repentant. Quite. Mayhap her heart has been defrosted by our….”

“Hotness,” Leninia breathed.

“Er… yes.”

“But she deserves to die!” Pimpi exclaimed.

“Deserves death?” Earnur arched a brow at her, with a wise twinkle in his eye. “I daresay. Many that deserve death, live, and many that deserve life, die, and then again, many that deserve death, die, and many that deserve life, lie. So. Can you give it to them, Pimpiowyn Took?”

“What?”

Earnur waved a hand, arched both brows, and began to pontificate on various matters pertaining to life, death, and the meaning of “defenestration”. Leninia, Soregum, and the Dazedship listened in a trance for about five minutes, then Kuruharan interrupted:

“I do believe I’d rather listen to Vogonwë recite poetry.”

“Really?” said Vogonwë (who had been finding the lecture quite informative and engrossing).

“I—“ began Kuruharan, but did not finish his sentence, for Orogarn Two and the Gateskeeper fell upon him with their fists till he was silent and could not give Vogonwë any more bad ideas. Chrysophylax yawned and picked a thighbone from his teeth as he watched his master fall, undefended.

“I say,” Earnur stared blankly at Kuruharan’s insensate body, as Orogarn Two rolled his sleeves back down and the Gateskeeper smoothed his robes. Grrralph would have rolled his eyes, had he eyes to speak of.

“Er,” Lenina said. “Darlings… have we forgotten someone?”

“Oh, right,” Earnur remembered the small, helpless, kneeling figure. “I say, old girl, you’re alright in my book. Come along if you like.” He smiled balmily, and his sword muttered, She’ll be trouble, that one.

“No!” Pimpi exclaimed. “Have you forgotten? She dumped us in a dark, dank, dreary dungeon for days, and threatened to steal our souls!”

“Hiss,” said Leninia airily, smirking.

Earnur looked confused. “Well, I….”

“Ahem!” Merisu said, “have you forgotten why we are on this Quest?”

“Free passage through Muddled-Mirth?” Vogonwë gandered.

“No!” replied Merisu with a hint of impatience. “The Bow!”

“My old hairbow?”

“No, the Entish Bow, haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Well….”

“What I mean,” Merisu smiled sweetly, if a little stiffly, “is that since our reason for questing lies in the Entish Bow, obviously the leadership of the Entourageship should be the one who carries the Bow, namely, me.”

“Your point?” prompted Orogarn Two impatiently.

“Point being, that I believe that I should be consulted on matters of member turnover, that is, who shall stay and who shall go, and who shall join. Stuff like that.”

Leninia rolled her eyes, and shuffled over to Merisu on her knees. “Pretty please with brown sugar and pink frosting on it?” she pleaded.

“Brown and pink,” Pimpi said. “Ug. If you’re going to put pink frosting on something, you should powder it with powdered sugar. And if you like brown sugar, then, well, you use sour cream, not frosting.”

“Hush, I’m thinking,” Merisu said, with the barest, briefest, tiniest hint of exasperation.

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” Pimpi brightened. She pulled her dagger, the bejeweled Hush, from its scabbard. “We could carve out her heart with this.”

“Pimpi!” Vogonwë and Merisu exclaimed in unified horror.

“Nobody likes me!” Leninia bewailed prettily.

“Um, I like you…” Earnur essayed from his corner, before blushing and falling silent. He sneezed self-consciously.

Everyone began talking at once, raising their voices in a corpus cacophonous of argument, pontification, and recitation. Merisu finally whistled shrilly, and the Bickership fell silent. “Come now, children, be calm!” she exclaimed.

Kuruharan lifted his bruised head from the ground and slurred, “Don’ worry, be happy….”

“Now,” Merisu huffed. “I think….” She glanced at Leninia, then to Pimpi.

“We could put her head on a platter,” Pimpi suggested. “With her heart in her mouth… like an apple! Kind of like a wild boar!”

Vogonwë picked his jaw up off the floor and spent a moment or two trying to figure out how to reattach it to his skull.

“Pimpi, that’s… why that’s… so unlike you!” Merisu stammered. “Proper, well bred shieldmaidens do not… do not….”

“It’s the aftereffects of the tea,” Leninia sighed. “First, it makes one wimpy, then as it wears off it makes one amorous, and finally the DT’s make one bloodthirsty.”

“Am I ‘one’?” Pimpi asked suspiciously.

Leninia nodded with another sigh. “One of them.” Then she cheered. “But Merisu, the confident, capable, level-headed one, is in charge,” she turned her small, deceivingly sweet face to the Lovely Elf. “What say you?”

“I say,” Merisu began, then wavered. On the one slender hand, putting Leninia’s head on a platter seemed in very bad taste – but on the other well manicured hand, so did sucking the souls of her and her comrades in cluelessness. She was plunged into a quandary. Her generous heart urged her to forgive and forget, but the good sense in her pretty little head told her otherwise. We could always defenestrate her…. she mused.

The tension was so thick, it could be cut with a knife, topped with whipped cream and strawberries, and served as pound cake.

“I have decided,” Merisu said at length, “that… Leninia’s… fate… shall… be…..”

Vogonwë squealed low under his breath, unable to take the suspense. Pimpi elbowed him.

“…Decided by our newest honorary member and the Judge of this competition, Soregum,” Merisu finished, pleased with the way she dealt with the sticky problem. Deferral is a skill taught to Elves in their earliest youth.

Pimpi turned a hopeful face and pretty blue eyes (albeit suspiciously dilated ones) upon Soregum and smiled, holding Hush at the ready. Leninia shuffled over to him on her knees, but found that even then she was at eye level with him, and cursed the fate that made her unable to assume a properly beseeching posture.

“Well… I, um, well…” Soregum said, worrisomely. He tried to think of someone he could defer the situation to, but came up blank. The matter, it seemed, was intent on resting itself squarely on his slightly pudgy shoulders.

[Thenamir]

Ragged grey clouds scudded across the midnight, occasionally obscuring the watery moon that shone its death-pale luminescence over executive parking lot "B" of the Headquarters of the International Brotherhood of Magicians near the center of the Token-Ring of Networkgaard, and the needle-thin office-tower of Dorktank. Exec-B was empty at this hour, the head Uruks and Korprat-Loyers among the privileged few allowed to use it now off in their comfortable suburban bungalows and condominums, dreaming of hostile takeovers.

Yet on one edge of the lot, where the loading dock joined the back entrance, there stirred a lone figure dressed all in white. The figure grumbled to himself as he worked loading a few items into an equally white cart.

"...want something done right...mustard, relish...got to do it yourself...onions, poppy-seed rolls...drat that foolish wight...kosher dills, kielbasa..."

Finally all was loaded. The lone figure turned and whistled, and two H.O.U.S.es (Hyenas of Unusual Size) very poorly disguised as trap-ponies came forth, grumbling in much the same way as their master as they were harnessed to the cart. When all was finally in readiness the figure whipped a white paper hat out of the cart's dashboard, shook it out, cocked it at a dashing angle on his aging head, and took the driver's seat. With another whistle the cart rolled off the loading dock and into the moonlight, revealing the runes deeply graven into the sides of the cart...HOT DOGS...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Soregum felt like a thin piece of metal between two strong magnets; on one side, Pimpiowyn’s big, beautiful blue eyes tugged at his heart-strings (he didn’t even dare to look down at those enticingly downy feet), on the other side, Leninia’s dark, deep eyes invited him to lose his will in hers. Ere he could decide which side would win before he was torn apart, a strangely wooden voice spoke.

“This is not your Quest, Merisuwyniel!” The tone, while polite, was definitely reproachful. All heads turned toward their intrepid leader, and those who had not previously heard the Bow speak wondered if she had ventriloquistic abilities, since the voice seemed to come from her shapely back. However, since it is polite to look at the speaker, she turned to remove the Bow from its position (no, not even the most lithe, supple Elf can turn her head to see her back) and hold it before her.

Finally someone who is willing to speak up and take responsibility for this crazy decision!, Merisu thought with a tiny sigh of relief. “Of course,” she spoke deferentially, “It is your mission that we strive to fulfil. What is it that you wish to be done with her?”

“I have not much hope that Leninia can be cured, even if she goes to the West with us, but there is a chance of it. And she is bound up with the fate of the Ent-That-Was-Sundered. My heart tells me that she has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before the end; and when that comes, the indecisiveness of the Fellow-Galship may rule the fate of many – mine not least. Besides, it is obvious that the Guitar is reluctant to leave her. It is hardly possible to separate her from it, even when it is summoned to a secret reunification and she is not.” The Entish Bow wished that it had a throat to clear, since such a long speech dried out whatever speaking mechanism it possessed.

“Well, then, everyone pack up and come along!” Merisu admonished. “The sooner we start, the sooner we get there, if you take my meaning - at least if we do not stray to the Inn in Beer. We can take a shortcut to the Mire.”

“Short cuts make long delays,” Pimpi spoke up.

“But inns make longer ones,” protested Earnur longingly.

And so it came that, by some mysterious mechanism of male orientation and despite the leadership of a female teetotaller Elf, they found themselves standing before the gate of the village of Beer sooner that the reader would have imagined possible.

[Mithadan]

It is said that in the Village of Beer, all roads lead to the Inn. This is, of course, because there is only one road in Beer and it leads unerringly to the front door of the Muddled Mirth-renowned house of quaffing and less savory activities known as the Nancing Bow-ny Inn. Indeed, over its well-used portal is a banner on which is portrayed an Elf with long blonde hair and a bow, who, due to his fine coiffure and painted and manicured nails, could only be described as engaging in the activity of nancing.

The Zagat's guide to northeast Muddled Mirth and places nearby, describes the Nancing Bow-ny as an establishment of awesome gastronomical and epicurean delight, with fabulous decor designed by the dwarves of Hazard-Boom and service that is more than solicitous. Among its specialties are the Lembas-rubbed trout, the leg of lamb slow-cooked in Dwarvish herbs and the almost legendary dessert squirrel. However, what the guide fails to mention is that the Nancing Bow-ny, being located in a... to be polite about matters... low-income neighborhood, serves these savory dishes only in a small penthouse for which reservations are required two years in advance. Thus, the casual traveller and the local rabble are relegated to a pub known as Downstairs at the Nance, where the cuisine, service and atmosphere are more...austere.

As the Itship approached the Inn, its door swung open and three very thoroughly soused Hobbits staggered out. One held a greasy turkey leg (a specialty of Downstairs at the Nance) and another a basket of what appeared to be mostly peanut shells which he was rummaging through in an unsuccessful attempt to locate an uncracked nut. The third held a broken mug which he dropped on the doorstep before he himself dropped into a puddle of mud which lay beside the entryway.

"I thought you researched this place," hissed Pimpi to Vogonwë. The earstwhile Elf waved a copy of the Zagat's guide about while his jaw flapped without emitting a sound.

While the feminine segment of the Itship hesitated, exchanging dubious looks and sniffing doubtfully at the aroma wafting from the door, Earnur decided that the time had come to take a positive outlook on matters (and get his saddle-sore rump off his horse). "Looks swell!" he cried. "Let's go in!"

There being no immediate objection (there being no other viable option) the Itship turned its assortment of steeds and wagon (Leninia had graciously replaced the original cart which had been destroyed in the fall into her dungeon) over to the stablehands and trooped in.

"Quaint," sniffed Kuruharan as he took stock of the straw covered-dirt floor, the rough-hewn wooden furniture and the stuffed elk head (complete with hat hanging on its antlers) which adorned the wall behind the bar. "At least they have beer," he added. The common room was half-empty (or half full) with a motley assortment of Hobbits, Dwarves, seedy-looking Rangers and a couple of down-on-their-luck Elves, none of whom gave the Gallowship a second glance as they entered. They secured a table and sat as a waitress wordlessly tossed a pile of menus upon its surface. She quickly took their drink orders, then after beverages were delivered, disappeared for twenty minutes before returning to inquire whether they wanted "eats" or were they just going to "get bombed"?


"Quaint," repeated Kuruharan, though he did not turn down several helpings of 'taters, stew and several roasted birds loosely described as "chicken".

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel tapped one graceful, in a moderately high-heeled boot (feminine, yet practical) clad foot impatiently. (Yes, dear reader, impatience is one of those pardonable faults, more a quirk of personality, that are allowable in shieldmaidens, indeed, that make them all the more endearing, since they are not completely perfect.) Here she stood, at the gate of the village of Beer, which the male majority of the Fellow/Galship had entered, and now this! None of them, whether manly hero, romantic poet, or mythical creature, had thought to hold the door open for her.

She might be emancipated, being a shieldmaiden and the leader of this motley group of questers, but certainly her beauty and grace entitled her to having doors opened for her by gentlemen?! While she waited, her gaze roamed the notices nailed to the gate.
Hobbit rooms re-opening soon
All new beds and bolsters
Secure locks at the doors
Enjoy both comfort and security at the Nancing Bow-ny!
FOR SALE
Sturdy, healthy pony in prime condition
Reasonable price
Contact Bill Fur-Knee

Most of the notices were weather-worn and tattered, but one large, new sheet attracted her attention; it was an invitation to a birthday party in the Shire.

That sounds more interesting than a musty, smoke-filled inn room, she thought. I wonder if ´Shire´is another name for the ´Mire´, where we plan to go next? She decided that the similarity was more than coincidental, definitely close enough for her. Falafel turned her noble head to her mistress, having seen and read the notice as well. In a whispered whinny, she said, "That may be a long journey for a hobbit, but it´s only a quick gallop for a horse."

How unfortunate that Vogonwë was not nearby to overhear her comment - he might have made an immortal quote of it.

Merisu rose in her stirrups and said, "Let´s head for the Mire! If anyone notices that we´re gone, they can follow, and we´ll see who has more fun! I´ll come back to pick up the rest when the Party´s over."

Soon the sound of her horse´s hooves had passed - into the West.

[Mithadan]

Meanwhile, back at the Nance...

Grrralph sat unhappily at the Itship's table, watching Kuruharan, Earnur, Orogarn (Two). the Gateskeeper, Pimpi, Vogonwë, Soregum and Leninia polish off a prodigious quantity of food and drink. The stew and the chickens had been followed by 'taters and mushrooms, grilled duck, leg o' lamb and mixed vegetables. The beer had been followed by more beer (and wine) which was followed by an assortment of libations. Grrralph, however, neither ate nor drank anything, even though he seemed to recall that he had been very fond of duck before he had become a wraith.

During the meal, he had attempted to engage first Pimpiowyn, then Orogarn in conversation. He felt a deep need to voice his reluctance to take ship into the West. He simply felt that, as a wraith, he did not belong in Valleyum. Also, he seemed to recall that he had been rejected by the Velour once before. Further, he really didn't like boats. While he had used them upon occasion to cross rivers, he did not like the effect that rocking and waves had upon him. However, Pimpi had merely said, "Poor Grrralph, everything will be all right." And Orogarn had suggested he consider retiring to a quiet country home as far away as possible. Only Earnur, who despite his teetotaling ways was nonetheless quite in his cups, had been pleasant. He had passed Grrralph a bottle labelled "Old Rotgut" saying that there was nothing like some "home brewed fire" to cure seasickness. Grrralph politely pocketed the bottle, hoping it would not leak on his cloak.

As a result, Grrralph resolved to go to his room and rest early. However, the innkeeper pointed to a sign which read "No wraiths, Black Riders or other dark and shady types allowed in the rooms". So he once again went wandering. Just west of Beer was a hill, known as Fizzlepop. On its summit, he found a natural hotspring which reeked of sulphur. From a nearby fissure, a stream of hot gases was venting. He settled there, over the vent, pleased to have a chance to dry clean his outfit...

[The Saucepan Man]

When the party had left the Marrow Bones Studios, Soregum had been delighted to find Twinkle nibbling nonchalantly (and daintily, of course) on a few blades of grass outside. He had also been surprised to find that his delight stemmed not just from his reunion with the pipeweed-stuffed saddlebags which she bore, but that he was also actually quite pleased to see her. Twinkle, for her part, had been delighted at the presence of a cart within which the aforementioned saddlebags could be stowed, and also at the prospect of some equine company at last, and a cut above those dark dreary Moredough stallions at that, not to mention an adorably angst-ridden Dragon. Despite being the cutest little dark steed in Muddled-Mirth (or perhaps because of it), she was most certainly not above a little bit of flirtation. And suitably stabled at the Nancing Bow-ny Inn, she took the opportunity to get to know her new companions a little better.

Soregum, meanwhile, was in his element Downstairs at the Nance. A veteran of Uruk mess halls (a most fitting term), he felt quite at home in the quintessential atmosphere of squalor and dilapidation that characterised the place, and amongst its (variously) scabrous, seedy, boisterous, dishevelled and brawling clientele. In no time, he was sinking his decaying teeth into enormous helpings of the (alternately) undercooked and overcooked meat and vegetables, quaffing pint after pint of ale and (between mouthfuls) puffing away on his pipe.

Much to Vogonwë’s consternation, Soregum’s increasingly bleary eyes rarely left Pimpi (which unfortunately served only to further diminish his already shocking table-manners), although she was far too engrossed in the food-fest herself to notice. Eventually Vogonwë could take no more and he nudged her pointedly in the ribs (her own that is, rather than those that she was at that moment picking clean).

“Would you care to take the air, my darling Pimpi?” he said, forgetting to emphasise the “my” in his delight at having unexpectedly rhymed his hastily formulated question.

“Don’t be silly, Vogie, my sweet,” she replied. “We haven’t had dessert yet. And then there’s second dessert to consider. And perhaps we might then start again back at the top of the menu.”

Orogarn Two glanced up in alarm and reached for the menu while simultaneously selecting the calculator function on his Parma Palantir.

“Well, I didn’t have a starter, or wine, and I shared my rabbit stew with …” he began.

“Darling, let’s not split hares,” interrupted Leninia.

“I have a feeling that it will be on the house,” muttered Kuruharan darkly.

“You’re my besshtesht pal, you are,” added Earnur, wrapping his arms around a startled Gateskeeper with not the vaguest idea who he was addressing.

As the discombobulated Wizard pushed him away, the Lord of Dun-Sobrin unexpectedly jumped up onto the table (with surprising agility) and began to sing a traditional anthem from his Hero Academy days.

I've been a brave warrior for many a year,
Mighty and honest and knowing no fear.
Despatching my enemies in blood, guts and gore,
Each foe I will slay – that’s what warriors are for.

And it's hack, slash, sever,
Hack, slash, sever once more,
I will slay like a warrior,
Forever and more.

In causes most noble I’ve offered my sword,
As chances for glory just can’t be ignored.
To win great renown is a worthy pursuit,
So when slaughter’s involved I’m a willing recruit.

And it's hack, slash, sever,
Hack, slash, sever once more,
I will play the brave warrior,
Forever and more.

When brigands and bandits come raiding for gold,
The edge of my sword they will find sharp and cold.
And when Ladies from Dragons need liberating,
I’m first in the queue – it’s a warrior thing.

And it's hack, slash, sever,
Hack, slash, sever once more,
I’m not fey, I’m a warrior,
Forever and more.

So Trolls, Orcs and Goblins, yes let’ em all come,
In fifties and hundreds, I’ll fight every one.
I’ll shout “Day will come!” as I chop off their limbs,
And toast their remains with a measure of Pimms.

And it's hack, slash, sever,
Hack, slash, sever once more,
I will stay a brave warrior,
Forever and more.

There was a smattering of half-hearted applause as Earnur leapt into the air with a flourish. Much too vigorously, for he missed the table entirely on his way down and instead landed with a crash and a clatter and much cursing on a passing waitress bearing a tray full of mugs. The assembled guests all opened their mouths wide for laughter and stopped short in gaping silence, for the singer had disappeared. Everyone stared in amazement as the Gallowship exchanged mystified glances.

“Where’s ‘e gone?” shouted a squint-eyed fellow (who may or may not have hailed from the south).

“It’s not natural!” squeaked one of the local Hobbits in alarm.

“There’s some mistake somewhere,” exclaimed the landlord, an enormous ruddy-cheeked balloon of a man by the name of Lardiman Butterball. “There was too much manfulness about that Lord Etceteron to go vanishing into thin air.”

“It’s okay. He’s under here,” piped up Kuruharan, who had located Earnur under a nearby table where he had rolled and promptly fallen asleep.

Soon relative calm descended once again on the common room and the Gallowship returned to quibbling over the bill. After a short while, Lardiman Butterball approached their table, breathing heavily and perspiring profusely. Leninia wrinkled her nose in disdain.

“Beggin’ your pardon, good sirs … er … and madams,” he wheezed. “Excuse me interruptin’ you and all, but wasn’t there a Hobbit gentleman with you earlier? A fellow with a rather interestin’ dental arrangement, if you take my meaning?”

The Gallowship stared at each other blankly.

“Oh, you must mean Soregum,” remarked Pimpi at length. Vogonwë bristled in irritation that she should be the one to identify the subject of the landlord’s enquiry.

“It’s just that Dobby, the House Hobbit that is, noticed a fellow matchin’ that description lyin’ in the street outside,” continued Mr Butterball. “With a rather sinister figure, black cloak an’ all, stoopin’ over him.”

No one moved.

“Aren’t you goin’ … um … don’t you want to make sure that nothin’ queer’s happened to him, like?” ventured the innkeeper.

Still no movement.

“Well, I suppose we ought to check that he’s alright,” said Pimpi finally, as Vogonwë glowered silently.

With not the least hint of urgency, the group slowly made their way out to the front of the inn, Pimpi dragging a protesting Vogonwë and Orogarn Two dragging a snoring Earnur. When they reached Soregum’s prone body, the black figure was still crouched over it.

“He’s completely hammered,” Grrralph said, turning to them and standing up.

[Thenamir]

With the exception of Vogonwë the rest of the Food-N-Drinkship roundly rejected Gateskeeper's suggestion that they leave Soregum (and Earnur for that matter) in the busy lane where he lay until morning, so Gatesy grumblingly helped the others lug the insensate hobbit and the comatose Warden of the Oddly-Shaped Disputed Bit back into the Nancing Bow-ny and up to their second-floor rooms. Since the drunken Soregum would probably be sleeping off his cups for at least 12 hours, Gateskeeper volunteered to share the room with Soregum and "take care" of him through the night. Unlike his former proposal, this suggestion was quickly accepted by the group -- the women gaining yet another measure of esteem for Gateskeeper for appearing to be a caring soul, and the men glad to not have to sleep with the customary clothespin over their noses to block the black breath of the inebriated shorty. Gateskeeper valued only the fact that his movements and conversations later on would be noticed by no one. And that he'd save half on the room.

Once the soused had been put to bed, the remainder of the lets-make-the-best-of-it-ship returned to their table refreshed and in a much better mood, having settled their meal-tab arguments by relieving Earnur's pockets of the costs of the evening's repast. After an hour of stories and songs (during which Orogarn Two reprised his Marrow-Bones performance for the locals) the exhausted travelers walked, slogged, and crawled away to their rooms for the night, grateful for a chance to rest. Except for Gateskeeper who just waited for everything to grow still from his berth next to Soregum. And while he passed the time he began thinking, never a safe thing to do for an evil character battling with his good side.

"We must have the Entish Bow! Victory over the Pea Sea depends on it!"
"But if we steal the Bow, we lose all our friends in the whatever-ship!"
"You don't *have* any friends! No one likes *you*..."
"No one?"
"Well, maybe Mogul..."
"Really??"
"No, I'm lying to you. Mogul would skin a flea for it's hide and tallow."
"I'm not listening! I'm not listening!"
"You're a liar, and a thief!"
"Everyone has his idiosyncracies..."
"Murrrderrrerrr..."
"Why are you talking like that?"
"Like what"
"Come on, you sound like you've lost your voice whispering like that."
"It's part of the U.E.C. requirements."
"U.E.C.?"
"Union of Evil Consciences, local 1626, charter member, have you forgotten?"
"Oh, that."
"Anyway, there's one thing you know you can't escape."
"SPAM o-mails? I invented them, you know..."
"NO, you goody-goody twit! The Mark of Mogul, the Clozd-dheal!"
"Oops I see we've gone over-time, we have to wrap up this scene. Leave now, and never come back."
"GRRR!! Stop changing the subject!"
"Leave! Now! And never...come...back!"
"OK, OK, I'm going already."
"Really?"
"No, I lied again. But I'll be quiet for a bit, as long as I'm still in charge."
"That'll do for now."

Fortuitously for Gateskeeper, the sounds of preparation-for-sleep (and a small argument between Vogie and Pimpi) had died away, and it was time for Gateskeeper to slip out into the night. Once he was comfortably out of earshot of the Nance, he fired up his cell-antir, as he was long overdue for a report to Mogul. He was just about to hit the send button when he tripped over a slightly-less-dark form in the surrounding blackness.

"Hi, now guv'nor," said the small, sleepy whatever-it-was, "make way for a poor 'alfling amputee.." Gateskeeper, stepping back, saw a hobbit, apparantly on crutches. "Who are you, and why are you out on the streets so late?" Gateskeeper demanded, brushing the detritus of the street off himself and hiding his cell-antir from curious eyes. He noted that the hobbit seemed much shorter than the average hobbit, and indeed had had both legs cut off at the knees , which now grew fur as if they were hobbit feet.

"Bill Fur-Knee, at yer service. I was just comin back 'ome after a a midnight snack. There's quite the 'ot dog vender at the edge of town, most popular thing since Lardiman's lamb stews."

Gateskeeper was instantly alert at the mention of "'ot dogs" "This vendor, was he dressed all in white?"

"Aye, that 'ee was, and 'ee 'ad two of the worst lookin' trap ponies i'd ever seen. I got one 'ee could 'ave 'ad for a reasonable price, but 'ee wouldn't 'ave nothin ter do with it. 'Ee was just lookin' fer a talkin' bow and a group o' low-lifes, if yer take me meanin', guv'nor...hi! where ye goin' so quick?"

But Gateskeeper had heard enough and was fleeing back to the Nance as quickly as his skinny legs and flowing robe would carry him. Whichever side of his personality won the battle, he had to keep that Bow (and all the other Entish parts for that matter) out of the hands of Sauerkraut at all costs...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A slight smile played around the corners of Merisuwyniel’s rosy lips as she rode through the village of Beer toward the Inn. She had enjoyed the party in the Mire – or was it ‘Shire’? – and been reassured by the eclectic mixture of guests that her motley crew would certainly find a welcome amongst that hospitable folk. Now she was anxious to get back to the Slow-Ship-to-China, hoping that the others had not missed her too much or found it difficult to manage without her expert leadership.

Her worst fears seemed justified as she entered the rooms where her companions had slept. The windows had been opened and were swinging, and the curtains were flapping; the beds were tossed about, and the bolsters slashed and flung upon the floor; and the ‘welcome’ mat was torn to pieces.

“AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE!” she cried, blowing on her harmonica for lack of a horn. Then, as it occurred to her that she had seen scenes like this before without enemy intervention, she called out, “Chrysophylax?” Still no answer. “Well, I’m back,” she stated to no one in particular.

“Oh, it’s you,” Leninia said, looking around the corner. “Were you gone?”

“What’s going on here?” Merisu asked in consternation.

“We have, uh, decided to carry on our journey with no further delay,” Gateskeeper informed her, coming around another corner with his hands full of baggage. He hurried off to the stall before she could ask any more questions.

“Did someone attack?” she queried.

“No,” Vogonwë said, carrying a big bag that sent out enticing smells of food. “Pimpi was trying to find the package of cookies she’d stashed in the room for emergencies, and didn’t remember where she’d put them.”

Orogarn Two and Kuruharan came from the stall. “We’ve heaved Soregum and Earnur into the cart,” the Dwarf said. “That will help us to get moving faster – is everyone else ready?”

The first grey light of day entered the windows, and cold air was coming through the open door as they left the Nancing Bow-ny Inn and headed westwards again. Pimpiowyn shivered as they passed through the gate and into Ye Aulde Foreste, a scenic park that lay between them and their next goal. Were the rumours told by her mother’s people true, that the Forest was haunted?

Merisuwyniel rode at the head of the Gallop-Ship; the others stayed well behind her, remembering the stories they had heard at the Inn last evening. “The Forest is queer,” one of the Hobbits, a very merry fellow, had told them. “Everything in it is very much alive, more aware of what is going on, so to speak, than elsewhere. And the trees do not like strangers. They watch you, whispering to each other, and the branches sway and grope without any wind. They do say the trees actually move, and can surround strangers…”

The trees grew taller as they rode on, and closer on both sides, and the day seemed to become darker instead of lighter as the hours passed. Vogonwë tried to sing a song to encourage them, but his voice sank to a murmur.

O! Questers in the tree-ed land
Despair not! For though trunks do stand,
All branches here must end at last
And see the axe go cutting past:
The hewing Dwarf, the hacking Man,
The campfire site for mealtime plan.
For Elf or Hobbit, all must cook…

Just then a branch crashed down in their path, narrowly missing the heads of those behind the Elven maiden. She turned around and smiled triumphantly. “Mealtime!” she exclaimed. And lo! the branch bore apples, and they plucked them and found them to be wonderfully crisp, juicy, and sweet.

Bushes seemed to grow nearer and they shrank together, feeling hemmed in and breathless as the air got hot and stuffy. But Merisu gathered berries from them with nary a scratch on her pale, graceful hands and distributed them to her comrades.

“Ow!! Ow!!” Soregum cried out, wakened from his stupor by a missile from above. It seemed to them that hail fell all around them, but when they looked, they perceived that nuts were lying on the ground, ripe and tasty.

When they had eaten enough to satisfy even Pimpi, they sat down to stretch their weary legs. Their eyes dropped shut from drowsiness, and none of them noticed that the roots of the surrounding trees moved toward their feet. But they sighed blissfully in their sleep as they dreamt of a wonderful, relaxing massage.

When they awoke later, the trees had moved apart just enough to let speckled sunlight through their green leaves. They mounted their horses refreshed and followed the path ahead of them. None noticed that it seemed to shift away from the direction they thought they were going, moving ever upwards and to the left.

After an hour or two they lost all clear sense of direction, though they knew well enough that they had long ceased to go westwards at all. They were being headed off, and were simply following a course chosen for them – into the heart of the Forest and not out of it. The afternoon was wearing away when they suddenly reached a clearing. There they saw – the strangest little man, dancing the strangest little dance! He had saucepans and kettles hung all over him, he wore a saucepan for a hat, and he crashed two saucepans together as he danced!

Ooops – sorry! Wrong story…

But just what did they see on the clearing??

[Thenamir]

"So close," Sauerkraut grumbled to himself, "almost within my grasp...no matter. The fools have fled into Ye Auld Foreste. The trees there will hold them until I arrive, I and my new 'hot dog friends'."

He permitted himself a single evil chuckle as he drove his hot dog cart down the road that left Beer at a leisurely pace, followed on foot by almost the entire population of Beer. Their eyes were glazed, their movements mechanical, their foreheads emblazoned with the emblem of the white bratwurst, their lips synchronized and softly chanting "IM...HO...TEP...(oops, wrong movie) SA...UER...KRAUT...SA...UER...KRAUT..."

[Lush]

The green cloud of what appeared to be some sort of poison gas that Leninia rode through the Forest gave a noticeable jerk as she neared the clearing, the last in line.

"What is it, Stoli?" The rider purred, reaching down to pat the cloud with one hand, keeping the latest issue of Con de Nastí open with another.

"I can't believe you're talking to a cloud, let alone riding one," Pimpi turned around and snorted.

"Stoli is not a cloud, he's just shy around strangers," Leninia hissed through pearly teeth.

"If it ducks like a quack, and...I mean, if it quakes like a...er..." Vogonwë sputtered, his expression shifting from grave to terribly confused.

"What he's is trying to say," Pimpi jumped in, waving at Vogonwë to keep quiet, "is that you are most definitely riding on a creepy green cloud and until we have proof otherwise we will continue to lambast you for not having a proper noble steed, like all great tales require."

"Oh stuff your face!" Leninia growled.

"With what?" Pimpi inquired eagerly.

Leninia opened her pretty mouth, prepared to issue forth a torrent of furious, yet landylike invective, but just then the green cloud bucked underneath her in great agitation, and Leninia had to dig a stylish heel into its side in an attempt to resume control, entering the clearing braced for attack and ruinage of her exquisite manicure.

[Bêthberry]

Alas and alack for the at last Shipshape Itship, the clang of kettle, pot and pan was not some kind of man. That had been a trick, an anthropomorphic misadventure, their eyes had played upon them. Slowly, as the rag-taggle band of heroes and goddesses searched their memories, they became aware of an even more improbable thing, something from beyond any myth they knew. Someone's memory was in overdrive, or, more poetically, they had stepped through a window that had opened on an alternate time and a light was upon an object for which they had no name. (One forest is as good as another for that thief called writer.) The clash and bash of copper-coated kettle and iron pot was coming from inside a strange, long, narrow house, clad in yellow and a metal as precious as mithril, and set atop wheels no less. Which said house was rocking and rolling, though not in a musical fashion, as now loud wails were emanating from it.

"I didn't mean a little place we could call our own and never go any where else," cried a female voice, the cry embellished by the ringing sound of a pan hitting a wall.

"But honey, I thought this was complete for you. Remember how happy you were that it came complete with everything, furnishings and closets and lamps and beds."

"You never told me this would be all there was," retorted the woman, her voice dripping with tears, which were punctuated by the ping and crash of multiple plates hitting a wall and not a few cries of "Ouch! Ow! Watch it!"

"What's the point of a trailer if we don't take it anywhere?" Cue the sound of more pans hitting the wall, this time in seeming syncopation from two directions.

"You said you wanted to make a home for me. Yê Auldë Forestë it is. I am Master here."

"Don't get all bossy with me. It's fine and dandy for you to run off and have adventures with hobbits and wights and then come home and expect me to be waiting here for you with dinner ready."

The sounds of pots and pans being kicked around the floor accompanied this shrill cry of petelant independence and, suddenly, the door swung open to the chimes of "Breezing with the Breeze', a hip song which somehow had found this window of opportunity to infiltrate the memories of the Third Age. Out came a vision of domestic bliss, less keen and lofty than any Merisuwyniel-inspired dream but definitely closer to mortal parts if not hearts.

She was clad in a fabulous dress of green chiffon with white lace. It sported a nipped-in waist, princess neckline and flaring swing skirt which flounced around upon umpteen layers of petticoats in time to the stormy shakings of her head. She had the uplift of a Saturn booster rocket and it was clear she was wearing a girdle. Her full lips, perfectly heart shaped, were red, her eyebrows, pencil thin, and her hair the perfect curly (golden)red which one day would be called a poodle cut. Leninia would have died for such lips and hips had she been willing to die herself. As it was, she satisfied herself merely with killing looks. And at the sight of this domestic paragon a spell was laid upon Vogonwë about the pleasures of subservience so that he immediately began contemplating a robust poem with which he would later regale the firmament--or would have, had Pimpi not herself administered a punishing kick to this bottom.

Suddenly, the sky was wracked with lightning and thunder overwhelmed the graceful caperings of the couple.

"Aw, come on, honey," pleaded the voice of the man who was exiting the trailer himself. He was a dashing caballero who spoke with a vaguely Cubadorian, er, Grudorian, er, H'radcal accent. His attire was as remarkable in its own way as was that of the woman, for he wore a blue, short-waisted windbreaker jacket which accentuated his legs and hips, all the more to show off his dancing skills, which were highlighted by the yellow golf shoes upon his feet. At least that is what Orogorn Two claimed they were when an astonished Thingship of one accord pointed to them. The man's dark hair was combed back from his face, in a high pompadour on top, in what came to be known as a jelly roll. He followed the woman.

"You know how you bring storms on when you get in a huff, Gucyberry."

She crossed her arms petulantly across her bosom, her fingers tapping upon her forearms and her feet stamping the ground. Rain appeared out of nowhere and began to drench the Wouldship as well as the two, who began to discourse some more in their version of sweet domestic bliss.

Chrysophylax huffed and puffed, his firey breath attempting to evaporate the rain but it came in torrents so heavy that his breath was extinguished. As it was, though, his breath managed to singe a curl or two of the woman's hair and she immediately turned towards the assembled guests.

"Oh, Ricky Ricadillo we have guests and our table isn't laid. Is supper ready?"

At the mention of supper, Pimpiowyn decided that this woman was a dangerous rival who meant to get to the heart of Vogonwë through his stomach. She for one was certainly not going to fall for this social panacea of the dinner table.

Ricky, who was in fact the coolest bandmaster ever at Ye Hippe Forecana nightclub, clapped his hands in rhumba rhythm and offered to refresh the Wouldship, giving Merisuwyniel in particular a very appreciative eye. She was much in awe of his attention, but like the dauntless goddess she was, she demurrred politely and said they were on a mission from Eru and designed to reach Valleyum with the help of the Velour but had became terribly lost in this tricksome Forest.

When Gucyberry heard this, a look of wifely, conniving intrigue came over her face as she saw an opportunity. She gushed over Merisu's quest.

"Ricky, honey, you can't dissuade this courageous maiden from her mission. The rain has ended. Let us now laugh and teach them the right road."

"But no one comes by Yê Oldë Forestë without spending the night under my roof or at my table," complained Ricky, who found quite enough to occupy his time in Yê Auldë Forestë.

Gucyberry walked over to Ricky and began to run her fingers over his ears. "Ricky, we can do both. You can drive the Mercury and I can make dinner in the trailer."

Gateskeeper ran up to Ricky at this point. "Say, son, is that a '53 Mercury Monterey? What horsepower do you have there?"

"It surely is, Pop. It's a 125 horsepower flathead V8 with 3700 rpm," Ricky answered proudly.

"You don't say. 255.4 cubic inch piston displacement?"

"Nothing less for my baby."

"211 lb.ft of torque?"

"She's fast and made in the shade," Ricky pronounced.

"That's one classy chassis. Cloth and vinyl seats and dress-up chrome mirror?" You could tell that Gateskeeper's love of technology was bringing out Ricky's vanity to the point where soon he couldn't say no.

"See, Ricky, you just have to show these nice people the powertrain and the leg room."

Gucyberry's pleading was too much for Ricky to take, along with her puppy eyes and melting pout. He nodded his agreement and plans were soon made to fit everyone into either the trailer or the convertible.

"We shall fear nothing," proclaimed Kuruharan and Gucyberry pronounced him "Smelf-friend," the first and only dwarf ever to receive such an accolade. Kuruharan surveyed the trailer, contemplating the potential for sales in Middle-earth should the Eye ever be defeated enough to allow a sufficient tourist trade to be established between Beer and Grundor. It is true that Merisuwyniel had some trouble persuading Grrralph to accept this plan, for the wraith was sure Ricky would be tempted to hold a knife to his throat, but Merisu finally persuaded him that Cubadorians could be as trustworthy as any denizen of the florida and fauna or at least as good for business.

So it came to pass that both Earnur and Orogorn Two vied to enter the trailer together. It was a tight squeeze for both to fit in the low door and they stumbled manfully in their efforts to avoid encumbering the other in their arms. Immediately, Earnur bowed, but hit his head upon the doorframe, which allowed Orogorn to attempt the entrance at one large jump but his prowess resulted only in his tripping upon the step, whereupon our two challenging champions decided to ride with that other venturesome fellow Ricky in the horsepowered vehicle which would draw the trailer. Leninia immediately chose to sit between the two in case a good game of back seat bingo could be had, even beneath the watchful eye of the wizard Gateskeeper, who sat behind them on the rear deck, with the rag top down. Chrysophyllax, far too large even for a thirty foot trailer, had to fly atop the trailer and stick his head in an open window while Kuruharan jumped into the front passenger seat the better to survey the prospects for trade routes. Vogonwë insisted upon offering help to the lovely Gucyberry, to which offer Pimpi scowled, but a scowl not missed by Soregum who lost no opportunity to be of service by offering the ample hobbit miss his arm to steady herself as she attempted the flighty stairs into the trailer, which nearly bent beneath her weight. Grrralph decided to ride atop the trailer hitch, covered in his cloak, the better to keep a suspicious eye upon this prancing Forest fellow while Merisu, determined not to be outdone in the sartorial category, jumped at the chance, but only in the most decorous manner, to explore the inner sanctum of Gucyberry's clothes closet.

Ricky released the trailer brake and lay a patch and the Monterey Convertible with the 32-foot, 3-ton New Moon trailer and The Last Hope for the Entish Wood sped out onto a highway, a window of which opened opportunely for him. And so it was that the Back-to-the-future-ship was brought to explore the simultaneous but sorry existence of Yê Auldë Forestë in the Seventh Age.

[The Saucepan Man]

The Korprat-Loyers, Cheetem and Ripoff, sped over the Plateau of Gorgonbreath on their top of the range turbo-charged Wargs, Porsha and Furrari. Behind them, slung across the back of a horse and still bound and gagged by their injunctive spells, trailed Gravlox. As they went, Cheetem and Ripoff regaled their captive audience (of one) with a customary Loyer song:

Claim! Blame! The gravy train!
Red tape! No escape!
And down down to Loyer-town
You go, my lad!

Ipso facto! Lex contracto!
Locus standi! Mutatis mutandi!
Bound, bound, far underground!
Quid pro quo, my lad!

Bad debt! Liquidate!
Warranty clause! Bankruptcy laws!
Sue, sue! And turn the screw,
While Loyers draft, and Loyers laugh,
Pound and hound and cite their grounds
Down you go, my lad!

Soon, they were within the Tower Block of Barát-Höm standing with their prisoner before their chieftain, Greedhog, and none other than the Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealings himself. Môgul Bildûr sat in his leather bound swivel-chair, shrouded as always in a dark and murky cloud, gently stroking (as far as could be told) Heslob’s mangy white fur.

“Your Loyers have done well, Greedhog,” purred Môgul. “See that they are well rewarded.”

“Indeed I ssshall, sssire,” hissed Greedhog. Then, turning to them, he continued, “Look to your annual pay review. Threefold ssshall your performancsse bonusssesss be multiplied for thisss year. Now leave usss.”

As Cheetem and Ripoff withdrew from the Office Suite positively dripping with smug satisfaction, Môgul turned his attention to the prisoner.

“So, Gravlox. We meet again. Only it would appear that your Uruk credentials are not all that I had hoped. You are a traitor to all that is dark and diabolical, are you not? You have besmirched the bad name of Orcs the world over. What, I wonder, should we do with you?”

“We ssshould liquidate him, my liege,” sneered Greedhog. “I could have a Writ of Exssecution drawn up within minutesss if you only sssay the word.”

Gravlox’s increasingly Elven features remained impassive, straining only slightly in an attempt to make out the form of the nebulous figure seated before him. Despite his Orcish origins, it was perhaps better for him that he could not.

“No. We shall stick to the original plan. He may yet prove to be a useful negotiating tool.”

“Indeed sssire. Particularly as it ssseemsss that he hasss … er … feelingsss for the Ssshe-Elf.” A look of distaste crossed Greedhog’s twisted face.

“The she-elf?” uttered Môgul in bemusement. “Why on Muddled-Mirth would he be attracted to a storage unit?”

“No sssire, the Ssshe-Elf. The ring leader of the Entisssh Quessstorss. That Merisssuwyniel.” Greedhog spat the name out as if to stifle it the moment it left his treacherous lips but it hung in the air, feminine yet practical. Gravlox was unable to conceal a mournful sigh.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? How curious. Are these … er … feelings mutual?”

“Yesss, my Lord, we believe ssso.”

There was a pause. Then a familiar gurgling, mewling, strangling sound issued forth from the murk. Môgul was chuckling.

“Excellent! Then his value to us is great indeed. See that he is not harmed.”

“Your wisssh isss my command Massster,” replied Greedhog, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

“Well, my friend, it looks like you will be joining us on our little jaunt to Valleyum. What say you to that?”

Gravlox remained resolutely silent.

“Please yourself. Now, we must arrange transport. Greedhog, send for the Aircorps of Dumbar.”

[Diamond18]

"Oh my ERU!"

Vogonwë leapt up, hitting his head on the roof of the transport. A hollow clang echoed throughout the cab.

“What is it?” Pimpi asked, surprised. Vogonwë sat back down, wincing and muttering a string of Simian under his breath. “Are you all right?”

“I hit my head,” he stated the obvious.

“Yes, but why did you scream and jump up?”

Vogonwë couldn’t remember for a moment or two, but then it came rushing back to him like a flash flood with a grudge against nature. “Harvey!” he cried, nearly jumping up again. Pimpi placed a hand on his arm to keep him down.

“Who?”


“Harvey! Gravlox’s rabbit! I’ve lost him!” Vogonwë cast an agitated gaze around the speeding bus. "I forgot all about him, and I can’t even remember the last time I saw him!”

“I haven’t seen him since Leninia’s dungeon,” Pimpi looked at the diminutive diva sharply.

“You didn’t eat him, did you?” Vogonwë worried. As the bruise near his ribs flowered, he said, “I’m sorry, that was a stupid question. Maybe he’s in one of our packs….”

“If he were, he’d probably have starved and/or suffocated to death,” Pimpi pointed out helpfully as Vogonwë began to rummage through the packs. A few minutes later, having come up empty, Vogonwë sank back into his seat with a groan.

“I’m sorry, Vogie. Perhaps we’ll find another bunny in the Mire,” suggested Pimpi.

“No!” Vogonwë responded, fiddling with a Game-Wizardling he’d found in the bottom of the Gateskeeper’s pack. He threw it over his shoulder in disgust. “Now what am I going to do when Gravlox shows up again, red-eyed, snorting smoke, and hot on revenge? I was going to hold Harvey up and squeal like a girl, ‘You wouldn’t hurt the Elf who saved your pet, would you?’ but now, now I have nothing!”

“Vogie!” Pimpi sought to sooth his gasping speech and frenzied hand motions. “What makes you think he’s going to show up again?” She lowered her voice so that Merisu wouldn’t hear: “When They got back There, They probably killed Him.”

“But I killed him, and he came back! Who’s to say the third time won’t be the charm?” Vogonwë whispered back.

“Well, I don’t know about that… but, sweetie, if you killed him he can’t be that scary, after all,” Pimpi patted his arm.

“I beat him with Aim-well Spells and arrows,” Vogie hissed, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. “He won’t give me the chance of a duel next time. And sure, I know some fancy schmancy martial arts moves, but it’ll be daggers and claws and fangs.”

“But you don’t have claws or fangs.”

“Precisely.”

Pimpi looked worried for the first time. “Well,” she said, “maybe he’ll forgive you even though you killed him and then lost his rabbit.”

They both fell silent, contemplating this possibility, then shook their heads in unison.

“Hmmm. I know!” Vogonwë’s face lit up after a moment. “I could write a eulogy for Harvey, and present it to Gravlox. That way, he would be so touched by my beautiful words of heartfelt lament that he’ll forget I lost his pet in the first place.”

Pimpi was silent for a moment, then she folded her hands in her lap and studied them a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said finally.

But Vogonwë had already whipped out pen and paper and was busily composing his masterwork. She sighed, and glanced around the bus, noting that Soregum was puffing on his pipe while watching her. She stiffened, but tried to pretend that she didn’t notice the old, short, fat, darkly clad hobbit’s constant and unsettling gaze, by turning away slightly and looking out the window. Little did she realize that by doing so she put her lovely young, tall, lithe, colorfully clad profile at its best advantage, with the sun from the window shining down around her.

Soregum, meanwhile, was contemplating (among other things) the odd conversation between the half-halfing and her nitwit of a boyfriend. Who was this Gravlox? With a name like that, surely not an Elf or any creature these folks were likely to be consorting with. And yet they seemed concerned about gaining his forgiveness for having dispatched with him. Whatever he was, if he harbored a violent grudge against Vogonwë, he might make a valuable acquaintance….

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

"Until the devastating and, of course, wholly accidental fire that swept away much of the city of Minus Teeth, there resided in the dusty archives of the Wight City a scroll of darker and more obscure antecedents even than its governing family. Its anonymous author, known simply as the Hermit of Red Hill, tells of a peculiar and singular barrow in a place beyond both time and sanity, where he claims are buried the last remains of the Creator of Muddled Mirth.

Long dismissed as a harmless lunatic, largely due to a three-page digression concerning the formulation of city council signwriting policy*, the mysterious Hermit was saved from eternal obscurity by a peculiar incident that occurred some months after the disappearance of his one remaining manuscript. Even so, the work survives now only in a footnote to one of the strangest documents ever to issue forth from the hoary Entish scriptorium of Canned Corn Forest: the many-scrolled saga of the Re-Unification of the Entish Bow; a source so unreliable that its own author, Deeproot the Ent, appears never to have referred to it for any facts concerning the events of which it is the sole complete record. If we may believe this convoluted and at times bizarre document, Deeproot may well have had access to the missing manuscript, previously considered to have been destroyed in the Sac... tragic mishap of Minus Teeth. If so, only one of great daring and greater academic understanding could possibly have at once rescued and stolen such a priceless item. The name of this paragon of literary archaeology has, sadly, been forgotten by the history that owes him so great a debt."

Dr. P.G.R. Aiten, University of Morbîrsluv

******

'For the last time, nobody wants to buy any toilet paper!'

'But this is a once-in-a-lifetime half-price offer: this stuff is so soft that I can hardly tell I'm holding it. I have to get it off my hands before I'm crushed in the scramble.'

An admiring throng of desperate buyers having failed to materialise, Kuruharan returned the tattered piece of vellum to a saddlebag and continued his stock-take. Some successful sales among various bemused and now landless peoples had left him with little on his hands apart from an assortment of protective amulets, the most potent of which promised to protect the bearer from pillow cuts, the deeds to half of Muddled-Mirth and the mysterious parchment that he had swiped from the ruined city back in chapter two. The only people rich and idiotic enough to buy any of these items would be unavailable to make purchases until the next stop, when he hoped that desperation might lend some force to his arguments. Until then there was nothing to do but to take stock and consider the values for a landlord of having a dragon as a business associate.

Some people are made for the horseless carriage; others achieve a certain modus vivendi with it, and others, like Lord Earnur Etceteron, would do better to stick to horses. Although admittedly delighted that this new form of transportation gave no impression of tolerant contempt, he was beginning to tire of interior dimensions that appeared to have been designed with Dwarven amputees in mind. Having been forcibly restrained from lighting his pipe, and acutely aware that lime cordial is no substitute for wood alcohol as a cure for boredom, he had struck up a jaunty drinking song, but had been silenced with seventy-two bottles remaining aloft when a diminutive and well-manicured hand had removed what little sensation remained in his left leg. He glowered at the steady procession of unprepossessing buildings and black roads in silence, noting that the countryside through which he would have chosen to travel, in which adventure and derring-do were no doubt lurking behind every copse, appeared to be keeping a respectful distance from the narrow strip of noise and noxious vapour on which he was currently a passenger. Finally, in desperation, he uttered the fabled Incantation of the Speedy Traveller, which has been known to make many a lengthly journey simply fly past:

'Are we nearly there yet?' he intoned in an heroic and manly whine.

It is almost impossible to kick someone effectively from the driving seat of a classic roadster, and since Ricky Riccadillo was adamant that no blood touch his upholstry, they were forced to halt their journey for a brief lecture on road etiquette. While Orogarn rubbed his stinging knuckles, they took the opportunity to make plans for the journey ahead. Heroically, the Gallowship attempted to overcome their complete ignorance of their location or the meanings of the terms 'motorway' and 'road atlas' by means of applied volume, and in the general confusion Earnur was able to pick himself up and purchase a piece of vellum to staunch his bleeding nose from the ever-helpful Kuruharan. His purse had been digging uncomfortably into his bruised ribs, and his relief at disposing of most of its contents was palpable. Also the removal of blood allowed him to make his first ever useful discovery. There was writing on his impromptu handkerchief, and at least one word was still legible. 'Where's Oxenford?' he asked lightly.

'I already told you, man: we'll get there soon-o,' announced their driver testily. 'Wait a minute: have you been here before?'

'I'm not sure,' mused the gallant knight of madness as he caught sight of the words 'How am I driving?' stencilled on the back of a dilapidated white van. 'Once I knew every Valar-forsaken place in the lands of Elves or Men or Orcs. I can still remember ten of them without searching in my mind, but this isn't one of them.'

'I've got a lot of work there, if you could but know it. Ricky might take you there if you do not blow it.' replied the mysterious traveller.

'You have been there before that you might have business there?' persisted the Lord Privy Attendant, in reckless disregard of his personal safety.

'He has,' answered the fair lady Gucyberry. 'He is the Master of accelerator, clutch and handbrake, although his navigation sucks.'

'Then know you of a place known as the Wolven Cot?'

Rickadillo laughed, saying:

'Ricky's country ends there: he will not pass the borders.
Ricky has his plugs to oil, and needs some help with rhyming.'

'I'm waiting,' snapped Gucyberry. 'Do you mean to sit around jawing with these freeloaders all day?'

Inspired by this esoteric time-wasting, Vogonwë spoke up:

'An ancient tale in Workmud tells of how the Creator Himself tired of life and departed it,' he announced. 'My ancestor, Daebolic the Loremaster wrote: "The Maker is gone; his barrow is flat. There is no more story, so that, mate, is that."'

'If Eru is dead, then thousands of years of religious mania have been a complete waste of time!' cried a horrified Merisuwyniel. 'We must investigate the truth of these cryptic and insane writings, that we may debunk or suppress them!'

Flushed with success, Earnur pointed out his next amazing discovery.

'Yonder is a sign!' he enthused. 'Mayhap it will show us the way we seek.'

"The flying of model bricks in this area is restricted to members of the Oxfordshire Guild of Freemasons by order of the Sherriff," read the Gateskeeper, deciphering the strange letters with ease. 'Looks like a lot of Hobbit-rules and Hobbit-talk to me.'

'You are wise in the tongues of many peoples, quite a few of them now extinct,' said Earnur, once again showing his worth as a judge of character. 'I cannot read the fiery letters; mayhap you may assay with better fortune.'

Perhaps because this inexplicable diversion offered a deferral of the inevitable crisis of alliegiance, perhaps because few people can turn down the chance to look clever, Gateskeeper translated the least blood-soaked portion of the manuscript.

'It's blood, not fire, so don't be so melodramatic.' he admonished; and as though to aggravate Earnur's already galloping case of archaism, continued: "And I beheld me an chapelle, begirt with many paths of greate ordynarynesse. And thence did I follow the signs, that are hid fromme the eyes of many menne, and so came to ye restynge place of ye maker of Muddled-Mirthe. Praise be great Eru thatte I was of alle menne ye firste to looke on its glory. Ye who followe in mine stead, look ye for runes of golde upon a lowe sign, and they shalle show unto thee ye Way."

There was a moment of reverential silence, while the entire company scrambled for the best seats in their chariot of doom, punctuated by a scuffle over which of seven claims to the front seat of the Monterey was valid under the laws of Grundor, Workmud and the Manor of Dun Sóbrin; which of these had precedence in a land that was none of them and who had the most powerful left hook. Eventually this proved to be the Lady Gucyberry, who resumed her prime hectoring position with a dainty shake of her winning hand.

The brief interlude of violence and theological enquiry having soothed many a tattered nerve, the remainder of the journey took place in relative calm and civility. Various roads that were apparently not sufficiently important to have real names sped by, while Earnur, convinced that he had at last found a quest of mythic proportions and freed by the absence of danger from the griping of his mighty brand, pretended to read his newly acquired parchment with a scholarly air. His silence in turn provoked random acts of conversation and some disconcertingly misguided eyebrow-fluttering from certain quarters. So it was that they reached at last the mighty necropolis described in the scroll as 'Wolven Cotte', although to the disappointment of the errant heroes, there appeared to be neither wolves nor cottages to be seen. Instead, great iron gates opened onto a path, which led to a bijou chapelette in the suburban Gothic style. Announcing that he had his trailer to mind and promising to be back before the day was out, Ricky handbraked the entire massive combination through 180 degrees, and he and Gucyberry sped away, singing at the tops of their voices. A suspicious creature might have suspected them of relief.

'This is the place,' announced the Warden of the Oddly-Shaped Disputed Bit, somewhat redundantly. Immediately lighting on an arrow, he followed it as all great warriors, and still more mediocre ones, are wont to do. Monuments rose on all sides, proclaiming the names of many generations who were yet to be born when the Gallowship had arisen that morning; a chilling reminder of the fate that awaits all those who are not mythological creatures, Thingwraiths, ambiguously half-Elven immortals or otherwise exempt beings.

'Nice here, isn't it?' remarked Earnur.

Despite the truly immense handicap of being guided by someone who was unable to decipher their only set of directions, it took a bare five hours to traverse the hundred yards between the chapel and their goal. Before them lay a headstone which none of them could read, surrounded by flowers and candles. Come at last to the end of their mighty sidetracking, the Company of the Things spoke as one:

'Is that it?'


******

* The fact that his complaints appear to refer to an entirely mythical city, and to signs that apparently existed only in his own head, has clinched the argument for a large sector of the academic community.

[Kuruharan]

“Is that what?” asked Earnur, in a bemused tone of voice. He was still trying to figure out whether he had been here before…or after…or not yet…or something.

“…almost as if I…climbed a fence…and read a poem late at night…” he muttered to himself.

“I thought you’d stopped drinking,” said Merisuwyniel.

“A poem?!” said Vogonwë, with just a touch too much eagerness.

“Ooooooo-oooo, ahhhh, ermmmm, ehhh…” babbled Kuruharan in a hurried attempt to change the subject.

“What?” asked everyone together. Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. Earnur was still struggling with his reverse case of déjà-vu. Vogonwë was still trying to find a word that rhymed with drunkard. The Gateskeeper was still trying to figure out what was so intensely fascinating about that thing they’d just been riding in. Pimpi was thinking about food. Leninia was wondering if Earnur was daydreaming about her. Orogarn Two was trying to figure out how to get revenge on everybody present. Soregum was trying to find something to give Pimpi. Chrysophylax could not care less about…anything, really. And last, but certainly not least, Merisuwyniel was asking herself something to the effect of, “When exactly did I lose control of this Quest?”

By process of elimination that left only Grralph (I think, it is getting so hard to keep track of everybody) to make the aforementioned inquiry as to the nature of Kuruharan’s…whatever it was.

“Uhhh,” continued Kuruharan in the same train of thought. He realized with a touch of embarrassment that he was flapping his arms about like a demented ostrich. Frantic to find some means of salvaging the situation (and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten into this mess in the first place) he announced loudly to the Someridiculouswordhere-ship, “The ground is below us!”

Everyone took a minute to verify this particular piece of information. Yes. It did seem that the ground was below them. Everyone turned to look at him (yes, this time it was everyone).

Sensing that he had decisively seized control of the conversational high-ground, Kuruharan took advantage of his momentum. “That looks like a stone!” he said, pointing to the thing in front of them.

Orogarn Two strode forward and knocked on the rock. “Yes, it seems to be,” he confirmed.

“Do you have any point to this?” asked Merisuwyniel.

“Uhh,” said Kuruharan, as he folded his hands behind his back and looked up toward the heavens. (It looked like there was some sky up there, but he feared that he’d been driven off the conversational high-ground by frontal assault, so he made no comment on that). “No,” he said at last, and thankfully brought this entirely useless discourse to a close.

[Diamond18]

"Idiots," Pimpi placed her hands on her shapely young hips, and rolled her eyes (large, blue, sparkly, you know the routine).

"I beg pardon," Earnur raised an eyebrow.

"It's a tombstone," she pointed with one hand, shaking her head. "Much like the tombstones of my parents at the Elven Farm. I spent many a day weeping and picking bird droppings off of those monuments, so I'd know what they looked like. This, I am sure, is one of the very same things. It has that 'look' about it."

"What look?" Merisu wrinkled her forehead and peered at the stone suspiciously.

"Oh... somber, meaningful... deadish," Pimpi shrugged. "Look, there is writing carved upon it."

"What does it say?" asked Soregum.

"Valiums, I don't know," Pimpi gave him an sideways look, afraid to make eye contact, suspiciously remembering some sort of meaningful fixation which had happened in a drugged up state. "I've never seen such odd script. And I read Vogie's poems."

Orogarn Two burst impatiently, "Then what in double-M do you mean by standing forward and calling use 'idiots'?"

"I was just trying to clear up the matter of the rock and the ground and all that," Pimpi flashed her eyes unguarded upon Orogarn.

"I know a headstone when I see one," Earnur put in. "I did, after all, refer to it as such if you would just scroll up and—"

"Enough," Merisu interrupted. "let us concentrate on the matter at hand. What does the tombstone say? Are there any who can decipher the strange runes?"

"I think it says 'Eat at Morey's'," suggested Kuruharan. "Morey is a cousin of mine, full name Moremerean, finest Dwarven Chef since—"

"I think," Vogonwë spoke up, overpowering the Dwarf with sheer height, "that whatever it says, it must form a rhyming pattern of AABA."

"You wouldn't know a rhyming pattern if it reared up and bit you on the nose," opined Orogarn Two.

Vogonwë sputtered but could not come up with a suffcient comeback before Merisu steered the conversation back to the stone. "Think, people... well... things; if it's a tombstone it must say something about the deceased party involved. Something such as 'Here lies Dumdum, son of Yumyum, son of Oink, Lord of Morona'. So at least one of these words is the name of said corpse."

"And why do we care again?" asked Leninia, where she stood to the side touching up her nails.

The Itship and their fair leader fell into silence, pondering this question. Earnur finally burst out babbling something pertaining to dead creators and feverish Entish scholars and fried green manuscripts. Yet, once he subsided, it was Grralph who happened upon a clearer answer:

"Because Ricky and Gucyberry ditched us in a broken time-space continuum, and we're bored and in need of a way to pass the time, such as it is?"

"Right," nodded Merisu. "Good enough reason as any. "

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Day Two of some alternate timeline

A nice pickle we’ve gotten ourselves into! I’ve experienced some strange things in the course of my mistress’ adventures, but now we’re lost in more dimensions than we’ve ever experienced before! “O tempora, o mores!” is what my old friend Tofu would have said, him knowing Latin and all. What times these are – no respect for noble steeds. Why, they just let the vehicle go where it wants to, without the guidance of a superior intelligence!

And we, the high-born offspring of Fellofftheroof and other noble sires, are relegated to being transported in this crowded cart, hitched behind that long, mithril-coloured monster, which is in turn hitched behind the horseless carriage. I don’t know how they feel with small rag-tag dangling behind them, but the rag-tag is tired and will be glad to stop dangling and stretch its legs properly.

The worst part of all is that these strangers have dropped off my mistress and the other two-legged members of the LostInTimeShip, and now I’ll never see dear mistress again, and she was so wonderful and splendid. I wish I had gone with her, I do. But she is bold, and brave, and clever; she will find a way to get us away from this strange place – nasty unhealthy parts, evidently. Just look at the littered meadows beside the road! What use is a nice hard road if people ruin the grass next to it?! And what sense does it make to get somewhere fast if it’s not beautiful when you arrive there?!

Just what is it that Merisuwyniel and the others want to see on that field that smells of death, I wonder? Some learned master called Nietzschthelion said that the Creator of Muddled-Mirth is dead, but how would he know? And what logic is there in visiting a dead person anyway?

Well, I’m getting seasick, what with speeding around the curves of these streets – and my hoofwriting is all but illegible, so that’s enough for now. Maybe I should just sleep until Merisu awakes me for a morning ride back in our own age of the world…

[Diamond18]

Somewhere between the Smoggy Mountains and the village of Beer, angling southward toward the Forest of Canned Corn, and occupying a slightly different dimension of reality, was the Northern Division of Mantoes' Sub-Halls in Muddled-Mirth. In this sub-hall, which could quite easily be missed if you were still alive, deceased souls waited to be shipped off to The Big Hall way away in Valium. It was, in its own little way, the airport terminal of the afterlife. The staff were usually working their way back from The Big Hall to the plains of the living, and being so close to smelling the rain and breathing the fresh air, without actually being there, tended to make them a bit grumpy.

Sometime after the Itship left Leninia's dungeon and roughly before they tarried in Beer, Ffrallihoo the Dwarf was working the midnight shift at the front desk, accepting new applicants for transeferral. The midnight hour was usually a pretty busy hour in Muddled-Mirth, the ideal time for covert operations, burgleries, Orc scuffles, spider luncheons, battles in the rain, and (Ffrallihoo's favorite) death-by-fear-of-a-ghost-sighting. This particular depth of night was, however, fairly quiet, and Ffrallihoo was dosing. The closer she got to life, the more she felt the need to dose. In her previous life she had lived at Héartbréakhôtél-dum, a Dwarven stronghold of the First Age. Her life had ended during an altercation with a dragon, and she had spent a long and arduous thousands of years working her way back to the not-burnt-and-digested state. She looked forward to the day when she would be born again, perhaps as a little dwarfling or maybe, if she was lucky, a woodland species of bluebird.

To return to the point at hand, Ffrallihoo (her friends called her Ffralli) was dosing, snoring into her luxuriant red beard, and the night was unusually inactive, death wise.

Then a rabbit hopped through the door. It paused, wiggling its nose and blinking in the bright supernatural halôgen lights. With a snort, Ffralli awoke and shuffled a stack of papers, trying to look busy. "Rabbit," she said, rifling through the papers. "Let me see... Kevlar - Mammals - Rodentia - Rabbits. Please move to Room BB and await transportation, after filling out this form... can you fill out this form?"

The rabbit blinked, twitching its nose more vigorously. Luckily, Ffralli spoke Rabbit and was able to ascertain that no, the rabbit could not write. She muttered a word in the Dwarven language under her breath, then said, "Right, well, our dictation specialist just got promoted to Alive, so I suppose I'll have to help you with your form. Not that I'm supposed to have to... what? Oh, well, I'm sorry, but we'd all like to be alive again, wouldn't we? A... what? A dragon?" Her face softened. "Poor bunny. Dragons have the worst breath. Yes. Well. Let's get to it:

"Name (last, first) - Rabbit, Harvey.

"Age - you don't know? We'll say, oh, a couple months. You look like a young thing.

"Place of origin - Moredough...?" She paused. "Most Moredough residents are Orcs. Bloody Orcs. You would not believe how rude they are when they come throuh here. And you would not believe how many sweet little things come through here because of those terrible creatues, why, Death By Orc is such a large category that we have entire seperate forms for the different types of Orc Death.

"Well, anyway. Reason for death - dragon, yes, I know, nasty things, should be exterminated the lot of them. I've had so many dragon deaths in the last few months, you would not believe...! Well, maybe you would, poor bunny. I met the sweetest little dwarfling the other day, it brought a tear to my eye. If this keeps up Death By Dragon may outnumber Death By Orc! Right now, Death By Itship is in first place in this month's Office Stat Pool.

"Method of Death, A) Eating B) Burning C) The Burn and Eat D) Other. A, is it? Not surprising. You look very tender, and I mean that as a compliment, you know, no don't look worried! I haven't eaten in Three Ages, though the closer I get to Alive the more often I almost feel hungry..... Well, I think that does it. Take this form and hand it to... oh that's right, you can't. Just a moment, I'll close the desk down. Seems all the Orcs, Dragons and Itshippers are taking a break for the moment."

Ffralli scooped up the little bunny and carried it through a labyrinth of halls, stairwells, and filled-to-capacity waiting rooms attached to shipping docks, till she reached Room BB, which was supervised by Bügs Bünní, the erstwhile Amazing Talking Rabbit With Opposable Thumbs of Noodleor. From inside the room could be heard dull thumping noises.

Bügs was munching on a midnight snack (force of habbit), and paused only momentarily to mutter, "What's up, Doc?"

"It's Ffralli. Ffrallihoo to you," Ffralli frowned. "I have a new arrival."

Bügs stamped the form and waved them through, staring ahead with the zombie eyes of the over-worked dead. Ffralli carried Harvey into the room and looked around. It was a sad sight -- a whole room full of rabbits who were not breeding, sleeping, eating, or doing anything else remotely rabbitlike. They all sat in a catatonic state, waiting to be shipped to The Big Hall where slowly they would be skinned, gutted, deboned, shredded, and made into hasenpfeffer for the Elves of Valium. Only one rabbit showed any signs of life -- a pink fellow in sunglasses, who paced the length of the room, perpetuating a thumping rhythm on a large round drum.

Ffralli whispered in Harvey's soft little rabbit ear, "Watch out for that one. Rumor has it he's not really dead, he just wandered in here one day and he keeps going, and going, and going, and going..... Well, make yourself comfortable. I'd better get back to the desk." With that, she left him among the throng of listless bunnies, passing Bügs by on her way out and feeling a thrill at the vague hungry feeling she got from looking at the carrot he was spiritlessly devouring.

Just another night at the Northern Division.....

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

A piercing shriek, painful and uncouth, cut across the deliberations of Muddled-Mirth's mightiest heroes and heroines. It began like a tin whistle played with inexpert enthusiasm, but quickly rose to a deafening volume that caused hands to be raised to any ears that lacked supernatural protection. The gradually rising din was accompanied by a rhythm section of cursing and frenzied activity that is so often a by-product of invention. Faces turned white; eyes rolled in agony; knees buckled and Earnur's sword demanded instant retirement for the fiftieth time that day. The screaming rose in pitch and volume until finally it died away apologetically into an uneasy silence.

The Fellowship of the Things continued to stand with their fingers in their ears, looking decidedly unseaworthy. Those eyes that were attached to wiser brains began to scan their surroundings for the largest bird of prey in the universe, but most of the mighty band of warriors simply whimpered quietly and nursed their throbbing eardrums.

Suddenly Vogonwë spake those mighty words that yet are remembered in the realm of Workmud: 'Um... that squirrel's looking at us'.

Indeed it was. As all heads turned to follow his outstretched nose, they saw a creature stranger than any they had encountered in their travels thus far. In most respects it resembled an ordinary grey squirrel: it had the regulation bushy tail, the same beady eyes and the same slightly impudent bearing. Unlike a normal grey squirrel, however, this one was wearing a tiny steel helmet decorated with silver stars and a short khaki tunic emblazoned with brightly coloured ribbons. It was standing on its hind legs with a highly polished miniature swagger-stick tucked under one foreleg, but the most unusual thing about it was its choice of vantage point: it stood atop a veritable mountain of shining metal and tangled wires covered in sparkling lights and, they noticed with horror, numerous dents and repairs. Just as they were beginning to take in the flash of pearl and shining metal at the rodent's waist and the squat black tubes on a strap about its neck, the apparition spoke.

'I think I've found the source of that unusual behaviour, Doctor Tenant,' it observed calmly. 'You might want to have a look at this.'

'In a moment, Overdale,' answered a disembodied voice from behind the monstrosity. 'I've still not finished shutting down the SONAR array, and we don't want a repetition of last Thursday.'

Predictably, painfully, the Fellowship answered; and thus spake these mighty beings as one: 'Eh?'

The military mammal motioned at them to remove their fingers from their ears, managing to imply in so doing that they looked completely ridiculous. After five minutes of this and finally a brief and inept game of charades, their diminutive acquaintance spoke.

'I'm sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, but something about you appears to have upset the Travestometer.'

The creature indicated the machine on which it stood with a sweep of a forepaw.

'My colleague, Dr. Tenant and I are researchers in the field of canonicity,' continued the squirrel. 'I am Doctor Overdale; my colleague, Doctor Tenant, will be with us shortly, and this is the fruit of our labour; the Travestometer: the most advanced device for the detection of adverse auctorial opinion that has ever been created. Sadly it's also the most temperamental, and your unexpected appearance has upset its sensors.'

'Look at this! Will you look at this?' came the voice from the machine again. 'This is the third RPM counter we've burned out today! What's happening around here?'

A silver object, stained black in places, described a delicate arc before neatly excising the first letter of a dearly beloved name.

'I told you,' said their new acquaintance. 'You really should come and have a look at this.'

'All right, all right! I'm coming, but it had better be good.'

A wild-eyed, wild-haired figure, clad in a long, stained white coat over some dusty black clothes that had seen better days, stepped into view from behind the tangle of machinery. It took one glance at the It-ship and swore colourfully.

'Yes, I think that might be the problem too,' agreed the squirrel suavely. 'The funny thing is that it's never reacted that way to physical people before. There's always been some literary connection.'

'Could it be them?'

The man's face was paper white, and his hand was moving towards a large switch on the side of the machine.

'What manner of man art thou, who maketh beasts to talk, and to conduct scientific experiments?' demanded Earnur manfully. 'Mayhap thou art a sorceror come to entrap us in this strange place.'

Another shriek began to emanate from the machine, although this time it had a more urgent and terrifying note. Dr. Tenant leaped behind it again and began to make feverish adjustments. Dr. Overdale sprang just as nimbly to a flat point before another panel and began to flick switches with practiced skill. Gradually the noise abated somewhat and the squirrel reappeared.

'He's not magic, he's my colleague,' explained the miniature scientist. 'Let's just say that if you're going to test experimental matter transporters, make sure that all the lab animals are locked up first.'

'My shieldmaidenly Elven intuition tells me that you are a soldier, Doctor,' quoth the fair Merisuwyniel. 'Perhaps you would care to join my group of heroic foils and I as we battle for the future of Muddled-mirth.'

This time the scream was like nothing that had ever been heard before. Glass objects shattered, pieces fell from the older stones and members of the Gallowship ran around in confused circles. Dr. Tenant's worried face appeared above a piece of the machine's casing.

'I think this is it, old boy,' he announced gravely. 'That woman looks to have Hobbit-blood, and one of those heroes looks like a reformed Wraith. The governing circuit for the cooling system just melted and I can't shut it down.'

The squirrel considered this for a moment before speaking. 'Run?' he suggested, and deserted.

The heroic instincts of the Gallowship took over at this moment, sending them sprawling behind the more solid monuments as the warning siren grew louder and yet more violent. Just as it reached the very limits of audible sound, half of the cemetary exploded.

Earth and debris flew hundreds of feet into the air, propelled upwards by a mighty gout of flame and vapour. Shrapnel peppered the entire area, smashing ancient monuments and breaking the tiles on the chapel's roof. One huge piece of ironmongery crashed right through one of its walls, causing the small building to collapse in a welter of noise and falling masonry. Just as silence fell, a massive section of casing slammed into the ground between Earnur's feet and stuck there, quivering like a giant spear. 'Eeeep,' he commented in a manly falsetto.

As the dust settled, a huge crater became visible that took up most of the area. Bones were scattered everywhere along with pieces of the Travestometer and lumps of stonework. The little chapel was reduced to one forlorn Gothic window, precariously balanced on a cracked section of wall that looked fit to collapse at the first provocation. A ghostly figure coughed its way out of the mirk, white coat flapping in tatters, a dog-eared roll-up clenched in its teeth. Doctor Overdale was sitting on his shoulder and the two were holding a muttered conversation that seemed to revolve around weapons, maiming and some sort of noble prize. Merisuwyniel took in the situation at a glance and gave the order that is remembered even to this day in the annals of Muddled-Mirth.

'Scarper!' she cried; and the intrepid band beat a hasty retreat towards the cemetary gates.

[Bêthberry]

Leaving the Two-timing-ship behind at Wolven Cot, Ricky had muttered something about, "Let them dig their own barrow," or, 'Everybody must get standing-stoned," or "To everything there is a seasoning." Then, laughing as he gave her attire an appreciative eye, Rickey made the following suggestion to Gucyberry, his heart moved with a joy that he at least did understand, "Hey pretty, I see a roadway down into the belly of a tale; let me show you where I'm at." Ricky, it appeared, was adept at picking up Seventh Age street lingo, a linguistic skill which puts his Third Age verse into particular perspective. Here was a fellow with a very common touch.

Dodging ten ton trucks, Ricky pumped the Monterey up to around ninety miles an hour on the A4144, not quite as romantic as Ye Aulde Forest Road, but the Eagles were as unreliable in these eco-destructive days as the room service at Hotel California. But by the time he got to Woodstock Road, he was doing fifty miles an hour and then he hit St. Giles. Swerving left and right, sometimes wide and sometimes slow, Ricky managed the Monterey fast slow fast fast slow, as Gucy sang in execrable rhyme with the Monterey's movements. It was Poe'try in motion.

"Hey Ricky Ricardillo! Whither are you going?
Rubber you are laying.
Scholars your exhaust is slaying,
on a tear in front of gown and town."

Before Ricky could jerrydol the handbrake or merrydol a reply, a rising din hit the air and a shock wave of monumental proportions rocked the Monterey. Quite literally, for just over their heads, this being a convertible, flew pieces of that tombstone which Pimpi had heroically endeavoured to decipher. Alas in disaster the lovers were sundered, for the stone was cracked between the names. The Heron piece crashed into the right fender and then fell onto the road whereas the Nightingale fragment twirled in midair and then fell amidst some brambles. Oh, too cruel fate that would sunder lovers, even those not doomed to be separated by closed windows between alternate universes. Is all yet but Dust?

But then the vehicle really rocked with aftershock: the trailer jack-knifed into the Berk and Babbler--aka the Sméagol and Fried--luckily missing a long and winding line dance that went ever on and on. The line dance consisted of Peter Hackson fans. These New Zéa-lôt-Länders were desperate to sub-create certain activities commonly called panned-fictions. They were known to 'dress the part' outside darkened houses of ill projections. Here at the Berk and Babbler they satisfied themselves with reproducing the legendary exploits of that illustrious boy band, the In the Pinklings.

Yet the havoc was not finished. Just then a dust cloud worthy of the Eve of Destruction overtook the Monterey. "Oh, Ricky, what are we going to do?" wailed Gucyberry. "We were supposed to meet the Knock-on-woodship at the cemetary gates, but they just went flying over head."

"It's all right, honey, calm down and don't fret. The enigma stops here. Let me Ilúminate you. The Do-your-thingship has petty valar like Keats or Yeats on their side, but this car's Wilde on yours."

At that, Ricky ditched the trailer where it had careened into the Berk and Babbler, Sub-creating an avant guarde installation as controversial as any shark in Headington. Oh, the horror! the horror! of Modernë Artë. The Council Planning Committee called it Trailer Trash--until the Southron Arts Council recognised the symbolic merit of the installation as a prophylactic against cost overlays. But this is to recall prematurely.

Ricky put the Monteray into reverse and sped backwards, slow fast slow slow fast, narrowly avoiding a double decker bus this time. Gucyberry began to suspect she could hear in this backward movement some theme other than Ricky's rhumba beat. She was sure she heard the renegade Melkorcamp singing about walkin' on after the thrill of living is gone and desire grew hot within her. Yet she found not the fire, for it was with Ricky, who rose a third time and spoke.

"Mighty is the Parodyship, but mine instrument shall be the more wonderful! Let me find them and show them a New Music wherein they shall discover things which they had not thought."

"Oh, Emu, they will cut to the 'shrooms as soon as they hear this," thought Gucyberry. But yay and foresooth and even though his navigation sucked, Ricky was able to bring the Monterey to the Scene of Wolven Cot, Just-In-Time, according to Gateskeeper's modern marketing strategies, in order to hear Merisue yell, "Scarper!"

For his part, the great Lord Etceteron was in the process of addressing a skull, "Alas, poor Yollers, I knew him well." Sadly, the shock of the disastrous disintegration of the Travestometre had confused this uprightly knight to the extent that he was mistaking his Tolk' for his 'Speare in the Great Cauldron of Story, believing he was reciting the text of The Return of the Prince of Denmark. He intoned further, "Is this the sword that was reforged I see before me?" when he was rudely interrupted by none other than the resident poet, Vogonwë, who had picked up a shank bone in preparation for a recitation of how the knee bone is connected to the thigh bone.

Vognwe began, "Frankly, I didn't know he wrote such bloody awful poetry." Thankfully for once, the Fanship knew only too well how much Vogwe knew about poetry, and so no one took up arms against such uncouth sullying of archaic verse, although clearly here were grounds volatile enough for a Jallignite or one of the Eury-Furies.

For his part, Soregum was walking around dazed and confused, as if hit by shrapnel from a lead zeppelin. He tried to hit on Pimpi but she pushed him away. Meanwhile, Orogorn Two was athletically running around the perimeter of the territory. He had been expecting to arrive at Wolverton Mountain, not Wolven Cot, and found these danged Oxfordian accents just a bit too much. Initially he was sure that these REBs had commited no travesty, for his rules would not abide it. He thought they had instead sustained a hit from the gun of the infamous father of Wolverton--or was it Riventon--Mountain who would not let any suitors reach his daughter, domiciled high up on Wolve/Riven/ton Mountain. For some reason Orogorn's head kept ringing with the name Dârwën, the girl who defied evolutionary principles of survival. He had heard tell of this story from Claude King when he had been perusing the ancient shared lore files from the loremasters at Billloard. For her part, Leninia was humming the accompanying song, "I'm the Girl from Wolverton Mountain" but no one other than she and Orogarn seemed to have any memory for ancient songs of the Western Country Beyond the Havens, Tol Nasherëa.

Of course, none of this interested Kuruharan much at all. He was more concerned with the three R's of reconnoitering, recovering and recycling, to say nothing of g'rave robbing. This was indeed his kind of rave, although he justified it as his Civitas Dutifreeum. Chrysopylax was quite a bit miffed that this destruction extended far beyond anything he himself could personally accomplish and so for once he held his tongue, er, fire.

Yet, when all is accounted for--and there is certainly much to be accounted for here--it was Grrralph who suffered the greatest discombobulation from the exploding Travestometre, being brought not-face to no-longer-face with the truly dead (to say nothing of course of the barrow itself, nor of its occupant, who was certainly rolling over and over, but not gravely so). Grrralph, who as one of the not gratefully dead, wasn't just a regular working stiff but was a pretender to a chain gang all of his own, what with his chainmail and breastplate, his vambraces and chain hose, his steel studs. That's a lot of heavy metal to be wrapped inside when the five o'clock whistle blows. In fact, when Merisue yelled, "Scarper," he replied, "Not now, dear, my head hurts" before he remembered that he was no longer Gravlox.

As the Waffleship gazed upon this vision it seemed to them that now they knew A Void which they had avoided before except in thought and word (although some of them were ready to void if a water closet could be found). And they would have become enamoured of the vision and engrossed with the gross had not Ricky surveyed the damage and said it was a shame this was so perishable, a veritable Naught-Eä. And he sent them forth in the Monterey to seek the Bôt-ankh-ic Gardens, where the ancient Pinus Viagara would soon restore them to full righteous vigour.

And so the Flitship flitted forth, all crowded this time into the back seat of the Monterey, from which they sought the High, as Oxford's main street was called, for temporary inspiration. They nodded on their way past Flirton College, where no work of any consequence had ever been done--for that was what the Berk and Babbler was for--until they came unto the ancient, sacred Pinus Viagara.

Here the narrative appears to be taken over in another hand.

Oh, they were out on a drive in Ricky's car. They hadn't driven very far. There in the road straight up ahead. The Pinus was drooping. They were sure it was dead. Rickey couldn't stop so he swerved to the right. They'll never forget the sound that night. The crying tires, the busting glass. The painful scream that they heard last:

"Ricky! You, you, you catastrophe, you."

~ ~ ~

Well when they woke up the rain was pouring down
There was Old Dame Pillow looking all around.
Something fluffy was under their heads.
She raised her hand and smiled when she said
Whoa, whoa, steady there, you've had a bad dream.
You're back in the Age that you knew you would miss.
The realisation of imagined bliss.
Now that you're here you'll hold it tight.
You?'l find your Truth and it'll be half-Right

Whereupon Merisuewyniel, spritely but decorously observed, "Well, that rent the very web of our story, didn't it?"

Kuruharan observed, "Sure did. I'm glad that can be counted on never to recur."

"Well, we did appear to enter History," remarked Earnur. "We might even have fused History and Legend."

"Do you think anyone will ever find our tale true?" interjected Vogonwë with some excitement, who had begun to commemorate their exploits in a work of revisionary history entitled "The Loam Plumbing of Wolven Cot," wherein he hoped to argue for chivary as the correct form of substantive for 'excessive torment delivered unto dead white male authors.'

"Pshk!" complained Pimpi. "I never got to examine Gucyberry's closet."

"No, no, no,' shouted Grrralph, as he swung a baseball around to punctuate his comments. "This has gone on entirely long enough."

"You mean the entire game thing?" posited Soregum.

"Well, we have been at it for longer than the original quest," opined Orogorn Two.

"No, I mean this blasted post,?"screeched Grrralph. 'It should have ended at the catastrophe thing. None of you know when to stop."

"Stop? There's such a thing as stop?" exclaimed Leninia, looking at Earnur with a gleam in her eye.

"We will have to agree on a stop command," observed Chrysopylax, "before we really do some damage."

"I think we should aim for a happy ending," interjected Merisuewyniel.

Suddenly, they all felt a heavy weight upon them, as if they were reluctant to let this quest go. It was clearly going to be a great struggle. There was a long silence. Someone passed around some pipeweed and they all puffed at the pipe, lost in thought.

"I had imagined a kind of holiday, a series of adventures," said Kuruharan, "with tickets, like a leisure resort."

"Not all of the wood has been uprooted," remarked MeriSue, hearing her bow call to her in Osaycan youSee.

"Well, we did save the Mire for the end, didn't we?" said Earnur, without a trace of smile on his face.

"As long as The Mire lies before us, we will be safe and comfortable," observed Orogarn Two, who had vague memories of what life used to be like in The Mire.

"We can't have that now," said Grrralph. "We need to have rising action and some kind of resolution."

'Aye," they all agreed. "We can't stay hidden from The Mire much longer."

To tell the truth, they were very reluctant to start. It was anybody's guess who would make the next post to lead them on.

[Mithadan]

Grrralph then threw down the wooden club that had so mysteriously appeared in his hands. Where it had come from, he did not know and did not want to consider, being as the fact that he wore red sox beneath his thigh high red boots was his own little secret. His appreciation of the obscure rituals of the peoples of the distant land of of Zænd-Lôt had little to do with this tale.

He cleared his throat and looked off towards the west before asking nervously, "Do we now proceed on to the Pay-Havens where you plan to take ship into the Lands of Mith far over the seas?"

"Nay," replied Merisu, with a toss of her comely hair. As usual, a ray of light suddenly appeared to illuminate her lovely tresses as she spoke. "We go now to the fair to middlin' land of the Mire, where we can rest for a time from our adventures."

"What is the Mire like?" asked Grrralph hesitantly. Here, Pimpi interjected her response. "It is a place of rural fields and many cow pastures, for the people of the Mire love their food and especially their beef." And if Pimpi drooled a bit as she spoke, she must be forgiven, for she spoke of a place and a pastime dear to her heart.

"Then we will not be attacked there?" prodded Grrralph. "No," answered Pimpi with a smile. "We will not be caught up in a disater, tragedy or other devastation?" he queried. "No," replied Pipmiowyn patiently. "We will not be dumped into a dungeon?" continued Grrralph. "No," responded the half-Hobbit with an impassive face. "We will not be enchanted, bound, chained or otherwise bushwhacked?" asked Grrralph. "NO!" cried Pimpi with a scowl. "The Mire is a land of peace and plenty!"

Grrralph capered happily in the road. No ships, no ocean travel, no emotional or physical distress; the Mire sounded like a place he would like. He realized suddenly that it had been some time since a show tune had come to his mind, and, as he skipped almost happily along the path before the rest of the Very-Mistakenship (Pimpiowyn in particular), he began to sing.

"Oh the Mire-Folk and the Itship should be friends!
Oh the Mire-folk and the Itship should be friends!

The Mire-folk like to eat a cow,
the Itship makes things go ker-pow.

But thats no reason why we can't be friends..."

So the Thoroughly-Deludedship proceeded along the road to the west, and in the space of a day or so, found themselves amid carefully tended, if a bit muddy, fields on which stood quaint thatched houses of wattle and mud-brick. A hill stood before them which was riddled with holes and burrows like the work of huge termites. The sky was blue and the sun was bright. All seemed well...

"#@%$&%$#@," cried Kuruharan. The members of the Itship halted and turned to see what ailed the Dwarf. He stood at the side of the road, holding the rail of a fence with one hand and wiping at the bottom of his left boot with a leaf held in his other hand. "Cow patty!" he grumbled as he rubbed the sole of his footwear. And so it began...

[Mithadan]

Meanwhile...Back in Moredough

In a grey stone cell, filled with chains, bamboo slivers, an iron lady, a rack and other assorted comfort items sat two figures. The first was Greedhog, Môgul's chief Korprat Loyer, and the second was a slightly rumpled, mostly reformed Uruk by the name of Gravlox. In front of Greedhog was a legal pad and an assortment of quills and ink pots, as well as a tome entitled "Rules of Uncivil Procedure". Next to these items of a professional nature was a half-eaten corned beef rueben, with a side order of potato salad, and a pot of coffee (black). In front of Gravlox was a nail file, several small courtesy bottles of hair care products bearing the mark of the Mantoes Hilton, a pocket mirror, a container of dental floss and a toothbrush. Gravlox himself was tied so tightly to the chair on which he was seated that it was a marvel he could move an eyebrow.

"We found these things in a hole beside the pile of leaves you used for bedding in your quarters, Gravlox," sneered Greedhog. "A few toiletries don't make you reformed you know." Nonetheless, Greedhog resolved to try the conditioner; Gravlox had such silky hair. "We know all about you now. We found a few survivors from Sourone's fortress at Gol Dulldor. Specifically, one Hazel Uruk..."

Gravlox groaned and closed his eyes. Greedhog smiled evilly, obviously relishing the prisoner's dismay and his rueben. "Yes, your ex-wife," the Loyer gloated. "She's taken up with Ssssam, the Thingwraith, now. And she's confirmed all that we've heard. You are a traitor! You refused to commit assault, battery and mayhem as a good Orc should, and you took up with Merisuwyniel and her foul Itship. In fact, we know that you've fallen for that she-Elf. But we understand that people sometimes fall from grace. So I'm going to offer you another chance. You can begin by telling me everything you know about each member of the Itship."

Gravlox yawned mightily, then looked mildly up at the Loyer. "You know, Ssssam and Hazel deserve each other..." he began. Greedhog interrupted his comment with a slap across the face with a wet trout that had materialized in the Loyer's hand. "The Itship!" he growled.

"Well," replied Gravlox. "There's Vogonwë. He's a magnificant poet and the best hand to hand fighter I've ever seen. If you attack them, you'd better send about twenty Orcs after him..." Greedhog scribbled eagerly on his pad. "Yes, yes, go on," the Loyer insisted.

"Then there's Moe, Larry and Curly, our wizards," Gravlox said. "Oh, and don't worry about the dragon, he can't blow fire and he's arthritic; he can barely move..."

"Moe...who?" snarled Greedhog. He consulted the transcripts from Gateskeeper's reports before looking up and glaring at his prisoner. "There's no Moe, Larry or Curly in the Itship..."

Gravlox smiled and rolled his eyes. "Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo," he hooted.

"You force me to use stronger measures," growled Grredhog. He stood and brushed crumbs from his Gucci suit. "Roll it!" he cried. Suddenly the room darkened and one wall began to glow. Insipid music began to play as words formed on the wall, one after another: "A Rankin-Bass production....'The Hobbit'"

"Aiiiiiii!" screamed Gravlox...

[Diamond18]

Back in the Mire, the Midshipwo/men were mucking about in the literal mire on the road. Kuruharan continued to use vile language to express himself, and it is here again represented by various punctuation marks.

“^&%#! This isn’t a road, it’s a $!@#-($*#ing swamp!”

The Dipshippers ignored him, as was their wont, each of them also battling the muck. At one point Earnur drew his sword and heroically smote the ground, declaring in manful tones, “Thou shall not prevent us from passing!” Griper burst into tears as it sank to its hilt in the mire, but Earnur heeded it not, drawing it out and shaking it above his head. It was not clear what this accomplished, besides spattering Orogarn Two and the Gateskeeper with mud and other elements. Grralph, weighted down with his weighty cloaks, sighed as he pressed thinggedly along. Merisu, Pimpi, and Leninia wrinkled their noses and lifted their skirts as they skirted the puddles, but then they remembered that they had mounts to ride, and mounted them sensibly. Soregum’s little red-eyed pony, however, looked miserable as she sank to her knees, and so Soregum was obliged to remove his weight from her equine person and traverse the gloop on foot. Chrysophylax wrinkled his snout as the tenacious goop squished between his toes and coated his scales, though he did have to pause to admire his footprints. Only Vogonwë was unencumbered, leaping from his horse, the slow and mud-hassled Tweedledum, to walk lightly on top of the bog. He waved to the others and declared, “I go to find the sun!” It was not clear what he meant by this, but nobody bothered to ask as they feared it was a snippet of a poem.

“What an odd little land,” Merisu observed, kneeing Falafel forward through the mud. “The grass is beautiful and green, the sky is pristine blue, the palm trees sway lightly in the breeze, but whoever is in charge of the roads is just doing an awful job!”

“It is lush, isn’t it?” Leninia said, eyeing the pretty flowers alongside the road. “Lord Etceteron, would you be a dear and pluck that rose from its bush for me?”

Earnur had been slashing his way through the glop, and paused with brown splatters running down his face. “Rose bush?” he said slowly, looking around in a muddy daze. He spied the flowery flora in question and drew back the mighty Griper, with murder in his eye. He fell upon the rosebush and the rosebush knew fear. Leaves and petals flew into the air, showering the Whipshippers with a cloud of ravished pollen. Leninia and Pimpi lifted their faces to the sky and felt like Elven princesses on their wedding day, even though they did not, as far as we can tell, have Elven blood. Merisu on the other hand was a little nonplussed, even though she was Elven and probably a forgotten princess of some sort to boot.

“I say,” she said, “Lord Etceteron, what did that rosebush ever do to you?”

Earnur, done with vanquishing the bush, turned to her and quoth, “It was looking at me funny.” He then presented Leninia with a single, perfect pink rose, and returned to vanquishing the mud.

Vogonwë, moved by the spectacle, turned his face to the sun and quoth:

The bush was bushed
By Lord EE
With a whoosh
And the mud went ghoosh
Under the hoofs
Of the steeds
And the weeds
Grew abundantly
On the side of the road

“Where is everybody?” Merisu wondered out loud. “I see quaint little houses and odd little burrows with round painted doors, but no one is coming to welcome us.”

“Or throw rocks at Vogonwë,” Kuruharan added.

“I do hope we can find a bite to eat,” said Pimpi. “I’m starving.”

They came at last to a gate blocking the way over a bridge, and Merisu stepped up, calling out, “Yoo hoo? Is there anybody there?”

At that a window slammed, and a crowd of hobbits holding gigantic lollypops poured out of the house on the left. They opened the gate, and came over the bridge, circling around the Quipship. Then, to the Quipship’s surprise, they began to dance jerkily and sing; “We represent the Lollygag Guild, the Lollygag Guild, the Lollygag Guild. We represent the Lollygag Guild and we’d like to say something but we can’t remember the rest of this soooo-ong!” With that they each fell to one knee in the mushy path, extending their lollypops to the Popshoppers.

“Er,” said Merisu ingeniously.

One of the taller hobbits stood and said, “Welcome, friends, to the Mire! We represent the Lollygag Guild, otherwise known as the Welcome Committee and Road Crew. Mostly, however, we just lollygag with our lollypops. Would you care to join us?”

“Actually that sounds like fun,” said Vogonwë.

“Road Crew, eh?” Kuruharan stepped up. “I’d like to log a complaint with your customer service bureau, in that case, because your roads are simply rubbish.”

“Never mind that,” Merisu shook her head. “It’s kind of you to offer us your hospitality, but might you instead give us directions to the nearest inn?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to lollygag with us? We really recommend it. In fact, you might be sorry if you don’t,” the hobbit said, as he and his comrades ringed around the rosey just a little bit closer. “We take our welcoming committee duties very seriously.”

“Thank you, but no,” Merisu said patiently. “We want nothing more than directions to an inn.”

“And eatery,” nodded Pimpi.

“And spa,” Leninia paused from sniffing her rose to bat her eyelashes.

“And pipeweed stash… er… store,” Soregum tapped his empty pipe.

“And Chinese laundry,” said the Gateskeeper, ruffling his sodden robes.

“And karaoke bar,” said Grrralph, whose robes were self cleaning.

“And tattoo parlor,” said Orogarn Two, inexplicably.

“No,” said the leader. “You must lollygag with us. You must gag as we gag and lolly as we lolly, for it is written in the Lollygag Manifesto, ‘Let all who enter the gate go not from that place until they have first obeyed the whim of the welcoming committee’.”

Then Earnur fell upon the Lollygag Guild, and the Lollygag Guild knew fear.

They scattered from the roadway as his sword slashed among them, shattering their lollypops and griping that the sugar could not be good for its blade. “We shall pass!” he cried, a fey yet manful look in his eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Merisu murmured as the hobbits ran screaming into the house and slammed the door. “I guess we’ll just find our way around by ourselves. You know how men detest asking for directions and all.” The Calamityship then shuffled through the gate and over the bridge, Chrysophylax munching on bits of shattered lollypop and Earnur swinging his sword menacingly.

Vogonwë quoth:

They represented the Lollygag Guild
And he smote their ruin
Upon the riverside
And we walk over their ruin
And it tastes pretty good

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Vogonwë,” Merisuwyniel said in her sweetest voice, which was very melodious indeed, “would you please run ahead and see if you can find some sort of road sign?”

The rest of the Muddyship looked at her gratefully, as mud and Vogy’s poetry were too much of a bad thing. Vogonwë smiled and said, “Let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf, snow, or mud – an Elf.” No one bothered to mention that he was only a Half-Elf, as they feared a debate on that topic would delay his leaving.

Merisu looked back at the bedraggled group of inter-racial heroes and their sidekicks when something that had been nagging at the back of her mind suddenly occurred to her. “But where is the cart?” she exclaimed.

The others looked around blankly, mumbling “Cart?” “Which cart?” “When did you last see it?” “It was there just a minute ago.” One brave member of the group commented (from the back, where s/he could not be identified – not so brave after all, apparently… ) “Do we really need it?”

“Of course we need it!” Merisu answered indignantly. “The Entish Wood is the reason for our Quest! Without it, we could just turn around and go back!”

More than one of the others would have liked to answer, “Great idea”, but they dared not. Whether this was due to the fact that they realized that turning around would mean going back through the same mud can no longer be determined.

As it was, they had to retrace their steps anyway; the cart was not really far behind, but it seemed double the distance. “My legs would be more willing, if the mud were less mucky,” Orogarn Two declaimed more dramatically than the situation deserved.

Vogonwë reappeared at that moment. “There is a sign ahead,” he shouted.

“What does it say?” Pimpi asked.

“It says: CART GET STUCK?” he answered.

“D’oh!” Merisu replied inelegantly, with considerably less feminine practicality than was her wont.

“Is that all?” Leninia retorted impatiently.

“Perhaps there is a second sign with more information,” Orogarn Two suggested. (He was used to thinking of second things.)

“I’ll run back and look,” Vogonwë replied, and was off in an instant.

The rest of the Glopship applied themselves to the task at hand, literally, hitching up the noble steeds to attempt to pull the cart free.

“§$%&/*#!” Kuruharan shouted in exasperation. Chrysophylax, who thought he had been called by his business partner, flew up to volunteer his assistance, but the nature of his fiery help did not bode well for the wooden artefacts, so he was politely requested to stay clear.

Vogonwë came back just as the males were pushing at the back of the cart while the females pulled the horses at its head. “I found another sign!” he beamed.

“What’s on it?” Gatesy wheezed between “heave-ho”s.

“It says GIVE IT A PUSH,” he said.

They looked at each other, puzzled. “D’oh!” Pimpiowyn commented.

“That can’t be all,” Grrralph mused.

“I know, I know,” said Vogonwë in a flash of unexpected brilliance. “I’ll run back to see if there’s another.”

“Look for two while you’re at it,” Leninia suggested with a foresight that came from her Maydayian nature.

Off he ran yet again. Merisuwyniel had paused to think while the others were pushing and pulling, for she carried the responsibility, the heaviest burden of the Quest by far. Now her face lit up with an idea. “I have it!” she exclaimed. “Let’s take the biggest pieces of Entish Wood off the cart, then we should be able to get it out of the mire.”

“I thought we were going into the Mire?” Etceteron queried.

“No, the mire, not the Mire,” their intrepid leader answered. “It makes a difference if you capitalize a word.”

They removed the huge Entish Thighs from the cart, strapping them onto Chrysophylax’ mighty back, where they deemed them to be out of danger. Then they pulled and pushed the cart free, finally able to continue their journey.

Before long Vogonwë rejoined them.

“Well?” Pimpi asked impatiently.

“There was another sign,” he said, carrying on hurriedly as he saw the flash in his beloved’s eyes. “It says: YOU’LL SOON BE AT…”

“Huh?” Leninia commented eloquently.

“There was one more,” he added. “It had a name on it: THE IVY BUSH”

“I recognize that!” Soregum shouted excitedly. “It’s an inn! We must be getting close to the heart of the Mire.”

Their faces lit up at the prospect of a homey fire, food, drink, and beds. With renewed effort, they pushed on until they finally stood before the door of a low building. The sign that swung above it proclaimed that this was indeed “The Ivy Bush”. Dusk was falling, and the lights that shone through the window shutters looked inviting. Next to the house was another building with a dilapidated sign that they could barely make out in the fading light. “Sethamir’s Stables and Chinese Laundry”, Merisuwyniel read. Turning to the others, she smiled. “It looks like we have everything we need right here!”

[The Saucepan Man]

Ever since entering the Mire, Soregum had kept his cloak and hood tightly wrapped around him for fear of being recognised. He had even pulled on his over-sized boots, although that was largely on account of the exceptionally poor state of the road.

“Can’t think why they have let it get into this state,” he had muttered to the others apologetically. “Although it has been a while since I was last here.”

At this, Grrralph had peered at him suspiciously.

As they stood outside The Ivy Bush, Merisuwyniel turned to her muddy and bedraggled companions.

“Now, remember,” she said in a commanding yet feminine voice. “We seek here only a hearty meal and a good night’s rest. I don’t want any of you getting us into trouble.”

“As if we would,” the Trouble-Magnet-Ship replied in unison and, astoundingly, without any hint of irony.

“Just try to blend in and don’t do anything to attract attention to yourselves,” she continued.

“And just how are we supposed to do that?” asked Orogarn Two, surveying the distinctly un-Hobbit-like company.

“This is the only road that leads to the Pay-Havens,” replied Merisu sharply. “There will be many travellers in an inn such as this.”

“Yeah, and I suppose they are all accompanied by Dragons too,” muttered Kuruharan.

All concurred that the Dwarf had a point and it was agreed that, in the interests of discretion, Chrysophylax should find himself a secluded spot to hide away while the company tarried at the inn.

“Keep yourself out of sight,” instructed Merisu. “And don’t go worrying livestock or toasting Hobbits.”

“Of course not,” replied Chrysophylax obligingly, his golden eyes glinting as he smiled inwardly in anticipation of the fun that he would have tonight.

As the great Dragon launched himself into the air and flew off, Merisu turned and, stooping, entered the lively inn.

At once, the room went silent and all eyes turned to the newcomers. A dart, missing its target, went flying into the wall. Trying to look as inconspicuous as they could (and failing miserably in the effort), the Sore-Thumb-Ship braved the glare of fifty pairs of Hobbit eyes and made for an empty table in the corner.

“Well that went well,” muttered Kuruharan.

“Oh, you think so?” said Earnur. “I was worried that we might have been noticed.”

Once they were settled, Merisu stood up and made her way to the bar.

“Good evening, sir. We require board and lodgings for the night, and stabling for our animals,” she said to the landlord.

“Yoom bee strayngerz in theezle ‘ere parrtz, bain’t yoom?” he said, peering at Merisu suspiciously.

The Shieldmaiden blinked momentarily, before replying in perfect rustic Hobbitish.

“Aye, tharrt weem bee, koind zirr. Weem bee in need o’ vittles n’ laardgin’ n’ stayblin’ fo’ theezle ‘ere noight.”

“Warrll, woi daadn’t yoom zay zo? Yoom beez in larrk. ‘Appen oi’ve garrt warrn spayre roome yoom can ‘arrve.”

“Now look here, my good man – er – Hobbit,” roared Lord Earnur Etceteron, striding up to the bar manfully as fifty Hobbit hands reached for their sling-shots. “We don’t want any trouble. We simply …”. His voice faltered as a well-placed knee cut him short in his prime.

“Just let me handle this,” Merisu hissed at him. Wincing, he turned and limped back to the table somewhat less manfully.

Within the hour, the horses and pony had been stabled in the adjoining building and a young Hobbit lass was serving the weary travellers with assorted food and drinks (in predictably prodigious quantities). Soregum launched into a particularly succulent leg of lamb, taking care to keep his face shrouded. Grrralph sat opposite him, his red eyes flickering like burning coals.

“So your journey’s over, my friend,” he said at length.

“Mmph ebble ob?” replied the Hobbit through a mouthful of beer and lamb.

“When we met you, you said you were on your way back to the Mire,” continued Grrralph. “Well, here you are.”

“Yes,” replied Soregum, swallowing hastily. “But now I think of it, it occurs to me that you need someone like me on this journey of yours.”

“Oh yes,” said Merisuwyniel. “And why should that be?“

“Yes, what use could someone like you possibly be on a heroic quest such as that with which we are charged – er - with?” interjected Vogonwë dramatically, seizing on the seeming opportunity to rid himself of this would-be rival for Pimpiowyn’s affections.

“In Grundor, little one, we let the children play when there’s adults work to be done,” laughed Orogarn Two, tousling Soregum’s hair patronisingly.

“Looks like your application’s about to be terminated, my friend,” added the Gateskeeper, smirking.

“No hard feelings, eh, old bean?” chimed in Earnur, proffering a hand.

“Face facts, darling, you’re just not wanted. Why don’t you take a hike?” spat Leninia, who had still not forgiven Soregum for outcome of the singing contest.

“Loser,” added Kuruharan, warming to the conversation.

“Well,” continued Soregum, steeling himself. “It seems to me that any delegation to Valleyum on behalf of the Free Peoples of Muddled-Mirth should comprise representatives of each race. You have an Elf, a Half-Elf, a Dwarf, assorted Men, er - whatever it is that Grralph is, and, of course, various Entish fragments. Even a Dragon. But you have no Hobbit.”

“The position of Hobbit is already taken” snorted Vogonwë, inadvertently coughing up a hairball.

“But Pimpi is only Half-Hobbit,” said Merisu. “Soregum is right. We need a full compliment if our company is to be truly representative.”

“Well, it’s no hair off my toes,” replied Pimpi, draining her fifth mug of ale top and letting fly with an impressive belch. Soregum looked at her in admiration as Vogonwë retrieved his fallen crest.

“What?” she exclaimed as he glared at her. “I’m just blending in like Merisu told us to.”

It was not long before their jugs of ale had run dry and Soregum, his eagerness to prove his worth getting the better of him (not to mention the six pints he had already downed), volunteered to have them refilled. But as he crossed the room, jugs in hand, his hood slipped.

[Editor’s note: For ease of reference, the following passages have been translated from the rustic Hobbitish.]

“Well, well! As I drink and smoke! If it isn’t Mercasor Gummidge!” exclaimed a grizzled old Hobbit. “There’s a face I haven’t seen in nigh on fifty years.”

Soregum stopped abruptly, his mind racing as he desperately tried to think of some way out of the situation. Looking back, he saw that his erstwhile companions had all taken a sudden and intense interest in the patterns made by the beer-stains on their table. There was nothing for it.

“Dodo Muddifoot,” he said with a heavy sigh. “How goes it with you, old friend?”

“Badly, as it happens,” replied the old Hobbit darkly. “But that’s quite beside the point. Where have you been all these years, Murky you old rascal?”

Inevitably a crowd had gathered round, and Soregum was forced to sit and spend the next hour fabricating exotic tales to account for his fifty years’ absence from the Mire. At length, the conversation turned to the Mire itself.

“These be queer times,” said Dodo Muddifoot ominously. “They say there’s wolves abroad on the North Moors at night.”

“Aye,” agreed Holdfast Buttonbelly. “My cousin Cal, him as works for old Mr Bodkin at Overthehill, said he saw a beetle big as a house up beyond Spooky not long back.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” sneered a mean looking fellow who had sat himself opposite Soregum. “Fire-side tales and stories fit for nought but to scare the bejeepers out of the young’uns.”

“Hush you, Ned Candyman,” said a pale Hobbit who had arrived shortly before looking rather shaken. “Just ten minutes hence, I saw a Dragon flying over old Farmer Gobbins’ marshmallow fields.”

“You saw a Dragon fly? That’s nothing! I saw a Horse fly,” declared Flabby Bulgebottom.

“I saw a Front-porch Swing and heard a Diamond Ring,” added Old Soakes.

“Well I’d been done seen about everything, when I saw an Oliphaunt fly,” intoned old Daddy Twobellies solemnly.

At this, the Hobbits could contain themselves no longer. As one, they all collapsed in great merriment. All except Ned Candyman.

“Get with it Daddy-oh!” cried Dodo Muddifoot, tears rolling down his face. “You’ve got to make it believable. Elsewise you lose the effect. Flying Oliphaunts indeed! That’s just plain ludicrous.”

“But I did see a Dragon,” said the newcomer quietly.

“Yeah, right!” snarled Ned Candyman as he headed for the door. “Well, it’s an early start for me tomorrow, Dragon or no Dragon. Sweet shops don’t run themselves you know, and business has been mighty brisk of late.”

As the confectioner departed, the mood became sombre once more. Dodo Muddifoot drew close to Soregum conspiratorially.

“All the same Murky, things ain’t right here in the Mire,” he said in hushed tones. “Not since old Sparkey* arrived.”

“Sparkey?” said Soregum blankly.

“Yes,” continued Dodo. “He turned up four weeks ago with a gang of ruffians from Beer in tow. Selling sausages in bread rolls he was. Well, as you can imagine, they were selling like hot dogs.”

“In no time, Ned Candyman was in league with him,” added Daddy Twobellies. “That’s why his shop is doing so well, you see. New recipes he says. But everyone knows it’s Sparkey behind it all.”

“Yes, there’s something queer in them lollipops, and no mistake,” Old Soakes chipped in. “Anyone taking a bite out of one of them comes over all strange like, if you get my meaning. Lollygags they call themselves, making out they’re all friendly like. Truth is, they’re just doing Sparkey’s bidding.”

“So, where’s this Sparkey now?” asked Soregum.

“Up at Bog End,” replied Dodo. “Holed up with his ruffians. He’s taken young Lotto Boggins-Ssmythe under his wing. And now we all have to do as he says. Those as don’t get dragged off to the Recycle-Bins.”

“There must be something you can do,” said Soregum.

“Not on our own there ain’t, Mercasor Gummidge. Mind, if a hardy bunch of adventurers were to come along …”

“Funny you should say that,” smirked Soregum looking back towards the Oblivious-ship.
_____________________________________

* A corruption of the Orcish, Sparkû, meaning “Cable-Man”

[Kuruharan]

Horrified by the advances the plot had made of recent days, Kuruharan decided that he had to do something fatuous and completely irrelevant (if that was at all possible). Thankfully, the excursion to the Seventh Age had given him a business idea that he hoped that the locals had not come up with yet. He casually strolled up to the bar and pulled something out of his robes.

“What’s that you’re holding in your hand?” asked the bartender.

“A bottle,” replied Kuruharan.

“A bottle!” cried the publican, “Brilliant!!!! What’s it do?”

“Why,” said Kuruharan, “you take the bottle, fill it with your local house specialty and then you drink it!”

“Drink beer from a bottle?!” shouted the barkeep, “Brilliant!!!” He polished off the bottle. “Explain it to me again!”

“Well,” said Kuruharan (even more enthusiastically), “I take this ‘umble glass bottle, fill it with the resident frothy brew (*sniff*sniff* quite potent I must say, what is it made of?), then you take it outside, go down to the glen (or since this is the Mire, the fen), and there you drink it!”

“Drink beer at a picnic!!!” bawled the publican, “Brilliant!!!! What else you got?!”

“Not only have I created a better way to store your brew, I’ve created a better way to carry the better way to store your brew!” enthused Kuruharan.

“Wot’s that?” demanded the bartender.

“This,” said Kuruharan, as he set a particularly cheap cardboard box holding six bottles inside. “Behold! The six-pack!!”

“A six-pack,” howled the barkeep, “Brilliant!!!! Wot’s it do?”

“It is a way to carry six beers at the same time,” said Kuruharan.

“Carry six beers at the same time,” interjected Daddy Twobellies and Dodo Muddifoot at the same time. “Brilliant!!!” they yelled. “Jinx, you owe me a six-pack!!!” they screamed at each other in unision. “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten!!! Jinx, you owe me a six-pack!!!” they simultaneously screeched in full throat.

Thirty minutes and sixty six-packs between the two of them later, Daddy and Dodo managed to frustrate the final resolution of their jinxes by passing out simultaneously.

“Yes, I think that qualifies as being pretty fatuous,” announced Kuruharan, jingling is earnings. “Anyway, where was I?”

“According to the script of the commercial, I was about to suggest that I drink all six beers at the same time,” said the barkeep after a moment’s thought.

“Good idea,” said Kuruharan. “Here, have a little swig of this to chase it down with,” the dwarf said handing over a bottle. “This is on me,” came words that he had never uttered before.

As something slipped in the very fabric of the cosmos, the bartender polished off the six-pack and a bottle of Snakeoil.

“wheeze…thasss…*cough*…good,” moaned the publican, when he could breathe again.

“Isn’t it,” said Kuruharan dryly. “By the way, I’ve also invented another wonderful device.”

“Do…tell…” gasped the bartender in a ghost of a voice.

“It is called a bag,” said Kuruharan. “You put things in it and can then carry them with ease.”

“Howsh it work?” inquired the bleary barhobbit.

“I’ll show you,” said Kuruharan, sticking his hand into the till and pulling up a fistful of coin and dropping it in the bag.

“Ohh…” mumbled the bartender. “Brilliant!!!”

“I think so,” said Kuruharan, pulling the till up onto the bar so that he could empty it more easily.

After a moment’s awkward pause the bartender spoke again. “Mighty *hic* strange happenings in the Mire of late,” he said as his head fell on the bar.

“So I heard,” said Kuruharan, industriously scooping money into his bag.

“All sorts of animals have been sprouting wings, accordin’ to some,” droned the publican, as his jaw dropped out of sight. “I just saw a pink, winged oliphaunt myself! Some have even said that they have seen a dragon.”

“Dragon’s are mythical,” replied the dwarf, tossing plugs out of the till.

“Then there are the wonderboxes,” whispered the bartender, as his forehead sank below the bar. “Sparky brought them. You press a button and colorful pictures appear in stupefying patterns. It is most soporific. It can even show pictures of those horses and oliphaunts that fly.” Only the barkeep’s hands remained on the bar.

“The next thing you’ll know you’ll be saying that Balfrogs have wings!” said Kuruharan as he swept the remainder of the till into his bag.

The bartender succumbed to the inevitable and plopped down on the floor.

Kuruharan succumbed to the inevitable and prepared for the usual hasty and unlawful exit.

[Thenamir]

Ned Candyman was in a merry mood as he ambled, a little unsteadily, down the street towards his home and bed, several good pints of ale-fire warding off the night chill and causing him a pleasant loss of short-term memory. No amount of free-flowing beer, however, could have kept Ned from being frozen in his tracks by the booming basso profundo, like unto the flatulence of the gods, which hailed him from an unlit alleyway. Ned turned to the sound, willing himself to run away but unable to resist that malodious sweetness -- the voice of the used-car-salesman of Valleyum, a well-coiffed news-anchor, and a home-shopping-network huckster all rolled into one. Step by painful step he approached the shadowy figure lurking in a half slouch over his hyen...er, pony cart. Then he came within the range of the heavenly smell of warm meat sausages and fresh-baked buns, and the last of his resistence melted away.

"You know whom I seek. They are near, yes?" came the voice again, tinged with just a bit of eagerness held under tight rein, as the silhouetted man began assembling something in the darkness, sending another draught of the fell aromas in Ned's direction.

"Yes," said Ned thickly, as if through a drugged euphoria, "they are taking their ease (along with most of the food) at The Ivy Bush, Mister Sparkey sir."

"Excellent." said the voice as if pronouncing a pontifical blessing upon the benighted sap. "Here, a reward for your...cooperation. And some lollipops for your children." Whereupon the still-hidden figure reached toward Ned out of the darkness and handed him a simple hot dog with mustard, onions and "secret sauce." Ned acccepted eagerly, spitting fragments of thanks at the retreating figure as he departed towards the nearby inn. Ned shuffled off towards home again. Ten steps down the road, he wondered why his breath tasted of onions, and where did all these crumbs on his jerkin come from...

Ten minutes later, Sparkey, heretofore known as Sauerkraut of Dorktank, had taken a position with his cart down the street from the rooms soon to be occupied by the EverHungry-ship. He stoked the fire under the sausage-boiler, and then began pumping a bellows which blew vast quantities of hotdog-scented air up and towards the inn. He knew that where there were hobbits, even half-hobbits, the smell would bring them out. "Stupid Riders with their Black Breath...you can catch more hobbits with hotdogs than halitosis, I always say," murmured Sauerkraut as he worked.

==========================

"...I'm sorry, miss, er..."

"Pimpiowyn!" exclaimed Pimpi and Vogonwe in unison. Vogonwe glared at Soregum, who was still chatting it up with a group of fellow hobbits and had not yet returned with the ale he'd promised to refill. Not that the bartender was anywhere in evidence.

"Er, miss Pimpiowyn, but there ain't nuthin' left in th' larder! You and your gatherin' 'ave eaten us clean out!"

"And you call this an inn! When I go to an inn," Pimpiowyn explained with a rising annoyance, "I expect to be able to eat in the inn, that's why it's called an "inn"! Now, because your inn has run out, we have to go out, which is the opposite of inn, and find more victuals to bring inn from out, and that's just not right! Out is out, and in is inn -- and in that your inn is now on the outs with me, and three outs ends an inning, out from inside the inn into the outside I go in search.."

Gateskeeper leaned over to Earnur and Orogarn Two, whispering, "Obviously Vogonwe's influence is beginning to rub off on her." The two men chuckled, until Pimpi interrupted her rant so suddenly that they thought she must have choked on something except that her plate was (as usual) empty. Pimpiowyn's food-sensitive schnozzola had detected a momentary whiff of something...delicious. "I'm going out..." she started, but was interrupted yet again by the rest of the Heard-it-all-before-ship in unison complaining "Don't start that again!" Vogonwe proffered, "Don't go too far from the i...er, the Ivy Bush, dear. You might get lost!" he added at the rapidly retreating figure heading for the door. After a few moments, Soregum and his fellows, apparantly catching the same whiff as Pimpi, followed her out the door.

At this moment Kuruharan rejoined the group, walking a bit stiffly and carrying a canvas sack that appeared to be rather heavy and that jingled a bit when he hiked his short form up onto the chair. The others were too tired, too full, and too engrossed in discussing tomorrow's plans to notice. Before long, though, fatigue (and ale, obtained by helping themselves) overtook them, and they made their way in ones and twos off to their rooms, except for Kuruharan and Vogonwe -- the dwarf to hide his booze-pilfered takings in the cart, and the elf to find his beloved overgrown half-hobbit. Gateskeeper cleaned and reloaded his pipe, and excused himself outside to smoke it.

Upon reaching the outside Vogonwe searched up the street and down again, finally espying the tavern hobbits and Pimpiowyn milling about a small cart a few blocks away and started towards the cart at an easy pace. But something was...wrong...Pimpi was in the presence of food, and it certainly smelled good, but was not eating. He trotted up to the cart to just as Pimpi began screaming -- the smell was maddening, but no one was attending the cart!

Kuruharan walked around back of the inn to the stables and parking area, where the animals and their cart were being kept. He climbed aboard the roomy cart and found his strongbox-pack, stashed away his new sack of stolen loot...but something was...wrong...this cart wasn't roomy, it was supposed to be overloaded! The Entish Thighs were gone! Kuruharan spun around in the cart and caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing behind the barn, while on the ground beside the cart, there lay a crumpled paper hat.

================================

Sauerkraut, congratulating himself on a flawless diversionary tactic, ignored the protestations of the Entish thighs in his own covered wagon and was about to mount up when he heard a voice already in the seat call down, "going somewhere?" Gateskeeper, puffing on his pipe, looked down at the shocked Sauerkraut. "Wait," melliflowed the erstwhile sausage vendor, "I know you."

"That's right," said the Gateskeeper in a tight voice, made all the tighter by the Ivy Bush's ale, all the while blowing smokerings that shaped themselves into smiley-faces. "I used to be your message boy back at Dorktank. I've got a new employer now, and I'm afraid that someone already has dibs on these Ent parts."

"You mean that pitiful band you've been travelling with? That insufferable shieldmaiden and her misfit tagalongs?"

"Not exactly."

Gateskeeper whipped his staff around, and let fly with a burst of magic with the word "McAfee!!" Sauerkraut was knocked back against the side of a nearby storage building. Sauerkraut, after a moment's shock, responded with "Norton!!" which caused Gateskeeper to be slammed to the ground and begin spinning in circles. Gateskeeper shot back with "Yahoo!!", which caused Sauerkraut to do somersaults while making funny faces. Sauerkraut gathered his strength (not an easy thing when making faces) and hurled another mighty curse, "Napster!!" Gateskeeper began break dancing uncontrollably, but still managed to say, "Is that all you got?" before crying "PamelaAndersonLee.com!!" Even the aging Sauerkraut was distracted by that one, but he was able to bellow one last command, "GOOGLE!!!" -- which would have left Gateskeeper barking like a dog on all fours, except the barrage was deflected by a thrown shield. They both looked up in surprise to see the rest of the Not-Well-Restedship in the street, armed to the teeth (and most of their hands) facing them down.

Merisuwyniel stepped forward and said, "This insufferable shieldmaiden, for one, wants those thighs back. Undamaged, thank you."

The voice of powerful resonance, like the rumblings of the unfed stomach of a cave troll, sneered at them, "You have no idea who you're dealing with." Raising an aged yellow hand off-stained with misfired mustard, he issued a silent summons. From nearest to that tumeric-spiced hand Gateskeeper sensed a great power flowing, and cried out "SPAM O-Mail! You're infringing my khopy-wight!!"

"Nay," came again the voice, and it's tone was changed, akin to the gentle belching of Mantoes, "SPAM o-mail is unsolicited. This is my own all-volunteer mailing list. Behold!" And out of every dark corner, from behind every trash can and hay-bale, from every concealment large enough to cover a hobbit, arose from their hiding places, the lolligaggers and the hot-dog entranced people of both Beer and the Mire, surrounding and vastly outnumbering them. Among the zombies was a very bloated-looking Pimpiowyn, an odd smile on her otherwise expressionless face...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A great stillness had fallen over the entire crowd, but no one bothered to pick it up. Suddenly a voice spoke, its very sound an enchantment. Those who listened thought that it was a delight to hear it speaking, all that it said seemed wise and reasonable, and desire awoke in them by swift agreement to seem wise themselves.

“Well?” it said with gentle question. “Why must you disturb the rest? Will you give us no peace in the Mire by night and day?”

The Listening-Ship saw a figure standing before them: an old man, swathed in a great cloak, the colour of which was not easy to tell, as the fact that it was night meant that it was also dark. His face was long, with a high forehead and deep darkling eyes, hard to fathom (see above note).

“But come now,” said the soft voice of Sparkey, the wizard once known as Sauerkraut, for he it was. “Several of you at least I know by name. Gateskleeper I know too well to have much hope that he seeks help or counsel here. But you, Merisuwyniel, shieldmaiden extraordinaire, are declared by your feminine yet practical designer outfit, and still more by the lovely countenance of your noble Elven heritage. O worthy daughter of Vinaigrettiel the Fair! Why have you not come before, and as a friend? Much have I desired to ra – um, see you, beauteous maiden, and especially since your adventures began, to save you from the unwise and evil counsels of your travelling companions. Is it yet too late? Despite the injuries that have been done to me, in which the members of the Destruction-Ship, alas! have had some part, still I would ra – ahem, save you, and deliver you from the ruin that draws nigh inevitably, if you ride upon this road which you have taken. Indeed I alone can ra – err, aid you now.”

Merisuwyniel opened her mouth as if to speak, but she said nothing. She looked at the face of Sauerkraut and seemed to hesitate. Her companions stirred at first, murmuring with approval of the words of Sauerkraut; and then they too were silent. Over their hearts crept a shadow, the fear of a great danger: the end of Muddled-Mirth in a darkness to which Merisu was leading them, while Sauerkraut stood beside a door of escape, holding it half open so that a ray of light came through. There was a heavy silence, so heavy that it was in danger of falling again.

It was Orogarn Two who broke in suddenly. “The words of this wizard stand on their hands,” he growled, gripping the hilt of his sword. “In the language of Dorktank help means ruin, and saving means ravishing, that is plain. But we do not come here for fillings.”

“Peace!” said Sauerkraut, and for a fleeting moment his voice was less suave, and a light flickered in his eyes and was gone. “I do not speak to you yet, Orogarn, third cousin, 84 times removed, of Isildur,” he said. “Far away is your dental city and small concern of yours are the cavities of this land. But it was not by design of yours that you were drilled by them, and so I will not blame such bridge as you have made - a stable one, I doubt not. But I pray you, allow me first to speak with the Elven princess, whose mother was once my friend.

“What have you to say, Merisuwyniel? Will you have peace with me, and all the aid that my knowledge, founded in long years, can bring? Shall we make our bed – um, counsels together concerning the wooden artefacts, and repair the Ent-That-Was-Broken with such success that it shall flower fairer than ever before?”

Still Merisuwyniel did not answer. Whether she strove with anger or doubt none could say. “We will have peace,” she said at last, with an effort. Several of the Spellbound-Ship cried out gladly. She held up her slender yet strong white hand. “Yes, we will have peace,” she said, “when you and all your works have perished. You are a liar, Sauerkraut, and a corrupter of women’s reputations. A lesser daughter of Elven royalty am I, but I do not need to lick your sauce from my fingers. Turn elsewhere with your rotten hotdogs.”

The Enchanted-Ship gazed at her as if startled out of a dream. Harsh as Joe Cocker their leader’s voice sounded in their ears after the muzak of Sauerkraut.

[Kuruharan]

END OF DISK TWO!!!! DO NOT INSERT DISK THREE UNTIL DISK TWO HAS BEEN THOROUGHLY VIEWED!!!!

STOP THAT!!! I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED ALL OF DISK TWO YET!!!

NO!!! WAIT!!! YOU ARE NOT LISTENING TO ME!!! I SAID...

***WHAP***

We apologize for the rather belligerent tone of the earlier portion of this announcement.

NO WE DON'T!!!

Yes we do.

NO WE DON'T!!!

Yes we do!

NO WE DON'T!!!

YES WE DO!!!

NO WE DON'T!!!

GO ON!!! PUT IN DISK THREE NOW!!! DO IT!!!!

NNNOOOOOO!!! YOU CAN'T!!!!

(Sounds of violent struggle erupt off camera)

[Thenamir]

"Cabbage and coconuts!" Sauerkraut hissed, and they shuddered at the hideous change, as well as the disgusting culinary combo. "What is the house of Vinaigrettiel but a wretched cafeteria where pointy-eared waiters sing silly 'fa la la lally' tunes and serve wilted greens soaked over with sour wine? Too long have they escaped the giblets themselves. But the cook comes, slow in the simmering, blackened and hard in the end. Fry if you will!" Now his voice changed, as he slowly mastered himself. "I know not why I have had the patience to speak to you. For I knead not your breas...er, bread, nor your little band of doughboys, as swift to fall as to rise, Merisuwyniel Shieldmeddler. I offered you a feast beyond your palate and your wit. I have offered it again, so that those whom you mislead may clearly see the choice of meals.

"But you, Gateskeeper! How comes it that you can endure such company? For you are proud, noble Andotiruves-and not without reason, having indeed powerful processors and webcams that look both deep and far. Even now will you not upgrade to my operating system? When you were at Dorktank I bore you no ill-will; and even now I bear none, though you return to me in the company of the unsober and the rhyme-challenged. How should I? Are we not both writers of a high and ancient program, most Excel-ent in Muddled-Mirth? Our partnership would profit us both alike. Much we could still execute together, to defragment the sundered ents of the world. Let us reformat our friendship with one another, and erase from memory these lesser folk! Let them wait on our release schedules! For the common good I am willing to delete the past, and to receive you. Will you not consult with me?"

So great was the power that Sauerkraut exerted in this last effort that none that stood within hearing were unmoved, especially those under his spell who drew the circle around the Hopeless-ship ever tighter. But now the recipe was wholly different. They heard the gentle remonstrance of a kindly CIO with an erring but much-loved tech-assistant dweeb. But they were shut out, listening at a door to words not meant for them:common users or stupid gamers overhearing the elusive discourse of true techies, and wondering how it would affect their response times. It was inevitable that they should make a merger. Gateskeeper would meet Sauerkraut in the inn, to discuss low-level programming tweaks beyond their comprehension in the Mayor's suite of The Ivy Bush. The door would be closed, and they would be left outside, dismissed to await meager customer support. Even in the feminine yet practical mind of Merisuwyniel the thought took shape, like eye-shadow of doubt: "He will betray us; he will go - we shall be offlined."

Then Gateskeeper belched. The fantasy vanished like a cheap computer warranty.

"Sauerkraut, Sauerkraut!" said Gateskeeper, who had been lazily sampling some of the hotdog salesman's garnish during his monologue, and was now picking pickled cabbage shreds from his teeth. "I hate it when that stuff gets stuck between my molars. I fear I am beyond your computation, Sparkey. When last I visited you, you were the cable-guy of Moredough. Nay, the employee who has escaped from the roof with a golden parachute will think twice before he comes back to the same franchise by the door. Dorka-Cola has proved less market share than your hope and fancy made it. So may other things in which you still have trust. Would it not be well to leave them for a while? To turn to new things, perhaps? Think well, Sauerkraut! Will you not shut down this sleazy hotdog operation, and return the Entish Thighs so that the Ent That Was Broken may yet be made whole?"

A shadow passed over Sauerkraut's face; then it went deathly white. Before he could conceal it, they saw through the mask the anguish of a mind in doubt, loathing to stay and dreading to leave its restauranteurship. For a second he hesitated, and no one breathed. Then he spoke, and his voice was shrill and cold. Pride and hate were conquering him. Besides, he still had almost the entire populations of two towns on his side. "I have other things to do," sneered the old man in white, "so if you wish to treat with me, while you have a chance, leave behind these ding-dongs and twinkies that dangle at your tail! Good day!' He turned and mounted the no-longer-disguised hyena cart and took up the reins.

'I did not give you leave to go,' said Gateskeeper sternly.. 'I have not finished. You have become a fool, Sauerkraut, and yet pitiable. You might still have turned away from relish and onions, and have been of service. Behold, I am not Gateskeeper, whom you fired...wait, I am Gateskeeper whom you fired. But I am also Gateskeeper the Window-maker, Gateskeeper the Conqueror, soon to be lord of the lands of the Eunuchs on the shores of the Pea Sea!" Then, calling upon the power delegated to him by the Lord of the Fell Tower Block of Barat-Hom, the Clozhd-dheal, he cried out, "Sauerkraut, your staff is broken!" There was a crack, and the staff split asunder in Sauerkraut's hand. But rather than cowering in fear, after a moment's surprise Sauerkraut merely chuckled. No change had come over the dazed but obedient faces of the surrounding zombies. The Eyes-wide-shut-ship blinked almost in unison upon the realization that Gatekeeper had been a second-rate wizard in their midst all along. But explanations would have to wait for a less pressing moment.

‘Grimy! Grimy!’ Sauerkraut called; and out from under the cover in the wagon came Grimy Hasbeen, crawling, almost like a dog, holding something that looked rather like a scrawny leafless tree made of some kind of metal, attached by a pair of black wires to the old signal connections left over from Improvas at the base of the Entish Thighs. "Are we still online?"

"Yes, master," rasped the once proud voice of Grimy Hasbeen, son of Washtup. "The connection is still good, and your o-mail broadcast signal is still reaching all the people in The Mire and Beer with the power of the Entish thighs."

"Good," smiled the old vendor. Turning to the crowd that surrounded the Really-in-for-it-now-ship, he said simply, "Kill them."

"Oh, how cliche," protested the stunning Merisuwyniel, to no avail. The ancient wizard took no notice and prepared to drive away.

[Mithadan]

A rumble of disconent filled the air. The Hobbits, now numbering several hundred, that had come under Sauerkraut's power cried out and waved their weapons, knives, rusty swords, pitchforks, scythes, rakes, shovels, clubs, sticks, rocks and even their stubby little fists. Only then did the Itship realize that they were truly and thoroughly surrounded. The Embattledship raised their own weapons and prepared to meet the onslaught with some regret for these were simple folk, innocents...ok, maybe not that innocent, but they had no gripes against the Itship of their own, save maybe a bartender who was wielding an empty cash drawer as his weapon.

Vogonwë stood near next to Earnur with a number of arrows in his hand. Yet he paused even as the mass of Hobbitry advanced. "These people have done nothing to us," he cried. "Is there no way to avoid bloodshed?"

"Their's or our's?" growled Kuruharan as he raised his axe. At that moment, Chrysophylax winged in lazily from the north and hovered over the Hobbit army preparing for a large scale barbeque. "There will be needless slaughter," said Earnur with a skewed grin. "We have a history of this sort of thing you know."

Just then, as battle was about to be joined, a voice rose above the din and cried out "Wait!" Sauerkraut paused and looked back over his shoulder. There, standing in the road, was Grrralph. "Sauerbrot... errr... Snarky..." he began. Orogarn Two groaned, expecting a song and dance. In an odd way, he was not disappointed.

Grrralph walked over to Sauerkraut and rummaged about in his cloak for something. The wizard's eyes narrowed in expectation of an attack. Instead, Grrralph withdrew a silvery box from his cloak and held it up. "Please sir," he began. "I am a wraith of very little brain and you are a mighty and renowned technician; a master of operating systems. I have carried this with me for as long as I have been a wraith, though I believe I had it from even before then. I don't recall, being a wraith of very little brain as I am. But might you perhaps, somehow, fix this?"

The wizard gasped (as did Gatekeeper, though no one noticed). "A Cell-antir!" cried Sauerkraut. "How did the likes of you get this? These were made in the Uttermost West and were only for use of the servants of the Velour!." The wizards eyes shone with greed at the prospect of obtaining a second Cell-antir. "Of course good wraith!" he said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "Let me take a look at it and see what is wrong."

Grrralph stepped forward and handed the Cell-antir over to Sauerkraut. "Idiot!" cried Orogarn. "D'oh!" intoned Kuruharan in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves. "That thing must be worth a fortune and he just hands it over!"

Sauerkraut fiddled with the Cell-antir for a moment. "Hmmm. Not bad," he said. "Wireless Muddled Mirth-net access with all the bells and whistles. Maybe a couple of operating systems behind, but still...." He attempted to turn it on. The Cell-antir flickered with light then went dark. "Hmmm. Something's preventing it from booting up. Maybe its memory is overloaded." He drew forth his own Cell-antir and, using a wire made of the finest mithril, connected it to Grrralph's unit. "Maybe I can download its memory and clean it up," he mused.

Sauerkraut's Cell-antir glowed brightly and, after a moment's hesitation, so did Grrralph's. Runes scrolled across both screens. The wizard's eyes grew wide. He turned to Grrralph in surprise. "You're a L...." he began. His words were interrupted by a screech and sparks flew from both Cell-antirs. A silver mist of smoke arose from the devices and coalesced into a frightening form which swayed and glowed above the wizard. "Aiiii!!" screamed Sauerkraut "A virus! Nay! A Wyrm!"

The Wyrm spread its shining wings and hovered above the wizard. Lightning arced from its gaping jaws and struck not only the Cell-antirs but also Sauerkraut's cart. The device held by Grimy shuddered and began to smoke. The wizard did not cringe, but rather spread his arms wide with a wild look in his eyes. "Norton!" he cried. "Symantec!" Shadowy forms flew from his fingertips and closed upon the Wyrm, sending tendrils of mist out to wrap it up in a veil of quarantine until it could be slain. The Wyrm battled back with jagged bolts of electricity.

"A Wyrm!" cried Chrysophylax. "An electric drake! I've never seen one before." But privately, the dragon noticed its shapely wings and the fine features of its snout. Hmmmm. Cute. Very cute!

Even as the veil of quarantine drew about the Wyrm, it wiggled and evaded it. With a flap of its wings it blew away the shadowy antivirus spirits. "Aiiii!" cried Sauerkraut. "It's not defined! I need an update!" Hastily, he drew a PeeCee from his robes and began working frantically. But it was too late. The device in Grimy's hands burst into flames and he hurled it away. Perhaps he was aiming for Merisu and his throw went awry. Or perhaps he did not know who he hated more, the Itship or Sauerkraut. Whatever the reason, the flaming device struck the wizard in the head and he fell to the ground. His cart exploded in a shower of rancid grease, hot dog meat, toppings and processor chips. Smoke filled the air and a wind arose in the west and blew it away. When the air had cleared, Sauerkraut and Grimy had vanished.

The Wyrm shrieked with satisfaction and settled on the ground beside the Itship. After a moment's hesitation, she was joined by Chrysophylax. The crowd of Hobbits milled about in confusion and most dropped their weapons. Pimpiowyn stepped forward and approached Vogonwë. "Where am I?" she asked. "And why am I covered in ketchup....?"

[Diamond18]

"Where are we? What do you mean 'where are we'? We're in the Mire," Vogonwë answered, resheathing his unused arrows.

"But... but why am I covered in ketchup?" Pimpi repeated worrisomely, though her worry was not enough to prevent her from licking her fingers.

Vogonwë paused, presented with a connundrum. "I don't know," he admitted. "One moment you were screaming because no one was attending the cart, then you were smiling like an elf on 'Mudwater, and now you're covered in this thing you call 'ketchup'. It's most puzzling."

"Idiot!" said Kuruharan impatiently. "The hot dog cart just exploded. We're all covered in ketchup!"

"Ye gads!" Vogonwë cried, looking down. "And Sauerkraut, too!"

"You mean cabbage?" Pimpi asked, brightening.

"No! Sauerkraut!" horror raised his tenor to a falsetto. "Bits and pieces of wizard flesh! Strands of silvery white wizard hair! Ketchup colored wizard blood! Chips of ivory wizard tooth enamel and strings of greeny wizard stomach goo!"

Pandemonium enveloped the crowd like a stink bomb. Newly un-zombified hobbits ran in circles screaming and waving their hands in a most unseemly fashion. Soon hobbits were jumping into the Randywhine river; some drowning as their fellow munchkins dove in on top of them, others succumbing to their inability to swim after floundering about in vain. "Oh, the hobbitry!" Soregum quoth.

None of the Itshippers, fortunately, joined in the watery mêlée.

Chrysophylax was too busy chatting up the Wyrm to notice or care what new unwholesome substance was clinging to his scales. Kuruharan was busily erecting a state of the art Soap and Shower stand complete with an accompanying gift shop that sold sponges, shower caps, towels, flotation devices, and incinerators, among other useful items.

Grrralph simply sighed and shook his head, picking his Cell-antir up from the ground and pocketing it. His cloak came equipped with ACMÉ splatter shedding technólògy. The motto on the tag: "From hot dog fixings to wizard goo, ACMÉ keeps nasty stuff off of you".

Earnur and Orogarn Two were trying to preserve a modicum of manly dignity, by calmly paying an exorbitant amount of money to Kuruharan for bottles of soap and wire brushes. "It's for Merisu," they both told the dwarf, who nodded and winked.

Merisu, meanwhile, had fortuitously stood off to the side when the dubious shower of hot dog fixings and indeterminable other things had rained down on the less prepard. She alone remained spotless and crisp, and shook her head sadly at the antics of the others.

Pimpi, in a panic, tried to dive into the river after her distant cousinlings, but was saved by Soregum, who seized her arm and cried, "Don't do it, Miss! There lies death-by-flailing-hobbit-feet-to-the-head!"

Vogonwë, who had set about writing down his speech in a verse titled, "Wizard Guts in My Beloved's Hair", flung his notepad to the ground and rushed to pry Soregum's fingers from his beloved's arm. "I'll do the hobbit-damsel saving around here," he said hastily, then steered the dazed and confused damseling over to Kuruharan's Soap and Shower stand.

Leninia moved over by Earnur and innocently asked him if he could check her over for wizard bits.

Gateskeeper stood in a dark corner, trying to make himself inconspicuous. "Fools," he muttered to himself. "Everyone knows that the westerly wind blew all vestiges of wizardly body and spirit away." Then he paused in thought. "Or perhaps only wizards realize what happens when a wizard kicks the can." He then mused, as he idly picked sauerkraut off his robes, that perhaps it was best that the Itshippers were taken up with the hysteria of the moment. Perhaps they might even forget how he had so desperately revealed his wizardliness, and no awkward questions would have to be asked.

Alas, he was to be disappointed....

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Since Merisu’s unsullied beauty meant that she was not, as the others, distracted by matters of cleansing and grooming, her impeccably coiffed head had opportunity to concern itself with a thorough analysis of the preceding events. And the more she attempted to analyze, the more she realized that they were fraught with unanswered questions and mysterious conclusions. So it came to pass that she spoke to the Gateskeeper, asking: “How comes it that you know – I mean, knew – this vile wizard? And whence comes your might to battle him? It appears that you were not only his equal, but are now what he should have been.”

She then turned questioningly to Grrralph: “And how came you by that Cell-antír? My mother possessed one, but there were few and I thought them all destroyed. And what connection is there with that Wyrm – is it dangerous? What was it that Sauerkraut called you? A L-…?”

Her voice was troubled, for she was not used to being surrounded by happenings and facts that she could not interpret. How was she to make decisions as the leader of the Quest when she did not have the information she needed?

[Mithadan]

Grrralph shuffled his feet in embarassment, while Gateskeeper pointedly engaged in a detailed examination of some mold growing on a nearby rock. The wraith reached into his cloak and brought forth the Cell-antir again. He examined it for a moment, then answered Merisu's query.

"This... Sellamper did you call it?" he began. "I have had it as long as I can remember. That is, I first became aware of it when... my former employer took it from me. He was very interested in it, but could not make it work. He gave it back to me and said, 'This is beyond my skill to repair. I suspect that the...errr...your former employers did something to it to render it inoperable. Perhaps a virus or some such thing. But if you ever run into Sauerkraut or one of his technicians, ask him to fix it. He will need to take care, for it may be dangerous. But if he fixes it, be sure to get it back. This dainty is not for him; tell him just that.' "

Grrralph glanced back at the smoking remains of Sauerkraut's cart. "I guess I forgot to mention to him that it might be dangerous..."

Earnur's eyes narrowed at this. "You mean that it was not a brilliant plan to defeat the wizard?" he asked.

"Uh," answered Grrralph eloquently. "What?"

"The Cell-antir?" prompted Merisu.

"It's right here in my hand," responded Grrralph.

"I should have known better," groaned Earnur. "He's a foot short of a yard."

"Yup," interjected Kuruharan. "When brains were handed out, he thought they said 'strains' and he didn't want any."

At that moment, a sizzling noise filled the air. TZZZZAP! The Itship looked about only to see Chrysophylax staggering a bit with smoke pouring from his ears. The electric wyrm stood nearby batting its silvery eyelashes innocently. The dragon shook his head and jetted flames from its nostrils. "What a woman!" he cried.

Merisu rolled her eyes prettily, then turned back to Grrralph. "And what about...her?" she asked.

Grrralph shook his hood. "I never saw her before today," he answered. "I guess she's just part of whatever my former employers before my former employer did to make the Sealandsear not work. Maybe I can kind of put her away."

He walked towards the wyrm slowly, just as Chrysophylax approached her again. "So what's your name?" asked the dragon. The wyrm gave him a toothy, if static-filled, grin. "Sasser," she replied coyly. Then she looked down upon the wraith who was fiddling with the Cell-antir. The device's screen glowed, but Sasser stayed right where she was. Runes scrolled briefly across the screen and then it grew dark again.

"What did it say?" asked Vogonwë who had just finished toweling off Pimpiowyn.

"I do not understand the fiery runes," said Grrralph. "It said, 'If you drink it you may come.' Then there was a little thing about Sethamir's Stables being the best before it went dark again."

"Pop-ups," muttered a voice behind them. They turned to find Gateskeeper standing there. Upon noticing their sudden attention, he turned away and resumed his examination of typical rock-dwelling Mudled Mirth fungi. Merisu was not so easily put off. She cleared her throat. "Uh, Gatesy?" she said. "What about you?"

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper, realizing he could no longer dodge the questions, motioned for silence, looking about him as if unseen watchers might be hovering around. After a tense moment, he walked up to Grrralph and pantomimed opening and using his cell-antir, holding out his hand. The rest of the Now-much-cleaner-ship watched with silent interest as Grrralph handed over the device, not without a moment's mistrustful hesitation. Gateskeeper took the device and examined it on all sides before picking Sauerkraut's mithril wire from out of the mucken debris, and connecting it first to the cell-antir, and then attempting to adapt the other end of the wire to the connection socket at the base of the Entish thighs.

"No!" cried out Merisu, "you'll destroy them!" Gateskeeper's startlement was such that his glasses fell into a puddle of ketchup at his feet. "Shhhhh!" he hissed, shaking his head "no" and looking again around for unknown listeners. He threw a pleading look at Merisu which she unerringly interpreted as a request for trust. She considered only a moment before her not-just-good-but-perfect-even-in-the-face-of-insufficient-data judgement decided, and she nodded to him, almost imperceptibly.

Gateskeeper nodded back with relief and began his work again, after first fetching and cleaning his spectacles of the muddy ketchup residue. Completing the connections, Gateskeeper turned the cell-antir on and observed the brief messages before the item went dead. He moved the switch to the off position and thought for a moment. Then, with motions almost quicker than the eye could follow, he switched the device back on, and before the messages could flash and the device again die he began a flurry of pressing buttons in seeming random order that lasted for several seconds...

...and in the currently unoccupied viewing room of the penthouse suite of the fell Tower Block of Barát-Höm, the private cell-antir of the Dread Developer, Mogul Bildur, rang once, sparked a couple of times, and emitted a thin trail of blue smoke before it again went dark...

...as Gatesy completed the sequence and snapped the cell-antir shut.

"Now," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, "we can talk...for a time, until he can get a repairman out there from Dorktank. Here," he said to Grrralph, handing him the now-deactivated cell-antir, "it should be fixed now."

Merisu cocked her head at an angle (causing that one blonde curl again to fall fetchingly over one eye) and asked, "would you mind now telling us what this is all about?" Everyone else was paying attention as well, except for Chrysophlax, who was getting quite a charge out of his new friend, Sasser.

"I had to employ the power of the Entish Thighs to duplicate and send a copy of the Wyrm to disable the cell-antir of..." and even now Gateskeeper could not bring himself to say the name of his secret employer. Instead he peeled off the black glove that until now he had always worn in the presence of the others since they day they first rode from Minus Teeth. Taking down a torchlight as the others crowded around, he illuminated his ungloved palm and the diabolical symbol seared thereon. Pimpiowyn read the small inscription with some puzzlement, "Made in Valleyum??"

"Oops, wrong hand," Gateskeeper said, quickly degloving the other hand.

"By Emu the Flightless," cried Orogarn Two taking a stunned step backwards, "I recognize that symbol...from documents I found in the accounting department back in Minus Teeth...contracts and treaties negotiated in ages past by my grandsires with... Moredough!", he said, spitting the word out as if it were a mouthful of steaming dragon dung.

"Yes," said Gateskeeper sadly, and beginning from his employment with Sauerkraut, through the wars down south in Pea Sea, and through the unknown-to-anyone-else portions of his travels with the Devil-take-the-hindmost-ship, he spun his tale of greed, profiteering, and manipulation. Earnur nodded his head manfully, thinking to himself that now he had more than enough excuse to finally introduce Griper to Gateskeeper's spine. Orogarn Two calculated that you could clothe everyone in Minus Teeth and it's outlying villages with the amount of wool Gateskeeper had managed to pull over their eyes. Leninia sympathized with the dejected wizard, having only recently been herself liberated from the embraces of evil. Kuruharan wept openly, being in the presence of true greed-driven success and greatness the likes of which he could only dream of achieving...oh the deceptions, the cunning. Vogonwe was actually at a loss for words.

It was Pimpiowyn who finally put voice to the question all were thinking, "Well, now that we know who and what you are, what do we do next?"

Lord Earnur Etceteron, Ward of the Diminished Fifth and Proclaimer of the Bleedingly Obvious, drew his mighty sword Griper which, having heard the story as the rest of them, was actually egging Earnur on. "It is clear that we must spill the blood of this foul servant of the Dread Developer..."

Lenina and Pimpiowyn rolled their eyes in gratuitous disdain, saying almost in unison, "Men!" Earnur was stunned. "Do you mean to tell me that we should *not* kill this miscreant?" Gateskeeper certainly looked as though he expected no less.

Merisu stepped forward. "Gateskeeper is guilty of throwing in his lot with the Dark Side, true. But in the time since he joined the Are-we-there-yet-ship, he has saved our lives multiple times, and has made no move to actually steal the Entish Bow, even when opportunity presented itself. He has taken action to prevent Mogul from following our movenents for a time. And if he is penitent, well, he is a wizard after all, could be of some assistance to us, as he has been in times past. I mean," explained Merisu, "look what we've already picked up along the way at one time or another -- grocers, ex-uruks, hobbits, strange black creatures, and, ummm, whatever Leninia is -- what possible harm could one more do?"

There was a general nodding of the heads in the Time-for-bed-ship, as much from agreement as from being up *waaaay* past their bedimes.

======

Later that evening, Mogul woke and couldn't get back to sleep right away. Deciding to pass the time by checking on how events were shaping up with the New-revelation-ship, he entered his observation lair, turned on his custom cell-antir and waited for the picture to form. After several moments it failed to resolve into a definable image. When he began to fiddle with the buttons, the device began emitting a dark, foul-smelling smoke, which actually pleased Mogul until the smoke formed itself into an electric drake which looked not-surprisingly like Sasser...

[Mithadan]

Meanwhile, back in Moredough...

A terrible cry rang out from the Dark Tower of Moredough. Even at that moment all the hosts of Moredough, from the least Orc to the mightiest Loyer, trembled, doubt clutched their hearts, their laughter failed, their hands shook and their limbs were loosed. The Power that drove them on and filled them with hate and fury was wavering, its will was removed from them; and now looking in the eyes of their enemies they saw a deadly light and were afraid.

In a deep dungeon below the towers, one such minion of Mogul was sitting before a securely bound Uruk (more or less) and was in the process of questioning his victim in the midst of torment. "Still won't talk, eh?" cried Greedhog. "Well, rather than playing 'The Hobbit' cartoon for you again, maybe we'll just play the soundtrack..."

"Aiiiii!" commented Gravlox as Greedhog powered up a mighty surround sound audio system. But the Loyer's hand paused even as he was preparing to play the soundtrack. A scream echoed through the tower and, in response, Greedhog's hands trembled and his eyes became unfocused. Then he turned off the sound system and untied Gravlox's hands. He sat nervously in a chair before his captive and reached for his china service.

"Would you care for some tea?" he asked in an unsteady voice. "Perhaps a croissant?"

"What?" replied the Uruk. "I mean sure."

Greedhog poured the tea into a darling cup made of bone china from a silver teapot. He lifted a small pitcher of milk, then paused, glancing up at Gravlox, who nodded and added, "Two sugars." The Loyer finished preparing the tea and passed the cup to Gravlox along with a dessert dish containing a buttered croissant. With a great effort, the Uruk resisted gobbling the pastry and swilling the tea despite his hunger and, just as he had taught in the Halls of Mantoes, instead nibbled and sipped politely.

"Cheers," said Greedhog as his sipped at his own cup. "Now, Gravlox, who does your hair?"

The Uruk nearly choked, then swallowed carefully before responding. "Uh, what?"

"Your hair," replied Greedhog. "Its really quite nice. Flowing and well conditioned. I have a devil of a time with mine." The Loyer lifted off his helmet to reveal a frizzy mop of unkempt brown locks.

"It kind of came with the whole redemption thing," Gravlox answered nervously.

"Ah," said Greedhog. "Valleyum then. I've often wondered what it might be like to work there. Rather genteel and noble, I'll warrant."

"It is rather nice there," Gravlox confessed between bites.

"If...errr...things don't work out here," the Loyer began. "That is to say, if things work out well for you and yours and less good for my employer, I wonder if you might not consider putting in a good word for me in the West. If it's not too much trouble."

Gravlox shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His legs and waist were still tied, giving him little room. Otherwise, he might have sprung at the Loyer and attempted to tear out his throat. But being as he could not, he saw no reason not to be polite. He had been very well trained in Valleyum. "I would be glad to," he replied.

"Smashing!" cried Greedhog. "Thank you very much, old chap. Would you care for more tea?"

At that moment, Mogul managed to 'solve' the little problem that had appeared in his Satel-antir chamber and all returned to normal. Greedhog dropped his teacup, slapped Gravlox across the face a few times, tied his hands again and turned the soundsystem back on. The strains of 'The Road Goes Ever On" echoed through the halls along with Gravlox's screams of horror...

[The Saucepan Man]

****************************************
We interrupt this document to bring you the latest scores from the Mire Golf-im-ball League sponsored by Red Oliphaunt*: the drink that gives you wings – as drunk by Balrogs the Ea over.

Bog End - 3 : Bloodshot Row - 0
Over-the-Hill - 1 : Belch-under-the-Hill - 2
Broad Smials - 4 : Shandy Hall - 1
Stock - 2 : Bicestow - 2
Spooky Hollow - 0 : Grewsome End - 0
Upper Notch - 2 : Lower Dipthong - 1

And that concludes the Scoring of the Shire – er – Mire.

We now return you to your regular manuscript deciphering.
_________________________________________

* © Mögul Enterprises LLP

*****************************************

[Kuruharan]

It was perfect, as if drawn straight out of some Romantic poet’s laudanum induced hallucination. The sky seemed to stretch on forever. It was dotted with clouds at only the most aesthetically pleasing intervals. The landscape below was a rich (yet tasteful) shade of green. It seemed to call for a boisterous frolic among its happy pools and meadows. (It was actually all fetid swampland, but who could tell at this distance?) Nevertheless, Chrysophylax had no desire to alight. He only wanted to remain among the clouds with HER!!!

Yes, this vision of beauty, this answer to his every desire, this reason for living, this…

*BUZZTT-ZOK!!!*

Chrysophylax plummeted several hundred feet before regaining control of himself. Looking up he saw the object of his thinking, who had just playfully batted at his wing.

Her slightest touch caused him to lose control of all his bodily functions. No other female had ever made him, well…tingle like this.

There was no doubt about it; this had to be love!

It seemed to him that he had always been flying with her. He could not remember the Entish Quest that had brought him to this point. All thoughts of dictatorial dwarves, obsessed elf-maids, gluttonous hobbit lasses, and drunken aristocrats were banished from his thinking. There was only the sky, the ground, the clouds, and HER.

Sasser giggled, winked at him, and darted behind an artistically created (and strategically placed) cloud. Chrysophylax lunged after her, straight through the cloud and to the other side to find…nothing. Chrysophylax’s head darted about befuddledly. There was more giggling behind him. He turned to see Sasser hovering over another cloud. He flew toward her and she vanished.

This game continued. It mattered not how long. Chrysophylax had long since lost all track of time. Suddenly, Sasser popped out from behind a cloud with, oh, such a look in her eyes and kissed him.

ZZZZZZZOK-*FLASH*-POP!!!!

No kiss of supermodel nor tongue stuck into electrical outlet ever gave a male as much of a jolt as Sasser gave Chrysophylax at that moment. He blacked out and plunged toward the earth.

As he continued his descent, he slowly came back to reality. “What a way to go!!” he thought to himself. He managed to force his wings into cooperating and arrested his downward track.

Sasser was upon him.

ZAP!

The pair resumed their descent entwined. But what’s this?! Something was wrong! Sasser coiled her form around Chrysophylax’s body but he only felt a numbing buzz. Even as she pressed close to him, she seemed to grow vague and indistinct. Sasser had a desperate but vacant look in her eyes. Chrysophylax panicked. This could not be happening!!!

Chrysophylax looked down and saw the ground rapidly drawing nearer. He did not understand what was happening but he could not go on without her. He held her diminishing form close and prepared for the end. Sasser leaned forward and kissed him again, which delivered a charge less impressive than your average shock of static electricity...

And they met the ground.

*PLOP* >SQUELCH< {GLOOP}

Instead of the comforting, hard impact of terra firma there was the wet, squishy embrace of terra not-so-firma (and truth be told, somewhat smelly). Chrysophylax surfaced and looked about him.

Sasser was gone. He only had his electrical burns to remember the happiest days of his life.

[Mithadan]

As the Wyrms gyred and gimboled in the wabe (Elvish for cloudy skies), Merisu gathered the land-bound portion of the Muddyship to discuss their course now that the evil wizard had been heroically (more or less) dispatched (or splattered, please pick one of the above). Orogarn Two and Earnur were all for resting and imbibing at one of the local inns, perhaps the Brine Flagon. Merisu and Pimpi advocated avoiding inns, cafes, restaurants, hotels, motels, bars, pubs and all similar establishments in favor of (soberly) moving on towards their next destination. Well, the truth be told, Pimpi wouldn't have minded a cafe or restaurant, but she decided to back up her mentor. Kuruharan inquired about the trade possibilities beyond the Shire. Gateskeeper was keeping a low profile and chose not to voice an opinion. Merisu turned to Grrralph in the hope that his vote would break the deadlock.

At that moment an odd little tune rang through the air. Before anyone could determine the source of the music, Grrralph, recognizing the refrain slipped into a tapdance while singing along. "Always look on the bright side of life, de do, de do de do de do..." Merisu, somewhat alarmed, called upon the wraith to stop. Then the Elves, having sharper hearing (and rather larger ears) than the others, listened carefully until they determined the source of the tune. "It's coming from Grrralph!" Vogonwë cried.

Grrralph rummaged about in his cloak, then drew forth his Cell-antir again. Flipping it open, he examined the small screen inside. The others crowded about, impolitely attempting to see who might be calling the wraith. "It's Sasser!" cried Merisu. At that moment, Chrysohpylax thudded heavily to the ground next to them. Hot (boiling in fact) tears welled from his eyes as he crooned, "She's gooooooone, well oh ah, I've done a lot of things, she's gone, she's gone, well oh ah, I'd pay the devil to replace her...."

"Shush," admonished Merisu. She turned to Gateskeeper who was frowning in confusion. "Can you summon Sasser back?" she asked. Gateskeeper took the Cell-antir and fiddled with it for a moment. Then he shook his head. "I have never seen such a thing before," he said. "It is beyond my power to call back the wyrm."

"If not you, then who?" asked Kuruharan, who was busily dodging the hot tears which were falling around him. A whistle sounded from the Cell-antir. Grrralph took the device and looked into it again. Mystic runes were superimposed over Sasser's sorrowful face. They read, "THE VELOUR, YOU IDIOTS!"

"Well," said Orogarn. "I guess that settles it. We're off to the Pay Havens right after we stop at a pub for a bit..." A deep, threatening growl filled the air. Orogarn looked up to find himself face to face with a broad (and sizeable) array of incisors, canines and other assorted fangs. Coughing and waving away Chrysophylax's less than minty fresh breath, he continued. "Right! We'll leave immediately."

As the Forwardboundship lifted their packs and set out towards the west, none noticed that Grrralph lagged behind. Then, with a mournful groan, he slowly followed...

[The Saucepan Man]

Shortly following the defeat of Sauerkraut, Soregum had withdrawn to The Ivy Bush. Although he had remained unaffected by the old wizard’s hot dogs, years of service in Moredough having accustomed him to such enchantments, he had maintained a low profile during the ensuing confrontation, unsure of how his Master would want this one to play out. Mögul was a tricky character to second guess. And the Gateskeeper’s revelations had given him much to consider. And what of Grrralph’s contribution? Should he tell his Master what he had learned? And, if so, how might he do so without alerting his companions to the true nature of his mission? Difficult questions all. So Soregum had concluded as always that a pint or five of good Mire ale might clear his head and help him think straight.

When Soregum entered The Ivy Bush, however, such thoughts were soon pushed to a spare recess in the back of his mind, right next to where his conscience had long ago taken up full time residence. A party celebrating the liberation of the Mire from Sparkey’s bonds was in full swing and Soregum was in no mood to miss it. And of course he took no time in claiming the credit for the wizard’s defeat.

“Well, when you have been adventuring as far and wide as me, you learn how to deal with wizards … Dangerous? Yes indeed they are, but my personal safety is nothing compared to the safety of the Mire … My companions? Well yes, of course they helped out, but as always they left the lion‘s share of the work to me … Oh you are too kind, but yes I suppose that I am a bit of a hero …”

Soregum was just enjoying his eighth (free) pint when it occurred to him that he ought to check on when the Quest-ship was planning on leaving. So, bidding farewell to his adoring and gullible audience, he made his way to the stable. Only to find it completely empty. Even Twinkle appeared to have taken her leave.

“A fine pickle you and your beerish inclinations have got yourself into now, Soregum, and no mistake,” he muttered to himself, as panic gradually seized him at the thought of the pleasure that Mögul would take in rewarding his failure. “Well they can’t have gone far,” he reassured himself as he made his way back round to the front of the inn. “At least Pimpiowyn will notice my absence,” he thought with increasing desperation as he hurtled at full tilt down the western road.

Not far along the road he caught sight of Daddy Twobellies in conversation with a tall imposing figure swathed from head to foot in a dark cloak. Soregum crept closer so that he was able to overhear their conversation.

“No, ‘baint no fella boi the nayme o’ Zorrgum rowd theez ‘ere paaarts. Yoom bezt try over in Grewsome End,” Soregum caught Daddy saying, his voice little more than a high-pitched squeak..

The dark figure stood regarding the old Hobbit for a few moments as Daddy Twobellies quailed under its baleful glare. Then it spoke.

“I’m awfully sorry old chap, but I have absolutely no idea what you are saying. I do apologise if I startled you, but I simply enquired whether you might have any knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain Hobbit by the name of Soregum.”

“Be arrff with yoom and yer faarncy worrds, before oi set moine darrgs arrn yoom!” said Daddy shakily, puffing out his not inconsiderable girth and desperately pulling at the leashes of his two diminutive Northmire terriers as they cowered and whimpered behind him.

“Oh really! This is hopeless. The fault is all mine of course, my good Hobbit, but I really ought to have taken that optional language course at Fell College instead of media studies,” remarked the cloaked figure as he fished among his robes for a Mire phrasebook.

Soregum jumped out from his hiding place and approached the two figures.

“Hello Rrrrogerrr,” he said to the dark figure. “You looking for me?”

“Ah, Soregum old bean, long time no see. How’s it going with the Gallow-ship?”

“Erm, fine. Just fine,” stammered Soregum, immediately regretting his decision to break cover. “In fact, never better, since you ask. Merisu and her companions are just waiting for me beyond that copse over there. They haven‘t left without me at all, they just …”

“You’ve lost them haven’t you?”

“Well, not lost as such. It’s just a temporary …”

“That‘s quite alright, old bean. Just as well really, as I need to have a little tête-à-tête with you,” continued Roger cheerfully, turning to Daddy Twobellies. “In private, if you don‘t mind awfully, my fine fellow.” The old Hobbit visibly shrunk under the Wraith’s imposing, albeit amiable, gaze.

“Itzz arrlroight, Daddy. Oi knowze thiz ‘ere fella,” Soregum reassured him.

“Well, if yoom bee zure, Mizter Gummidge, zorr. Oi’ll leeve yoom tow it tharrn,” replied Daddy sighing with relief and hastily retreating.

“The boss is a tad miffed,” Rrrogerrr explained to Soregum as they made their way to a secluded spot on Daizzzy, Rrrroger’s Nazgurl. “Seems his Satel-antir broadcast went down and he missed some of what was going on. He asked whether you might be able to fill in the gaps. Once we’ve had a chance to touch base, I can drop you off near to your companions.”

“Um,“ Soregum gulped.

“Oh, and I have some more pipeweed from Moredough for you,” Rrrrogerrr added.

Soregum’s face brightened considerably.

****************************************

Meanwhile, some miles west, the Slow-in-more-ways-than-one-ship had belatedly discovered Soregum’s absence. Much to Vogonwë‘s annoyance, it had indeed been Pimpi who had first noticed that the Hobbit was not with them.

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters much,” remarked Orogarn Two.

“He’s not much use in a fight, after all,” agreed Lord Etceteron.

“No, nowhere near as manful as you,” said Leninia, sidling up to Earnur.

“Not a penny on him,” added Kuruharan. “We’re better off without him.”

“I never trusted him. He seems to know far too much about Mögul for my liking,” growled Grrralph, glaring at the Gateskeeper (who wisely kept quiet). “And he can‘t carry a tune.”

“Yes, no point in going back for him now,” chipped in Vogonwë enthusiastically.

“What’s the point of any of it?” sighed Chrysophylax mournfully.

“No,” uttered Merisu after a moment’s thought. “Soregum spoke the truth in the inn. We need a Hobbit to make our party truly representative if we are to entreat the aid of the Lords of the West. And it seems to me that he may have some part to play yet, for good of for ill, before the end. I can feel it in my bow.”

Vogonwë rolled his eyes, but even as he did so, he caught sight of a dark shape, like a cloud and yet not a cloud for it moved far more swiftly.

“Ellevoguereth Cosmopolitaniel!” he exclaimed.

“Wha -?” replied his companions in unison, but they were cut short as a terrible dread fell over them. A fell sound, a trumpeting whirring roar, filled the air as the dark shape advanced from the east, speeding towards the Company, blotting out all light as it approached. Soon it appeared as a great winged creature, blacker than the pits of the night, although disturbingly its wings appeared to sprout from the side of its head.

Vogonwë quickly reached for an arrow and hurled it into the air towards the advancing creature. His companions looked up. Almost above them, the great shape swerved. There was a harsh trumpeting scream, as it fell out of the air, vanishing down into the gloop of the Mire countryside. The sky was clear again.

****************************************

“Oh oh! Mögul’s going to be mad as Udûn,” muttered Rrrrogerrr as he watched the great shape fall to the earth. “That’s one of the Aircorps’ advanced patrols. I’d best get back. Much obliged for the information and toodlepip!”

Soregum watched as Daizzzy leaped into the air with Rrrrogerrr sat astride her singing away happily to himself.

“They go up-tiddly-up-up
They go down-tiddly-down down.
Up. Down. Flying around.
Those magnificent Wraiths on their …”

****************************************

The Startled-ship were just gathering themselves together as Soregum appeared from behind a tree and flashed his decayed teeth at Vogonwë in a winsome smile.

“Nice shot!” he said as he hefted his newly acquired tobacco onto the wagon.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

For a group of Questers that had frequently been side-tracked, taken detours and experienced short-cuts gone wrong, they managed to make fast time westwards upon leaving the Mire. This could possibly have been due to the influence of an impatient, fire-breathing dragon who made sure that laggers caught up quickly. Chrysophylax did take a minute or two to fly back and find the body of that winged creature, making barbecued wings of its appendages (and something similar of the rest, presumably), but was back behind the others before anyone noticed his absence.

Merisuwyniel was glad to be moving toward the goal of her journey again. She rode her horse as gracefully as always, but her thoughts turned to the future. What awaited them in the West? How were they to proceed next? She took care not to show her uncertainty, but she had no idea what expected them at the Havens or beyond. The Entish Bow was silent; either it had no information to offer her, or it was withholding something for some reason unknown to her.

Though they rode through the midst of the Mire (and the mire too, if you take my meaning) all the evening and all the night, none saw them pass, save the wild creatures. Merisu idly wondered what had happened to the fox she had encountered so long ago. Talking animals were getting rare in Muddled Mirth. With a start, she remembered that her very own noble steed belonged to those few and leaned forward to whisper some pleasant words in Falafel’s ear.

They passed the White Downs, which for some reason reminded her of a lovely, soft pillow, then the Far Downs. (They avoided the Far Ups and the Near Downs, though… ) One evening they made their camp within sight of three tall, white towers. Pimpiowyn, who had been riding beside her shieldmaidening instructor, said, “I have heard tell that you can see the sea from the top of those towers. They say that they were built by the Elves long ago to look westwards.” Merisu turned to her in surprise; if that was true, would she not be well-advised to seek them out?

After a morsel of supper (the others needing a much longer time to partake of theirs), she rode there alone. They watched her depart with languid interest, though none volunteered to accompany her. After the sound of Falafel’s hoofbeats had faded, there was silence – at least if the slurping, chewing, smacking, chomping, and burping could be ignored. When they heard a far-off rumble, they looked to the sky apprehensively, thinking that it thundered, but the stars twinkled reassuringly. Suddenly a deafening crash alarmed the questers so that they jumped up from their extended meal. The earth shook under their feet. They ran to and fro without plan or purpose, since their leader was missing to tell them what to do.

Then she rode into the camp, breathless and covered with white dust. “Quick!” she exclaimed. “Pack your things – we leave here immediately!” They scrambled to do as she said; she made sure that the cart with the wooden pieces was not left behind and counted noses, which was not easy, as some of them were covered with handkerchiefs and others were sneezing violently. Even the dragon wheezed, causing the dust to light up eerily as his flames lit the dusk.

None dared to ask, now or later, what had transpired – or maybe they just forgot about it. At any rate, Merisuwyniel offered no explanation, and if Pimpiowyn chanced to notice that there was a large round bulge in her baggage that had not been evident before, she wisely said nothing. And that shows just how much she had learned as a shieldmaiden’s handmaiden!

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

And so they came at last to Mithfortune, the Pay Havens. They searched first for a dwelling place, finding Sethamir’s Hitching Post: Bed and Breakfast for Bipeds and their Animal Companions. Large letters on the sign proclaimed: “Last Sethamir’s Before Valleyum!”

“We will take lodging here,” Merisuwyniel announced. “In the morning, I shall see to finding a ship that will bear us across the Sea.”

[Thenamir]

In their haste to depart their last camp the entire clueless-ship failed, in the paleness of that night, to notice that Merisu-The-Unsulliable-and-Always-Perfectly-Styled managed to get covered with white dust -- that she to whom no mud can cling, whose hair neither rain nor humidity can spoil, the Lady-Who-Never-Needs-Deodorant, whom the slightest dust mote would not deem to touch, she who bathes but once per year whether she needs it or not, was positively filthy. In fact, the entire group looked like a cocaine-dealers' convention.

The Dusty-ship scouted the door and the foyer of the establishment beneath the sign with the grinning bartender, but found no one to meet them, check them in, or even (as was often the case) cast sidelong sneers at them and mutter under their breath about the imminent decline of local property values. It was as though the mere rumor of their coming had driven the townspeople into hiding.

The news of their coming had indeed preceeded them, though not in the fashion to which they were accustomed. In the light of the silvery moon the strangely-clinging white dust had transformed their appearance, such that the villagers and townspeople seemed to see a company of pale dead men, dead hobbits, dead half-halflings, dead elves, even a dead dragon, being led by an impeccably-coiffed spectre of commanding presence and otherworldly beauty. Lights went out in house and hamlet as they came, and doors were shut, and folk that were afield cried in terror and ran wild like hunted deer. Ever there rose the same cry in the gathering night: ‘The Queen of the Dead! The Queen of the Dead is come upon us!’

Long ago, none other than the 3rd-Cousin-84-times-removed of Orogarn Two, Isildur himself, had sworn the inhabitants of Mithfortune to the great battle against Sourone -- but the lure and luxury of their lush beachfront resorts and their posh lifestyles caused them to abandon their oath and their quest. Therefore, the leader of the eventually-victorious Good-Guys (tm) spoke a curse against them at the Stone of Ericky, as is recorded in the prophecy of Nell's Son, that one day the dead would come back to steal away the hearts from their descendants, with a familiar name but without so much as a sharp razor-blade:

You'll come to town one moonlit night
flash those big blue eyes our way
and oo you zombied us forever more
We once were folks that got around
But now our feet are stuck to the ground
and though I never did meet you before

I said Oh no, Merisu, goodbye heart
Ghost Merisu, I’m terrified of you
I knew Merisu, you'd do your part
Oh no no, Merisu, goodbye heart!

I saw your lips I feared your voice
believe me I just had no choice
wild horses couldn’t drag me back this way
I thought about a cold dark night
and a noose that's good an’ tight
that’s all it took to make me hide away

I said Oh no, Merisu, goodbye heart
Isildur's Hair can save us all from you
I knew Merisu, you'd do your part
So here goes, Merisu, goodbye heart!

Orogarn Two of course knew of these things, but either had wisely decided not to mention them, or they had completely and conveniently slipped his mind in the search for rest and repast.

No one spoke, and the inn foyer grew strangely silent until...the ever-sharp ears of Merisu picked up the sounds of someone weeping behind the closed door that led to the common room of the bed-and-breakfast. Motioning to the rest of the Pasty-white-ship to follow her quietly (and for Chrysophylax to remain outside), she stealthily approached the door and quietly peeked inside.

Beyond the door in an immaculately-clean but otherwise unoccupied common room was a lone man, weeping quietly behind the common room bar with his head down on his folded arms resting on the counter. He seemed not to notice as the Shake-rattle-n-roll-ship stepped into the room, leaving white-dust footprints as they went.

"Good sir," said Merisu gently, "what makes you cry thus? Is there anything we can do to help?"

The man behind the counter slowly looked up, revealing a homemade nametag that said simply "Sethamir", and seeing-yet-not recognizing the lovely but coldly-white Merisu, replied in a hoarse, fearful whisper, "Merisu is coming."

Reasoning that admitting her identity right now might not be the thing to do, she asked, "Why do you fear this 'Merisu', good sir? Surely you have a strong inn and a goodly set of neighbors to help you."

Sethamir merely replied,

If you knew Merisu - then you’d know why I feel blue
For its Meri - that Merisu
oh well, I loathe that gal - yes, I loathe that Merisu

Merisu, Merisu - my business was destroyed by you
oh Meri - that Merisu
oh well, I loathe that gal - and that fool bunch with her, too!

Merisu, Merisu - pretty pretty pretty pretty Merisu
oh Meri - that Merisu
oh well, I hate that elf and I see thru Merisu

"You see," said the innkeeper and erstwhile entrepreneur Sethamir (for he it was), "I am but a humble businessman, the former owner of stables and specialty shops all over Muddled Mirth operating under my family name, the good name of Sethamir. I say 'former' because some time ago a she-devil named Merisuwyniel, reputedly a very lovely elf lass, left Minus Teeth in the comapny of a band of miscreants with, it seemed, the sole purpose of burning down, crushing, or blowing up every single one of my shops. From Minus Teeth, to the lands of the Sorethighhim, even unto the Mire, I fled before them. I thought at first that they meant me no actual harm, that each loss had to be an accident, but over time, they have visited every single one of my enterprises, and this is the only one left, and rumor is that she is coming this way bringing death and destruction in her wake. Why, just last week it was reported that she singlehandedly battled the high wizard Sauerkraut, and destroyed him! What can one do against such reckless hate?"

By this time the entire Wish-we-were-somewhere-else-ship was studiously examining the floor for cracks into which they might disappear, all except Gateskeeper who was mumbling something about "not quite singlehandedly" when Pimpiowyn exclaimed "But we don't hate you, Mr. Sethamir." The innkeeper looked up, ready to be angry, but then sagged again against his bar. "Havin' a joke on me, lass. You couldn't be Merisu and her types. For one thing, they have a monsterous cruel dragon with them..." In a moment of bad timing surely worthy of any usage since the world begain of the word "oops", Chrysophylax chose that moment to stick his head in an open window and ask, "Would you have a nice rose lambrusco to go with this freshly roasted lamb?"

"Aiiiiiiii!" Screamed Sethamir as a response. "What, you've never seen a dragon before?" Asked Orogarn Two, picking at his ear which had unfortunately been rather close to Sethamir. "No, not that," roared the bellicose innkeeper, "you *are* Merisu and her Gang! And besides, everyone knows that it's chiani and not lambrusco that goes with roast lamb!!" "Well excuse me! I just thought 'lamb', 'lambrusco', geez!" began Chrysophylax, but Sethamir paid no heed. Running for the door he burst into the streets in full bellow about fear, fire, and foes, trying to rouse the people from their terror and take up arms after these anti-capitalist dogs!

The Been-here-done-this-before-ship signed heavily and trundled out into the village square, to where by the sheerest of coincidences, the Stone of Ericky stood. The moon was at her full, and indeed she must have been full and truly stuffed to be shining down so brightly, reflecting off the still-white-dusted Questians. That, and the shrill poppycock that Sethamir was screaming brought the eyes, and then the presence, of the villagers to the great Stone, drawn there as if an artist had drawn them there. Actually, the men of the village just wanted a closer look at the lovely Merisu (just as the prophecy foretold), the women came to keep the men in line, and the children came along just because they never got to stay up so late before.

Just at that moment, Orogarn Two, swatting at a buzzing mosquito, flicked his hair from his neck in the moonlight. There was a collective gasp amongst the villagers looking upon them with fear and yet inexorable interest. A wave of whispers flew through the crowd, "The Hair of Isildur!" Several of them pointed to Orogarn, then to a statue near the stone which was made in the likeness of Orogarn's distant relation -- albeit covered often with raw eggs and toilet paper in addition to the pigeon-droppings -- because of the curse he was, as you might imagine, a not-very-popular figure. And yet, they grudgingly admitted that their ancestors had had, well, a yellow streak. Orogarn, having had neither food nor sleep, finally recognized that the villagers were looking at him, and caught sight of the statue and of the words of their whispering. Merisu made her way to Orogarn Two's side and whispered, "Looks like it's your turn to get us out of this one."

With a heavy sigh, Orogarn Two climbed the Stone of Ericky and from it's summit he cried in a great voice, "Oathbreakers, why have ye come?"

And a voice was heard out of the night that answered him, as if from someone who wished he was far away, "To gawk at th' loverly lass there, guv'nor, and a right beauty she is, too..OOF!" said the man at the last as his wife suddenly decided that her husband's stomach could do with an introduction to her rolling pin. When he had recovered his breath, he went on, "er...I mean, to fulfill our oath, and have peace from Merisu."

Then Orogarn Two said, "The hour has come at last. We are upon a great quest, to reunite the sundered pieces of the Ent-That-Was-Broken, and thus make an end of the Evil One in Moredough. For I am Orogarn Two, with Isildur's Hair from Grundor." And with that He removed his helmet, and behold! his hair sprang out into the identical coif of the man in the statue. There was a general murmur of approval from the crowd, interrupted by one strident growl of "Balderdash!!"

It was Sethamir, striding thru the crowd who screamed again, "Balderdash I tell you! These are the very ones who have spread desolation on every place they visit, leaving smoking ruins in their path as often as not, who have destroyed my life and my livelyhood! Make him show the wallet, eh? Remember that silly bit of poetic rubbish we all learned as kids?

Seek for the Wallet that was stolen
In Mithfortune it dwells
There shall his ID be given
And his pedigree forth it will tell

Though the Driver's License be faded
And the picture be dated, it brings
A hope of a curse to be unmade-ed
A long-distant cousin of Kings!"

A new murmurning swept the crowd, this time of affirmation and expectation, as they turned again to the figure of Orogarn Two upon the great Stone. With a slow and deliberate gesture he pulled his wallet from the pocket whence he had kept it since retrieving it from the Entish thief, Skinflint. With a flourish, he released the ID section of the wallet, and all 84 names between himself and Isildur came unfolding out like a worn-out accordion. This time the murmuring swelled to a cheer, and even Sethamir had to admit that the man on the stone was genuine. When the cheer died away, one of the villagers piped up, "How will you lift the Merisu curse?"

Orogarn Two swept a grand arm over his companions and said "Behold, here is Merisu, of whom you have been so afraid these long years! She seeks to sail into the Uttermostest West to heal the Rent Ent. Assist her, and us, on our way, and not only will we never return, but the curse will be lifted and you may go in peace." The men of the town cheered to try to be the first to help the beauteous Merisuwyniel, the women cheered that they could help rid the town of what they thought was a brazen hussy, and the children cheered because they knew that the longer the ruckus continued, the later they could stay up.

Merisuwyniel herself went to Sethamir and actually bowed before him. "Indeed, we did not mean to single you out for all the disaster which has followed us from the first." She handed him a small bag with a generous amount of gold, and said, "I hope that this will in some small way help you, and will purchase a night's lodging with you, for your stabling and shops have been the finest we've seen in our travels." He looked down at the bag of gold in his hand, and then at the face of the one whose name he had sworn to destroy, and then grumblingly said, "well, we can at least give you a place to get cleaned up." And thus the Truly-weary-ship found for once a good night's sleep and managed not to wipe anything out for at least one post.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

When morning came, Merisuwyniel made her way to the Harbour of Pay Havens. She walked past the yachts of those rich enough to keep private ships, knowing that they were not likely to take passengers or make so far a journey. She also passed a huge pleasure cruiser called PDQE2; it looked lovely, with luxurious cabins and fancy trimmings, but she had heard of its exorbitant prices and knew that her small store of coins would not suffice.

Thus she came to the sailing ships that were large and sea-worthy. The first one had ‘HMS Bouncy’ painted on the prow, and a sign proclaimed that Captain Blighter was responsible for it, yet it seemed deserted. She wondered as she wandered, speculating on possible reasons for its abandoned state.

Next to it was moored a ship painted green, adorned with the letters ‘Peapod’. A row of globular, grinning, greenish faces peered over the side railing. Merisu called up to them, “Can I speak to your captain, please?”

“Captain Rehab isn’t here, lady,” the first face answered, “but you can sure talk to me!”

“Umm, what is your name, good sir?” she asked.

“Call me Fishmail,” he said, winking at her suggestively. His leering expression made her leery of his intentions, so she walked away as quickly as her graceful dignity allowed.

The next ship was a real beauty, with a high, gilded prow shaped like the head of a dragon with wide open mouth. She read the name, ‘Pawned Trader’; she wasn’t sure what she thought of that, but called out “Hello-o”, approaching the gangway rather timidly, only to fall back startled when a very large mouse appeared, brandishing a sword and shouting, “My name is Grim Reaperneep! You killed my father. Prepare to die!” Fortunately the light of the early rays of the sun reflected from the dazzling beauty of Merisu’s golden locks, causing the mouse to stop, look and listen. What he saw caused him to fall down on one knee before her, lay his sword at her feet and kiss her hand reverently.

“How can I be of service to you, lovely lady?” he enquired.

“Good… um, sir,” she said, “may I speak to the captain of this ship? For I seek passage for myself and my friends.”

“The Captain is busy planning our route. We sail to the end of the world tomorrow morning,” he replied.

“That is where we wish to go!” she exclaimed. “We must sail to the Far West.”

“But we are sailing to the Utter East,” the mouse explained. “That is where the end of the world is.”

“Then your end of the world is not the same as ours,” she sighed regretfully. “Do you know who might be going in our direction?”

“Well, normally I would say you could ask Captain Mithteriouth of the ‘Only Ithtar’,” he suggested. “He and his wife Bythentennial sail to unusual places, and he has told wondrous tales of Tol Erethëa.”

“Bicentennial?” Merisu was astonished. “You mean there are human women who reach the age of 200?”

“Nay,” he answered. “No human woman is she, but an Elf. That name was given her in her youth. However, they cannot help you, for they sailed away southwards some time ago, on a wild goose chase after a shape-changing Bird, it is said.”

“What ship will bear me ever hence across so wide a sea?” the Elven maiden cried out in despair.

“Well, there is one last possibility,” Reaperneep replied. “Go to the very last ship at the end of the docks – it is known to boldly go where no Man, Dwarf, or Hobbit has gone before. Its captain is named Cirkdan, ‘Dim’ Cirkdan, the Ship-Wight.”

“Why is he called ‘Dim’?” Merisu asked, puzzled.

“Oh, that is because the light of Valleyum in his face has grown pale after staying here so many ages,” the mouse explained.

“Thank you for your help and kind words,” Merisu said, curtseying respectfully. She would have liked to take him in her arms and cuddle him, but she felt that this would have offended him deeply.

“Best wishes to you and your friends, fair lady, and may the winds ever bring you to your home harbour!” He bowed gallantly, flourishing his feather-trimmed hat and twirling his moustache gravely.

Soon Merisuwyniel approached the last ship in the Harbour. It was of a silvery hue that gleamed in the light of the sun. Curious, she looked at the side to ascertain its name – the letters ‘Ent’s Surprise’ were painted there! That seemed a good omen to her, and she walked up the gangway with a feeling of confidence.

[Mithadan]

While Merisuwyniel sought out an appropriate ship to carry the Itship across the Blundering Seas, the remainder of her companions settled in at Sethamir's and bought most of the bar (together with a few snacks). Soon all were merry and chatting animatedly about the coming voyage and their visit to Valleyum. That is, all were merry, animated and chatting except for one...

Grrralph, if it were humanly (or wraithly) possible, looked glummer than usual. As was his practice, he declined to eat or drink, but while the others engaged in a bit of revelry, Grrralph sat slumped on his bench with his hood pulled down over his non-face. He remained like this despite the best efforts of his companions... ok, well Pimpiowyn at least... to raise his spirits. He even refused to play his favorite game, set the drunkard's foot on fire. After about 3 seconds of concern, the Itship turned to other, more important matters, such as ale, porter, stout, wine and mead.

It was into this scene that Merisu entered, coming through the door of the common room with a bang, followed by a portly gentleman dressed in an odd uniform of gold colored cloth and black breeches. On the man's shoulder was a brightly colored parrot. Merisu made her way to the Slightly-soused-ship, and stood next to the table, bubbling with excitement. She waved a few of the bubbles away from in front of her face and announced proudly, "I have found a ship to carry us to Valleyum!"

In all likelihood, the reaction of her companions would have been as expected, ranging from polite interest to wild cheering, but for one thing. Even as she spoke, an unearthly wail shook dust from the rafters, shattered several wineglasses, and caused one chicken in the yard to die of cardiac arrest. "Put a cork in it, Grrralph!" cried Kuruharan as he shook his head to see if his hearing would return. But Merisu turned to the wraith with a look of concern, for she saw steam rising from his glowing red eyes.

"Grrralph, what could be the matter?" she asked. "Is this not good news?"

"Alas!" the wraith answered. "I cannot come with you fair Shieldmaiden!"

Merisu silenced Orogarn Two's cheers with a glare (and froze Gateskeeper and Earnur in the midst of a high five). "Why not?" she queried. "You have journeyed far with us. Surely you do not wish to leave us even as we approach the fulfillment of our quest? Come with us!" Kuruharan and Vogonwë began waving their arms and shaking their heads silently behind Merisu's back.

"I do wish to stay with you all," Grralph said. But, well, I do not think that I, a black wraith of evil, would be welcome in the land of the Velour. Even were this not so.... well... you see..."

"Wraiths don't like water," Gateskeeper chimed in, finishing Grrralph's sentence for him. Grrralph nodded sadly in confirmation.

"Indeed, the thought of sailing upon the waves of the Blundering Seas makes my cloak crawl," the wraith added. Vogonwë shuddered and slapped at the hem of Grrralph's garb which had began inching across the table towards him.

"Well," said Orogarn Two without a hint of sorrow. "That's that! Been nice knowing you. Don't forget to write. Bon voyage! Later! The road leads that way. Don't let the door hit you on your way out..."

"Now, now," said Merisu. "Surely there must be a way to solve this little problem. I'm sure the Velour would take into consideration your heroic..." At this moment, an odd coughing fit simultaneously overcame Orogarn, Earnur and Vogonwë. "HEROIC," continued Merisu. "Heroic assistance that you have lent us. As for your dislike of water..."

"Actually its more like a discomfort," clarified Grrralph. "A deep discomfort. Very deep. Deep down inside me. That kind of affects my digestive tract and makes me..."

At the verge of again receiving too much information, Merisu raised her hand to stop Grrralph's description of the adverse (and rather disgusting) effect which water had upon him. But before she could continue, her oddly garbed companion spoke up. Strangely enough, he punctuated every word he spoke with a gesture.

"Fear.. of... water... IS... nothing to be... ashamed of," he said in a choppy and over-emphasized fashion.

"And who might you be?" asked Earnur as he slid a knife from its sheath.

"I... am... Cirkdan," the man answered. "CAPTAIN... Dimwi T. Cirkdan of the... Ent's Surprise, but you... can call me... Dim." Kuruharan closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Of course..."

"And this... is... my ship's healer, Dr. Macaw," he continued. The Itship looked about in confusion, as there appeared to be no one else about. Then, to their surprise, the parrot spoke. "Pleased to meet you," it said.

"What?" said Leninia. "The pigeon is a healer?"

"I'm a doctor, not a pigeon," growled the bird irritably.

Sensing some doubt arising in his new clients, Cirkdan continued. "To... conquer... your fear... of water, you...must... look... deep within yourself... for courage."

Grrralph considered Cirkdan's words and seemed to search within what passed for his soul for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "Nothing!"

"Failing that," said Earnur as he unsteadily waved a pint about as if to emphasize his words. "I've often found that courage can be found in a bottle."

Grrralph pondered these words, then slowly and reluctantly, reached into his cloak and retrieved the bottle of Old Rotgut which Earnur had given him while at the Nancing Bow-ny in the Mire. As he uncorked the bottle of home-brewed spirits a hiss came from the flask as doubtful fumes escaped, causing the eyes of those assembled to water (except for Earnur who muttered something about "a good year"). The wraith raised the bottle to the dark space within his hood and drained the bottle in a single draught. His eyes glowed bright and he rose to his feet with a wheeze. A strong wind arose outside and caused the door to swing open. The breeze caught Grrralph's cloak and caused it to swirl about him like dark flapping wings of shadow. The glowing red coals which passed for his eyes seemed to spin like pinwheels and his body grew stiff. Then his eyes went dark and he slowly tilted and toppled, like a great tree falling, to the ground.

Doctor Macaw flew from Cirkdan's shoulder and landed on the ground next to Grrralph's prone form. He examined the wraith for a moment, then turned to Cirkdan and pronounced in profoundly shocked and sorrowful tones, "He's dead Dim."

Orogarn leapt to his feet with a loud cry, "YES!" But Merisu hurried to the wraith's side. "He's a wraith," she said irritatedly. "He's always been kind of dead." Then she brought her face close to his and listened intently. Hearing a slight hiss, she extended her arm and held the brightly burnished vambrace before Grrralph's non-face. A faint mist appeared upon the polished metal. "He yet lives!" she cried. Orogarn collapsed back into his chair and moaned in disappointment.

But every effort to rouse Grrralph failed. After propping him up in the corner and using him as a cloak-rack for a while, they dragged him off with them...

[The Saucepan Man]

Black clouds heavy with rain rolled thunderously over the skies of Moredough, their lower reaches tinged with scarlet as they caught the columns of flame that erupted unceasingly from Mount Odouruin. Occasional flashes of lightning burst through the gloom, threatening to split the murky skies into a thousand fragments. A fell gale howled down from the surrounding peaks of the Ered Lethargi and the Ephel Dûwot, driving a streaming torrent of greasy rain hard into the foetid Plateau of Gorgonbreath. One thing that could be said about the weather of Muddled-Mirth was that it had a profound sense of occasion.

Atop the dark and forbidding Tower Block of Barát-Höm, the noseless nostril flared and writhed fitfully as it savoured a scent that originated in the Pay Havens, some fifteen hundred miles to the west: the unmistakable scent of rent Ent (and the somewhat less savoury odour of rucksacks stuffed full of clothes that had gone unwashed for many months on end).

From his balcony below, Môgul Bildûr surveyed the vast army ranged across the Plateau. Battalions of Orcs, each ten thousand strong, stood in disorderly lines brandishing a perplexing assortment of viciously jagged and barbed weapons. The greater part raised their harsh guttural voices to their Master in anticipation of his impending victory, although those recently returned from Valleyum wandered silently and aimlessly across the plain, occasionally dropping the odd limb or facial feature, while their Uruk captains attempted somewhat vainly to herd them into some semblance of order. Hordes of great armoured trolls, the flame-hardened oL0g-hA1, each carrying a range of mighty insults to hurl at their foes, lumbered back and forth eager for action. And the races of Men who had pledged their allegiance to Môgul, the wild Beasterlings of Near Hardup, the pitiless Poltroons of Far Hardup and the ferocious Scallywags of Khant, Men who had entered the Land of Shadowy Deals through the Black Gate of Uncanon only days before, sat grimly in their camps. Their ludicrously exotic armour and weaponry gleamed in the light of their camp-fires as they touched up their war-paint and eyeliner. Here and there, the dark wraith-like figures of Korprat Loyers could be seen preparing their loopholes and sharpening their clauses.

But prominent amongst the forces assembled before the Dark Tower Block were the great beasts of the Aircorps of Dumbar. Each as grey as a mouse and as big as a house with a nose like a snake, they made the earth shake as they tramped o‘er the plain, tethered by chain. With horns in their mouth, they had flown from the South, flapping big ears - ruddy big ears. Aerophaunts were they. Arranged in squadrons, some carried great howdahs on their back capable of transporting whole battalions of troops while others were mounted with an array of heavy weaponry: trebuchets, arbalests and ballistas. A great trumpeting and roaring issued forth from the mighty beasts as their Dumbarian crews, clad in bright red uniforms, tended to them and loaded them with weaponry and provisions.

Satisfied with his inspection, Môgul turned and glided back into his office, carefully avoiding the remains of various Orcish clerks and functionaries, the legacy of the temporary disconnection of his Satel-antir and the downing of the Aircorps patrol. Within the office suite, Môgul’s Chiefs of Staff stood around a great table bearing a map of Muddled-Mirth. Tiny black flags stood ominously out from various locations: Ham Steep, Improvas, the Halls of Trebor and the Golden Malls of Topfloorien. Yet other locations bore brighter flags of varying colours: the Last Home Grown Cows, the Mire, the Pay Havens and, yet still, Minus Teeth. Carved wooden blocks represented the forces deployed throughout the land, the majority of them black and spiky.

A palpable sense of irritation emanated from the Dread Developer as he examined the blue denim flag that sprang defiantly from Minus Teeth.

“What news from the Wight City, Greedhog?” he enquired.

“It ssseemsss that Grundor has monetary resservesss of which we were unaware, O Profoundly Prosperous One,” the Senior Loyer hissed. “A dark cloud of Lítig-aî-Shön permeates the entire realm and the repaymentsss on our loan to the Proctor are crippling. Yet still he holds out.”

“He cannot stand alone against the financial might of Moredough for long,” spat Môgul. “There will be time enough to de-credit and discredit him and his upstart hair when we return from Valleyum.”

“Sire,” spoke up a thin, weasly figure with hair greased back into a ponytail and sporting bright red braces. “Our marketing campaign is meeting with great success.” The speaker was Perlandeen, Arch I-Mage of the dark art of Pé-Är. As he spoke, he conjured from the air a plethora of charts covered with graphs, pie charts and survey results.

“Consumer recognition of the red nostril logo is at an all-time high and our Môgul branded products are selling like hot-cram,” Perlandeen explained. “In tests, eight out of ten Muddled-Mirthlings expressed a preference for black over white, green, silver or, indeed, any other colour favoured by the so-called Free-Peoples. Evil really is the new good. And our cause has been greatly assisted by the general carnage spread throughout the land by the renegade Merisuwyniel and the buffoons that she laughably calls her companions.”

“At leassst until recently,” added Greedhog. “Lately it appearsss that they have found sssome sssupport amongssst those that they have encountered. Their defeat of the upssstart Sssauerkraut has won them sssome renown.”

“Yes, poor Colin,” replied Môgul. “He never was the sharpest note in the symphony, but he sure knew how to make an exit. Still, who knows when he might be popping up again.”

A dreadful wheezing, bubbling, grinding sound filled the office as the Dread Developer chuckled at his dreadful quip and his minions dutifully followed suit.

“We are most grateful to you for your information, Rrrogerrr,” said Môgul, recovering his composure and turning to the chipper Thingwraith, “It will stand us in good stead in Valleyum.” Although the Nazgul, being a Fell collective, had no appointed leader, they had all agreed that Rrrogerrr should attend the briefing to represent them and to relay in Wraith what he had learned from Soregum.

“That’s quite alright, my Lord, old chap. Glad to be of service.”

“Well,” continued Môgul. “If the people of this ripe and potentially lucrative land cannot be won over by subtle persuasion and crippling debt, there are always the more traditional methods. You have assembled a fine army, General Gzzmmmphllgg.”

“Thank you sir, Lord Bildûr, sir!” roared the General, standing to attention. General Gzzmmmphllgg was an enormous and heavily-built Orc, so enormous indeed that he might have beeen mistaken for an Ogre were it not for the fact that, as everyone knows, there are no such things as Ogres in Muddled-Mirth. He was extraordinarily old, having been born in the time of the Dread Developer’s rule of Dairyland, and had risen to become commander of Môgul’s armies in Moredough by virtue of the simple fact that he had not died during the intervening years (a feat which no other Orc had managed to achieve). But age and experience had taken their toll on him. He wore a patch over one eye, his left arm was withered and useless, he loped with a limp and his mottled and scabrous skin had turned a yellowish shade of pink through excessive exposure to the sun.

“You will take charge of Moredough while we are in Valleyum, General,” directed Môgul. A formidable force will remain behind. After all, we don’t want anyone sneaking in and getting up to no good while we are away, do we? Oh, and dispatch a detachment to secure Dorktank.”

“Yessir, Lord Bildûr, sir!” barked General Gzzmmmphllgg, raising his good arm in a salute.

“As for the remainder of the army, they will travel with us to Valleyum. Captain, are the Aircorps ready for action?”

“Yeah, right on, my Lord,“ replied a hairy brute of a man dressed in the bright red uniform of the Aircorps. “Mad for it. Sorted, like. Know what I mean.”

The Aircorps of Dumbar were a cruel and merciless outfit. And none was more cruel or merciless than their commander, Cap’n Ar-Kidd. He was descended from the corrupt line of Ar-Pheronome, King of Noodleor, who had flown an ill-fated mission to Valleyum some three thousand years before in defiance of the power of the Velour. A Black Noodleorian he was (or Morally-challenged Noodleorian as those of a more politically correct persuasion preferred to call them). And he was mad keen, like, at the prospect of launching an airborne assault on Valleyum to fulfil the vision of his ancestor.

“Shine on, man” he added, raising his great bushy eyebrows and flashing his gold-capped teeth in a broad grin.

“Yes, er, quite,” replied Môgul. “Very good. Commence loading the troops immediately. Dismissed!”

As the Chiefs of Staff turned to leave, Môgul called back Greedhog.

“You too will be journeying with us to Valleyum,” he said to the old Korprat Loyer. “Select a company of the most seasoned of your kind to accompany you. You will be escorting the prisoner. I want you personally in charge should negotiations become necessary.”

“I had hoped for no lessss, O Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealing,” replied Greedhog. “I fear neither battle nor negotiation, my Lord. For wasss it not foretold by Macbeth the Ssseer, and comprehensively drafted by Ssstrongclause the Watertight, that no Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, ssshall hinder me?”

“Indeed it was, my faithful advocate.”

As Greedhog departed, Môgul returned to his balcony and watched as line after line of Men, Orcs, Trolls and Loyers filed on board the Aerophaunt carriers. He was still there some hours later as, one after another, the great beasts lumbered across the poisonous plain and launched themselves into the dark and stormy Moredough sky*. In due course, he disappeared into the depths of the Dark Tower Block to make his own arrangements for the journey.
_______________________________________

*Editor’s note: When they come to make the film, Ride of the Valkyrie would be good here.

[Bêthberry]

There's got to be a morning after and this was the one to beat all mornings after, except possibly for the morning after Vinaigrettiel had died. Earnur groaned. A familiar refrain, spoken with irregular stress, and accompanied by tatty tat music, reverberated inside the brain of the Lord of Dun Sóbrin like repeated strikes of dwarven blacksmithery--not that dwarves ever had labour problems or work stoppages. The words seemed punctuated like hammer blows upon an anvil. And Earnur, the Lord Etceteron, the very last of the very manly Manly Men, felt like the anvil. Misery!

These have been the sousings of the Manlyship Etceteron. His well-over-a-year-mission to seek out new beverages and abstain from them, to discover strange new forms of travesty with Merisuewyniel, to boldly go where Vinaigrettiel had not gone before ....

Although it was not a manly thing to do, Etceteron winced at the repetitions. He could not remember if it was the final beer or thoughts of Vinaigrettiel or his stay at the Houses of Bettifordeth which caused him to feel such pain. In search of the dull edge of courage, he fished around for his bottle of Old Rotgut and remembered giving it to Grrralph, who upon emptying it had rapidly gone where any reader worth his or her salt can imagine.

"Blimey, you sot," Earnur said to himself. "Now you've gone and done it. Drunk to the depths of Lethe or sunk or something daft punk like that." He hadn't the faintest idea what punk meant, as it was several ages down the road, turn left at the oak and then hang a right outside the middle of the Seventh Age, but he liked the sound of the word. He didn't think he had reached the depths of delirium, but it had been so long since he had drunk any considerable amount that the effects seemed ... considerable. Not since the screeching tyres of Vinaigrettiel's lamentable death and his lamentations thereof had he felt like this. Perhaps that is why he could hear her calling, calling him back again. Vinaigrettiel! His once and future girlfriend!

Earnur stood up in what can only be termed an approximation of upright stance. He shook his fist at his slanderous sword in one of the famous expressions of wordless sarcasm for which he held himself famously renown. He, Earnur, enobled noble and brazen warrior that he was, would not go before his time but only just before payment to the Taxman was due. Live long and prosper he always said. But this hour was indeed hard: Vinaigrettiel calling to him, in his state of O-can-I-drink-sake-I-can. Once, in the early hours of their relationship, she had tried the elven mind meld with him, but that thing with the fingers had been distracting and he had not been able to master it. But now here She was. Or, rather, she was, as she had renounced her role as She. And so Earnur began one of those famous conversations with himself, which can now be revealed in the pages of this book for the first time, where he gets to play several parts.

What are you doing thinking you would sail West?

Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time. It was good enough for Morriquendey of the Smithiels and Radiodhol. And like, there's Merisu and Pimpi and Leninia. And we'll have fun, fun, fun till Emu takes our shieldboards away.

This deserves to be discussed within the confines of heroic Muddled Mirth verse, especially the late-flowering epic style which The Entish quest typifies. Vinaigrettiel is not at Valleyum, waiting for you. She had forsaken the West when she pledged herself to you! Ungratefully, you have forgotten this and now she is correcting you, telling you you are not bound to the circles of the world, but that other bonds await you!

Oh right. This Old Age religious stuff with all the Big PoncyWords. I never could get through that book, whazzit called, The SmellyOnion. Why use lots of languages when one'll do?

Once this Muddle Mirth is overthrown in the Drag or Undrag Bath, you will be together again, but only if you don't sail west.

Gotcha. My thoughts must be harder now.

He hiccuped. Earnur was bound, but determined to think this through, although thinking was not necessarily his strong point. At first he couldn't see what the Prime Directive was. But this extra-sensual correction helped focus his mind wonderfully. He recalled one of his favourite Ortho Riddermarking songs and began to hum it: "She put the hurt on me," he sang. He belched a particularly strong belch and tasted the after effects. It was a rough trade, but he submitted to his fate. This brawn, he decided, was bound for glory. Wild meaeras couldn't tear them apart. Orcs maybe, but not wild meaeras.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Later, not wanting to be overthrown at the final test, he joined the Enterprising-Ship downstairs at Sethamir's. He made a handsome entrance even if he did say so himself, but it was wonderfully quiet. Nothing seemed to be going on and nobody seemed to want it to. Not after what had happened the night before. He spoke up in hopes of getting everyone's attention but they all scowled as if to say "SHHHHS.?"

"Flowerless is the grave of Vinaigrettiel."

"Sounds like a right sort of thing for a tart," retorted a muffled voice whose owner Earnur could not determine. It didn't sound like his flask talking this time, so he wondered if it could be his sword. But just in case, he retaliated.

"Be aware of whom you are castigating. I shall crack your knuckles faster than She could crack her whip! This is Merisuwyniel's Mother of whom I speak," replied Earnur. "Keep a civil tongue in your head or my butter knife will slice through your pate faster than you can spread a smile." Pleased with his witticisms, he could have continued in this vein had not another voice come to him. "Get on with it or you'll have me to answer to." Believing he recognised this voice, Earnur took a swig from his Flask of Eternal Refilling, which he swore was becoming as voluble as his sword ever had been. He began again.

"Flowerless is the grave of Vinaigrettiel and rootless the white tree I uprooted when I buried her. What ship would bear me across so wide a sea with such a garden untended as that?"

"Eh?" asked Kuruharan. "MeriSue has found us our ship."

"No, I don't mean what real ship. I mean, an existential ship. An Emuonic ideal."

"When I ask a question, it means exactly what I intend it to mean,?"said Vogonwe.

"You wish," retorted Soregum, willing to grab hold of any occasion to make himself look better than Pimpiowyn's boyfriend.

"As I was saying," intoned Etceteron, "It is time to drink the Cup of Farewell."

"I think we did enough drinking last night," piped up Gateskeeper.

"I have yet to finish shopping," moaned MeriSue, but in a most polite manner.

"Will you shut up and let me get on with it?" hollered Earnur, who slurped another swig from the flask.

"Get it on, by all means," answered Leninia winsomely.

"Cretins!" murmured Etcerton. "I've been surrounded by cretins all this time."

Earnur took yet another swig from his flask, for he was sure now each draught was beaming him closer to Vinnie. In fact, it tasted darn like Jim Beam, a not bad substitute for a Scottish elixir.

"I shall give you all gifts to remember me by for drink is flowing between us and you shall gain what I have lost."

"Did someone mention mathoms?" Pimpi asked.

Earnur groaned. This was turning out to be just as bitter a pill as other partings and he couldn't skip over it easy like as other authors had.

"To the Hair of Isildur I give this Brick that was Broken. I seem to have picked this up during our Seventh Age adventure. It has some runes on it but what Wovercot means I can't translate, unless it means 'Wictory over orcs.'" Orogorn Two grunted as he caught the relic Etceteron threw to him.

"To Gateskeeper who so loveth numbers I give this best of all numbers, its sound round but irregularly rhyming and its consonants pleasingly repeated: Forty-two." Gateskeeper looked up briefly from his ceyboarding and hurriedly typed in the magical number.

Now, the only members of the Soon-To-Be-Broken-Ship who had perked up their ears at the mention of receiving anything were the dragon Chrysophylax and the dwarf Kuruharan, who complimented Earnur's gentle words. Earnur was emboldened. "That no one call you grasping, let me reward your listening, that the both of you may preserve your hearing should you ever return to the smithies of your home. To you I give this golden ball of earwax."

Kuruharan was going to tell Earnur what he could do with such a gift, but MeriSue's gentle hand restrained him and her melodious voice requested The Lord of Dun Sóbrin to continue.

"Soregum, your fondness for the bottle has not gone unnoticed, and so to you I leave this bottle of Sparkling Crystal Waters. May it be a support to you in your thirst as it has supported mine." Soregum was ready to crack the bottle over Earnur's head, but once again our peerless if not perilous Shieldmaiden kept the peace.

"Leninia, my once possible dearest Leninia, whose acid tongue burned many a midnight oil with me, to you and to you alone I leave my talking sword, for you alone know how to keep his tongue in his cheek." Leninia was secretly ecstatic to receive so noble a gift, but, determined to stay in character, she thus sat nonchalantly blowing little puffs of air over her fingernails to dry her new manicure.

Pimpi, on the other hand, could not control her curiosity and began to tire of waiting for her mathom. Earnur turned to her and Vogonwe. "I shall suffer mild depression at leaving you, my dear half-Halfling." Vogonwe was ready to take offense at the wink which accompanied thus, but Pimpi held him down. "For the excellence with which you have followed this quest, I give to Pimpi my housecoat, my very best housecoat, and to Vogonwe, a very good cup of tea." Pimpi nearly choked, had Vogonwe not patted her solicitously on the back and murmured endearments about worrying not over canonicity and the bleeding of other books into this one. Who but Vogonwe could argue this best?

Finally, The Lord Etceteron turned to the last members of the Smaller-now-by-one-Ship. Grrralph had been stayin' alive, but barely so. Only one of his red glowing eyes could be seen. "In my stead, Wraith, you shall go and pass over the water without grief." And he gave to Grrralph the bottle of old Rotgut that had been broken the night before. There had always been a great deal of breakage wherever the Could Care Less Ship had been, and this was no little reminder of the indispensable aid they had always been. Grrralph knew he would be troubled by the memory of darkness only just a little from then on.

"Your hands are now empty, Lord Eceteron,"spoke MeriSue quietly.

"They are," he replied to the maiden he regarded as his stepdaughter. "Yet I leave you with the greatest gift of all. I acknowledge you MeriSuewyniel, daughter of Vinaigrettiel, and henceforth all ages shall know your name."

"That's it" That's all you leave me with?" she questioned, almost unbelievingly.

"It is more than other writers have left daughters with and if you appreciate it not, in later ages many others will thank me for this."

"I .. I ... I would have thought you would have left me with greater token of my mother."

"Ah, yes. I had a piece of her jewelry that I was going to leave with Cirkdan. He needed a cloaking device, he said. But when I went to hand it to him, a swan from the harbour walked up and pecked it and so it fell into the harbour. But don't worry. It could have been worse. You could have been a boy named Sue."

Silence fell over the room at Sethamir's. Something touched them deep inside, but it wasn't gratitude. More like disappointment. It was not quite the parting the Lord of Dun Sóbrin had been expecting. Nor what the others had imagined either. Bunch of self-indulgent narcissists, he murmured to himself.

"Well, of course I'd like to stay and chat. Of course I'd like to chew the fat. But I've got a date with destiny. I'm off," he said. "Those who are about to sail West, I salute you." And as Earnur departed, he no longer seemed perilous or terrible or even all that manly but as someone already left far behind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As with all journeys of heroic quests, Etceteron's return took fewer pages to cover than the setting out, especially since nothing more strenuous occurred than his constant recourse to the Flask that was Never Ending. In short, Earnur found himself back in Topfloorien in no time, and thence to the heart of the ancient emporium, to the Hotel sacred to him and Vinaigrettiel, the Roll and Toss, where their troth had been blighted.

And he dwelt there alone in the cold nights and partook of his Flask unfailingly, ever anxious to hold off despair. And the end of his days was utterly unknown for there came upon the hotell one night a huge flash of fire. It was said in after ages that the Lord of Dun Sóbrin had found a legendary end, one as highly wrought of fantasy as any subcreative faculty could imagine, for Earnur, the Lord Etceteron, went out like a flame, burning in the middle as well as both ends, combusting spontaneously one night and leaving behind nothing but blackened earth where grew no longer elanor and niphredil.

And who but the most obtuse reader could imagine unquiet slumbers for the Last Manly Man and his Vinaigrettiel when the Last Bath is drawn.

[Kuruharan]

While all this was going on, Kuruharan once again slipped off on yet another useless tangent. This was not his original intention, and it would turn out to be important later, so I guess it wasn’t entirely useless. It just didn’t make much sense at the time. Well, it still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I digress.

Kuruharan had a natural desire to deposit his earnings in the bank. However, being a dwarf (and more than a little bit picky), he could not make a deposit in just any old bank. Thankfully, Khmun and Sons had a secret branch office in the Aquamarine Mountains right next door to Mithfortune.

By taking many wary and secret paths, Kuruharan and Chrysophylax managed to drag several enormous bags through the alleys of Mithfortune and only attract a small throng of onlookers. What happened to the onlookers is best left to the imagination. Suffice to say it was only dwarf and dragon who reached the secret entrance, knocked the secret knock, spoke the secret password, flashed the secret hand-signal, danced the secret dance, sang the secret song, pulled the secret lever, and kicked the secret door when all of the above failed to work.

“Chrysophylax,” said Kuruharan, “use your tail.”

Problem solved.

After the door was reduced to rubble, the pair shoved their bags into the hole.

“Wait here,” said Kuruharan, “I don’t want any repetitions of last time.”

So saying, the dwarf vanished in the darkness.

He dragged the bags along a rough and narrow passage for a considerable distance.

Without warning, the passage opened into a wide, colonnaded promenade overlooking a great plaza with a large fountain in the center. Kuruharan dragged his bags out of the tunnel and collapsed into a nearby couch, gasping for air. After collecting himself, Kuruharan looked about. There did not seem to be anyone else about, so he had to drag the bags along and down the stairs by himself. After more dragging and puffing, Kuruharan pulled his bags over to a large marble counter on the far side of the plaza. He stood there panting expectantly. Nobody came.

“Urrungh!” groaned Kuruharan. “Hello,” he shouted, “is anybody there?”

No reply.

Kuruharan reached into one of his bags and pulled out a single coin. He dropped it on the counter.

There was a noise deep beyond the closed door behind the counter. Kuruharan tucked the coin away as the sounds of footsteps and doors slamming neared him.

“WHERE IS IT?! WHERE IS IT?!” screeched a funny dwarf with a neon orange beard who came bursting out of the door. Catching sight of Kuruharan, the dwarf yelled, “JAIL BREAK!! JAIL BREAK!! Some of the money’s escaping!! Did you see anything?!”

Kuruharan cleared his throat to speak as the other dwarf dived under the counter.

“Sometimes it likes to tunnel out from underneath the floor!! Stomp will you!!”

Kuruharan reached over the counter and picked up the fiery dwarf.

“Stop that!” he said. “The money is not escaping!”

“I heard it!” cried the dwarf..

*SMACK* Kuruharan slapped him and plopped him on the floor.

“I’ve come to make a deposit and withdraw some articles from my safety deposit box,” Kuruharan announced.

“A deposit?” the other dwarf perked up mightily.

“Yes, I…” Kuruharan trailed off as he noticed that he had orange paint all over his hands. “Where did this come from?”

The other dwarf grabbed Kuruharan’s hand and started sniffing.

“A very good year!” he announced.

Kuruharan grabbed the other dwarf by his beard, but the beard was wet and the other dwarf easily pulled himself free.

“You’ve been painting your beard orange!” said Kuruharan

“Prevents baldness,” said the other dwarf.

“Hmm…I’ve got some stuff that prevents baldness, but never mind,” said Kuruharan. “About my deposit…”

“Deposit?!” yelped the other dwarf, springing up onto the counter like an overeager puppy with his eyes shining.

“Yeeeesss,” said Kuruharan. “I’d like to deposit these.”

“We don’t take bags here,” announced the painted dwarf importantly.

“Not the bags,” groaned Kuruharan. “What’s in the bags!” Kuruharan pulled open one of the bags and a mountain of coins poured out.

“MONEY!!!” shrieked the orange dwarf, diving into the pile.

“Stop that!” shouted Kuruharan. “You’re getting paint all over my coins!” Kuruharan grabbed the dwarf and tried to pull him out. “Stoppit!!”

Kuruharan dragged the dwarf out and tossed him over the counter.

“Just get the deposit slip,” said Kuruharan.

The orange dwarf handed over a slip and as Kuruharan filled it out, he stared down at the pile of money with all the intensity of The Thinker. After a moment, he pulled out a mallet and started sucking on it.

“Here you go,” said Kuruharan absently, without looking at the clerk. He glanced up.

“EEEKKKK!” he yelped, as the clerk turned around with the handle sticking rakishly out of his mouth.

“Oughsh hugh wawor?” said the clerk.

“Ah, hee hee erm,” stammered Kuruharan.

“Wuuclush cquan comen!” said the clerk.

Kuruharan reached forward and yanked the mallet out of the clerk’s mouth.

“Yeeouch!” cried the clerk.

“Why were you sucking on this mallet?” asked Kuruharan.

“It helps hold my gall bladder in place,” answered the clerk. “Want one?”

“No,” said Kuruharan. “Just get the money in the vault, tell it not to tunnel out in the middle of the night, give me my receipt, and let me have my safety deposit box, if you please.”

“Ahhh,” said the clerk. “That’s the trick isn’t it!” He looked carefully around to make sure that nobody was listening. He motioned Kuruharan closer. “That’ll be very…very dangerous because…” the clerk suddenly spun around and kicked the wall.

“GOTCHA!!” he cried in triumph. “Listenin’ in were ye!!”

“Let me guess,” said Kuruharan, “the walls have ears.”

“GASP!” gasped the clerk. “The skwerls told you too?!!”

“Evidently,” moaned Kuruharan.

“Then I can trust you,” the clerk leaned forward. “It’s the safety deposit boxes…they’re in cahoots with the green chicken gizzards!”

“You don’t say!” hissed Kuruharan. He looked over his shoulder. It was an awfully long way back to the surface, and there was no other bank this side of Beer.

“Hurry,” Kuruharan said. “You have to get my money into the vault before the flying gerbils of doom drop their coconuts upon us!”

“Right away,” said the clerk as he dragged the bags over the counter and back through the door.

“Give me my safety deposit box!” said Kuruharan, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll conduct a thorough interrogation and make it tell all it knows about the migrations of pooka-dotted ninja grasshoppers.”

“Here you go,” puffed the clerk as he came running back. He handed over the box. Then he leaned forward again.

“And always remember,” the clerk whispered as he pulled an awl out of his pants. He stuck the handle into his mouth, “Ouyghc, ouuggh wwwoic!”

“Right back at ‘cha!” said Kuruharan as he started to run across the plaza.

He stopped.

“By the way,” he said, “how did you get to be a banker?”

“King Gain Lotsomoola is my uncle-cousin four times removed-brother-sister-in-law,” replied the clerk.

“Figures,” said Kuruharan as he ran back up the stairs and darted into the tunnel.

“Phew,” he said as he stopped for a moment. He opened the box and pulled two small bundles out. He tucked the bundles in his robes and tossed the safety deposit box on the floor and walked off.

“We’ll show them some day!” thought the deposit box as it lay on the ground alone and neglected. “I have friends who won’t let me be mistreated like this anymore! The Lord High Toaster has promised! Someday all aardvarks and sprockets shall live as one!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Sethamir’s was a beehive of activity on this day, the Sail-for-Sale-Ship’s last on these shores. Each member was busy preparing for the journey in his/her/its own manner. They realized that a journey to the end of the world was not just one of your run-of-the-mill There-and-Back-Again hobbit boating parties. Would they find the Straight-Jacket Way of which the old legends told? So many had gone mad searching for it. And if they reached Valleyum, would they be able to return afterwards? None knew, yet they prepared without hesitating: some recklessly, caring not about future risks; some bravely, despite their knowledge of the potential dangers facing them; and some ignorantly, not having stopped to think about the consequences of their foolhardiness.

Merisuwyniel had revelled in the last opportunity to seek out the Elven shops in Mithfortune. She saw many beautiful things which she would have liked to possess, but considering how few of her precious coins were left after advance payment of their passage (and how little baggage they were allowed to take on board), she hesitated. Then, assuming that Muddled-Mirth coinage would not be needed in Valleyum, she recklessly splurged, buying a lovely new blouse – ruffled, as always, since she was, as always, unruffled. It was made of a shimmering material and had the colour of a pale pink rose, which set off her golden locks and violet eyes to great advantage. She managed to convince herself that it was a necessary purchase, in order to appear appropriately attired before the Velour.

At the next shop, a music store, she found a booklet called “101 Favourite Mournful Melodies for the Hâr-mónicä”. It contained such perennial hits as:

Sittin’ On the Dock of the Pay Havens
500 Leagues (Away from HoME)
Hang Down Your Head, Tom Bomby
and many more…

That was certainly a good investment for a long cruise, especially as her companions had given her to understand in no uncertain terms that they did not want to hear ‘that Western tune’ ever again.

When she returned to Sethamir’s, she found Orogarn Two struggling with a long, narrow package. Courteously opening the door for him, she inquired, “What did you purchase, Orogarn?”

“Two,” he replied.

“I see only one package,” Merisu answered, puzzled. He sighed in exasperation, realizing that her female curiosity had gotten the upper hand over her usual polite attentiveness to such details as name suffixes, and said, “It’s an Umbar-Élar.”

“An umbrella?” she asked.

“Umbar-Élar,” he corrected. “It’s a portable precipitation protection which can be opened in times of need.”

“I saw those in the Mire,” she said enthusiastically. “They really need them there, what with the terrible rain they have; but they called them ‘umbrellas’. I suppose they must have corrupt- um, adapted the original name to their own language. But why are you taking one along on our journey? Do you not remember the words of the Wise, who said: ‘It never rains in Valley-Fornya’?”

“I’m not taking it along,” he mumbled. “I’m sending it to my father.”

Merisu had met his father, and at the thought of the incongruity of the Proctor of Grundor carrying an umbrella, she almost burst into peals of her silvery, melodious laughter. Her kind heart stopped her just in time; she knew how eager Orogarn was to find something that would finally please his fastidious father. Thankful, not for the first time, that she could share her amusement silently with the Entish Bow on her back, she thought, LOL! Just imagine! Denimthor the Stewed carrying an umbrella, my dear! Isn’t it delicious!

;D Most astonishing wonderful! came the mirthful answer.

What she actually said was: “Oh, that reminds me – I want to write a postcard before we leave. I’d better get that done now.” With those words, she vanished into her room to pen a brief “Wish you were here” missive to Roneld at the Hidden Valley Ranch. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to her that she was leaving her foster father behind when departing from Muddled-Mirth. Now that Earnur, her deceased mother’s once-and-future beloved, was leaving the DiminishingShip, she felt quite fatherless and shed a brief tear. (It glistened most becomingly on her cheek and left her lovely Elven eyes unreddened, of course.) However, the excitement of preparing for the journey soon drove sad thoughts from her mind.

As she checked to see if her bags were packed so as to prevent the creasing of the garments contained therein, she found herself singing a little Elven ditty that was currently in the Top Ten and consequently playing everywhere at all times:

O! What are you doing,
And where are you questing?
The Loyers are sueing,
And you need a resting!
O! tra-la-la-lavens
Here down in the Havens!

O! What are you seeking,
And what do you carry?
The Entwood is creaking,
It’s time to make merry!
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly
The Havens are jolly,
Ha! Ha!

O! Where are you going,
With locks all a-flowing?
No knowing, no knowing
Why eyes are a-glowing,
What brings a shieldmaiden
Down into the Havens
At noon.
Ha! Ha!

O! Will you be staying,
Or will you be sailing?
Your horses are neighing!
The daylight is failing!

To sail would be folly,
To stay would be jolly
And listen and rest
Till the end of the Quest
To our tune -
Ha! Ha!

So she laughed and sang in the Inn; and pretty fair nonsense I daresay you think it. Not that she would care; she would only laugh all the more if you told her so. For she was an Elvish shieldmaiden!

[Mithadan]

Grrralph wandered through black and empty places as he slumbered. The best efforts of the Itship, which included prodding him with a sword, splashing him with cold water, exposing him to Chrysophylax's heady breath and beating him with clubs, sticks and a mace, failed to rouse him. Ever quick on the uptake, the members of the Itship realized that this was no normal sleep and, grudgingly, dragged him about wherever they went.

Grrralph himself had little awareness of what was happening. Indeed, he had no awareness at all, at least until he began to dream.

He dreamed he was in an Elvenwood musical,
and that he was the star of that musical.
That really blew his mind,
that he, a long-legged, black-cloaked, leaping wraith
was the star of an Elvenwoog musical.

But there he was,
he was taken to a place,
the hall of the Mountain King.
He stood high on the mountain top,
cloaked before the world,
in front of every type of Zerl.

There was black ones, brown ones,
big ones, round ones,
short ones, long ones,
pink ones, fat ones.

Out of the middle,
there came a Zerly.
And she whispered in his ear,
something crazy.
She said:

"Well, what shall we do with him?" And another Zerl approached him and answered, somewhat reluctantly. "I suppose we should should restore him. After all, he did break the curse..."

The first Zerl looked carefully at the wraith, then sniffed. "I suppose he did. What was it? Oh yes:

'You've been traded to me,
for fair compensation.
For a reasonable fee,
you'll join our dark nation.

You'll wear my gear,
cloak, armor and hood,
now don't shed a tear,
but they're with you for good.

They'll weigh on your mind,
they ain't going away soon,
until potion you find,
made from light of the moon.'"

The second Zerl nodded. "Rather nasty, but that Sourone did turn out to be rather a bad egg. So he drank that bottle of moonshine and the curse is broken. I guess we take him back."

And Grrralph thought to himself,

What could this mean?
Am I going crazy or is this just a dream.
Now wait a minute.
I know I'm lying in a field of grass somewhere,
so it's all in my head,
but then he heard the Zerl say

"But what about all the horrible things he did during the War of the Thing?" The second Zerl answered, "Well, he was under the curse and in Sourone's power. And he was traded to Sourone for a minor leaguer and compensation to be named later if I recall."

The first Zerl scowled. "Yeah, we got a musty old Barrow-Wight and some old rusty shields..." The second Zerl nodded. "A deal's a deal. So we restore him?" The first Zerl scowled again. "I guess we do. You're right. A deal's a deal and the curse is broken..."

Grrralph could feel hot flames of fire roaring at his back,
as the Zerl disappeared,
but soon she returned.
In her hand was a bottle of wine
and in the other a glass.
She poured some of the wine into the glass,
and raised it to her lips,
and just before she drank it, she said:

"A deal's a deal. Darned Loyers. I sometimes wish we could just round them all up and.... never mind." She snapped her fingers with a sound like a clap of thunder, and Grrralph fell back into blackness. But even as he lost what little consciousness he had, he heard the Zerl's final words. "It'll take a little while to set in. Just what the world needs. Another..." And he heard no more...

[Diamond18]

There comes a time in every tale when a ship must be boarded. This ship can be a real vessel made of wood, or steel, or canvas, or bark, or inflatable rubber, and can be launched into real water, salty or fresh. Or, it can be a metaphorical ship launching into metaphysical waters, destined for metacercaria lands and metacestode adventures of metabolic magnitude. It could also be the result of searching the text of a tale to find the words “board” and “ship”, not necessarily in relation to each other, but contained in the same manuscript as a code which proves Mary of Magdala was the wife of Jesus Christ and bore him a son. Or daughter, depending on how many times the words “board” and “ship” appear and whether “boarded”, “boarding”, “boat”, “canoe” and “rubber dinghy” also appear in said tale.

But I digress.

In Muddled-Mirth, the Itship knew naught of such things, and if you said “Mary of Magdala” they would politely (or rudely, as the case may be) correct your spelling and point you in the direction of Merisuwyniel, who is from Topfloorien but was raised at the Elven Farm, not Magdala, you silly, strangely dressed human. And yet, even unknowingly, they were poised to fulfil the Great Rule that stateth a ship must be boardeth if the tale is worth two shakes of salt on a snail’s tail.

Last minute preparations, departures, and hysterics out of the way, the portentously named Itship headed dutifully out to board the ship.

Vogonwë paused a moment on the gangplank and looked back out over the Pay Havens. “I have passed hundreds of years upon the shores of Muddled-Mirth,” he said wistfully, “and though I am still a young half-elf in the reckoning of my people, I feel a great weight upon my heart and weariness of spirit as I look my last upon the land I have known for so long. Ah, ’Mirth, what joyous poems thou hast inspired, what countless wonders thou hast shown me in my time, what heterogeneous peoples thou hast suckled upon they motherly breast, what… what is it, Pimpi my dear?”

Pimpi stopped poking him in the ribs and said, “The others are waiting, can you do this from the ship as we sail away?”

He sighed. “You’re awfully eager to leave. Does not your heart tremble at the thought of forsaking the home of your youth and departing to the lands of the immortals?”

“If it doesn’t scare Meri, it doesn’t scare me,” Pimpi declared pluckily.

“But Merisuwyniel is immortal,” he pointed out.

She blinked her big blue eyes and asked, “Your point?”

He assumed his most Elven expression and pose, replying loftily, “I only wonder if you realize what you are getting into, a mere quaterling, sailing to the realm of the Velour, eldest and wisest of beings.”

She poked him in the stomach and shoved him up the gangplank with a firm heels-of-hands-to-pectoral-region maneuver, “Oh, pshaw, you’re the one who’s scared. Quit acting like an old gaffer and get onboard before the others leave us behind.”

“I fear neither Velour nor Valleyum,” Vogonwë said with as much dignity as he could salvage while tripping backwards up the plank. “Though I would like a reminder of why we are doing this in the first place.”

“I can’t remember why Merisu and the rest are going, frankly, I haven’t been paying close enough attention,” Pimpi shrugged. “But we’re going because of our unique special differences; you are going to entreat the Velour to allow me to stay with you in Never-Never Land despite the fact that I’m a ‘mere quarterling’ of wholly mortal descent.”

“Valleyum,” Vogonwë corrected. Then he sighed, “I love it when you say ‘unique special differences’.”

“I know.”

“That reminds me,” he mused as they finally got to the top of the ridiculously long gangplank and stood upon the deck of the ship, “whilst the others made their last minute preparations, I devoted my time to composing a fitting farewell to our friend, Lord Etceteron. It seemed wrong that he should leave, bestowing upon us gifts, and receive no tribute or token of esteem from us in return.”

He paused, awaiting a response, and when he got none he looked around. Pimpi was nowhere to be seen, and indeed, the entirety of the remaining Itship was likewise removed from his near vicinity. But in their stead stood many innocent sailors, readying the ship for setting and unawares of the ill about to befall them. Vogonwë, satisfied that he had an audience of sorts, cleared his throat and turned toward the shore. It mattered little to him that the sailors knew naught of Lord Earnur Etceteron, He Who Liked Vogonwë’s Poetry Till He Got Sober, since the object of the tribute wasn’t even around and that wasn’t really the point. There really wasn’t a point, which is very much in keeping with the events thus far.

“Ahem,” he intoned, “I will now speak a special work which I have written, titled ‘Lord Earnur the Fairish’, an epic haiku for two voices. I will be supplying both voices.”

A deckhand spit enthusiastically over the side of the rail, thus providing a prelude to Vogonwë’s great experimental endeavor.

His name is Earnur
Lord Etceteron, call him
Of Dun Sobrin, see

His grand demeanor
And dark manly eyebrows
Where envious to behold

He liked to kill orcs
And lollygaggers and such
With his mighty blade

Long he rode with us
Then he kind of up and left
We’ll miss him, I guess

Well I remember
The first time I met the man
By Bovine Fountain

His horse, Baklava
Was black and shiny, and sneered
At me, and was rude

But Earnur was a
Jolly good fellow, he was
A poet like me

We had adventures
Which I wrote about, in my
Lay of the Ent Bow

And then we rested
In the Wight City a while
Until the fire

When adventure called
Earnur was one of the first
To call back loudly

He was hasty
Ah but we liked him for it
Red wine and red blood

Flowed in his red veins
And so I hope that wherever
He goes he will not

Drink himself to death
Or anything bad like that
Farewell E. old chap

Several loud splashes signaled that at least on third of the ship’s crew had abandoned ship and were at that very moment swimming to shore. One man committed hara-kiri right on the deck and made an awful mess which detained enough of the compulsive obsessive neat freaks to stay aboard and clean it up. Vogonwë, oblivious to the chaos, settled down to breathe in the salty ocean air and watch the shores of Muddled-Mirth shrink.

Merisu and the rest of the remaining Itship, such as they were, came up onto the deck after a time and joined him at the rail to wave a fond goodbye to their homeland.

“I say…” Soregum said presently, looking around, “we seem to be missing someone. Don’t tell me the young hobbit lass decided to stay home?”

“What?” Vogonwë said stupidly.

“What?” Soregum echoed. “Surely you, her… um… intended,” he forced the word out, “know her whereabouts?”

“Last I saw she was boarding the ship with me,” Vogonwë said. “Just as I got onboard, I looked about and she had disappeared.”

“And you didn’t think to look for her?” Soregum stared at him in disbelief.

Vogonwë frowned. “She often disappears when I am about to recite a poem.”

“But think,” Soregum peered between the spindles in the rail, down at the water, “what if she slipped off the gangplank and fell into the water and drowned? What if she thought she forgot something on shore and ran back to get it and the ship launched before she returned? What if a suspicious seafaring type kidnapped her attractive young personage with intent to ravish? Hmmmmm? With a clueless boyfriend such as yourself standing by spouting poetry any number of things could have happened!”

Vogonwë had listened to this tirade with increasing alarm. At first he was inclined to tell the hobbit where he could shove it, but as the possibilities of Pimpish doom rolled off the smoke-stained tongue he fell into agitated pacing and finally, when Soregum was spent and panting against the spindles, the half-elf snapped.

“Oh my Eru,” he cried, tearing at his long silky brown hair, “what have I done? I must go back and find her!”

Merisu, who had observed the testosterone charged dramatics with typical unruffled patience, was about to speak a calming word when Vogonwë abandoned all reason and took a flying leap over the railing. So ruffled was he that he didn’t bother to add any airborn gymnastics to his dive, and indeed was so frazzled that instead of slicing into the water he bellyflopped with a sickening smack. Yet he doggedly paddled on toward shore, not hearing Merisu’s cries of, “But I saw her in the mess hall!” through the water in his ears.

“Well this isn’t good,” Merisu said, watching his flailing body tossed about by the waves.

Orogarn Two looked at her curiously, “Why?”

“Pimpi will be very upset when she finds out Vogonwë swam back to shore.”

“I would be more than willing to comfort her,” Soregum volunteered.

“Can I have his hair kit?” inquired Leninia.

“Perhaps there is a rowboat the young lass can row back to shore,” the Gateskeeper suggested. “If the loss of Vogonwë really troubles her that much….”

Merisu made a quick decision, as was her wont. “Someone must go get Pimpi and let her decide what she wishes to do about this.”

Just as Soregum volunteered to go fetch Pimpiowyn, they were interrupted by shouts and screams from the crew. They turned and looked where the sailors pointed, seeing a massive beast flying above the waters.

“What are they screaming about? It’s only Chrysophylax,” Leninia yawned.

“Oh!” Merisu looked stricken for a moment. “Kuruharan and Chrysi! We left them behind!” For a moment she teetered on the ruffled edge of decomposure, but heroically drew herself back at the last minute and said, “Well it is a good Chrysi is here. He can fetch Vogonwë back for us.”

Even as she spoke the dwarf and his dragon were zeroing in on their target, and in a moment Chrysophylax plucked from the waters a very wet and angry half-elf. The dragon flew on toward the ship and landed gracefully on the deck, ignoring the panicked cries and runnings to and fro of the ship’s crew. Vogonwë, deposited in a dripping heap on a coil of ropes, sputtered, “But I must find Pimpi!”

“Calm down,” Merisu said with the merest tinge of impatience. “She is aboard the ship, as I tried to tell you before. I saw her not a few moments ago, becoming acquainted with the cook.”

“What?!?” Vogonwë shook his head, sending driplets every which way. “You said she was lost!” he pointed an accusatory finger at Soregum.

Soregum shrugged, looking more than a little disappointed. “I was merely speculating….”

“This is all fascinating,” Kuruharan commented, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “What I want to know, is why when I arrived at the docks, surprise! No ship! Now if I didn’t know better, I’d say—”

“I am so sorry,” Merisu said with genuine penitence, as she was never anything but genuine. “But what with preparations and all, I did not have time to take a head count. If I had noticed you were gone, I would have made the captain wait, I assure you.”

Chrysophylax muttered something about overlooking the absence of a dwarf being one thing, and forgetting about a dragon being quite another, but it was difficult—nay, impossible—to stay miffed with Merisu for long, and so she soon had them eating out of her hand. But, since all she had had in her pockets were a couple biscuits and that was hardly enough to satisfy a dwarf and dragon, they all decided that it was high time they joined Pimpi in chumming it up with the ship’s cook. And so the Itship made their way down to the mess hall.

That is, save for Grrralph, who, as we all know, is most certainly not going to wake up before reaching Valleyum.

[Lush]

Leninia watched the proceedings on the ship, chewing on her claws, an unseemly habit she had picked up since de-glamourizing her existence and falling in with the GettingThereBitByBitship.

"Designer nails are better food than anything served on this floating funny farm," she snapped when Pimpi gave her a look of outmost horror.

I can't seem to be able to say anything clever, Leninia mused, as Pimpi turned away in terror. Alliteration only takes you so far, even lumberjacks that have their poetry published in cheap anthologies meant to rip off the gullible public (ha, they're even better at it than I was once upon a time) know that. Am I losing my touch? Have I been watching too much cable? What's going to happen to me in the Not Entirely Great (But Kinda Fabulous) Beyond?

Perhaps the answer to Leninia's woes could have been found in the fact that her life was being recorded by an irresponsible, tired, slightly mentally ill, more than a little neurotic college student, who was currently cornered by midterms and brainwashed by corporate culture into freaking out over the fact that she doesn't own the "right" pair of boots this season. If such a thing were possible, that is.

Unable as she was to find a cure for her present, most peculiar condition, Leninia finished feasting on Chan-hell nail varnish, and wandered onto to enjoy the stale sea air.

The wind played with her hair like a bored playboy plays with the affections of the sweetly bland girl-next-door in a formulaic movie with a cheap script. She slapped at the wind, and the wind stuck its tail between its legs and left. She thought about John Lemmon, and blew him sea-foamy kisses, wherever he was. Though certainly, she thought, she would have never had as many (mis)-adventures had she not driven even her favourite husband to suicide.

Ah the strange fortune of the perpetually obscure anti-heroines! To be young, beautiful, ill-tempered and long-clawed, and not be killed off halfway into the story was something new in the history of "literature."

She felt life coursing through her veins (or was it the contents of her eternal hip-flask?) and she welcomed the feeling with the same hesitancy that one would welcome another one of Vogie's masterpieces, but, just like the afore-mentioned masterpiece, the whole thing was inevitable.

[i]I'm going to be Ok over there, she thought, looking out toward the horizon and reflecting on all she had already survived, Vogie's ministrations, Orogarn Two's misplaced values, and stiff competition in the hair department from Merisu in particular. And if not, the Plāiböi Māñcion is hiring

[Kuruharan]

“Ah, the Sea! This is what life as an Elf is really all about!” thought Merisuwyniel to herself as she sat on the bow of the Entish Surprise and giggled merrily to herself as she watched the crew use Grralph as a handy mop. Vogonwë fell down from the crow’s nest (where he’d been trying to find some seagull named Livingston) and hit the deck with a mighty *splat.* The crew thought the half-elf was a particularly stubborn stain and furiously scrubbed at him with Grralph.

Merisuwyniel turned and watched the sea rocking and pitching beneath her. “Yes, this is the life,” she thought to herself, ignoring the sound of retching as Soregum heaved up his breakfast, midnight snack, last night’s second dinner, last night’s first dinner, and his afternoon snack.

A commotion erupted behind her as Kuruharan burst on deck. Being at sea had wrought the strangest transformation in the dwarf. No more was he the scheming landlubberly merchant. Now he had adopted the persona of a scallywag in a schooner to the hilt. He’d set aside the traditional layered robes of a dwarven magnate and was dressed in baggy sailor’s trousers, a stout blue overcoat of broadcloth with gold buttons, and a silly laced and feathered hat. To make matters worse, he’d strapped a peg-leg to himself and now hobbled and staggered about the ship making a terrible ruckus and addressing everybody as “AAAARRRRRR” at the top of his voice.

It was this new Kuruharan who now shot out of the stern cabins, reeled across the deck, and crashed into the mainmast. The crew started to chuckle.

“AARRRR!!!” bawled Kuruharan, as he righted himself with the aid of the mast. He weaved his way to where Soregum was making his offerings to the Sea. Unfortunately, he tripped and flopped right into Soregum, knocking the poor chap over the rail and screeching into the drink.

The crew burst into uncontrolled spasms of laughter.

Ignoring the fact that Soregum now bobbed helplessly in the water below, Kuruharan clattered his way up the stairs over to where Merisuwyniel sat.

“ARRRRRRR, lassie!!!” he bellowed.

“Uhhh…good morning,” she replied. “Don’t you think somebody should throw Soregum a line, or something.”

“I know not what swill ye’ve been…whoops!!!” howled the dwarf as he lost his balance again and fell into a nearby barrel.

Pimpi came out of the galley munching on an apple. She saw Soregum’s predicament and, deciding that competition was a good thing as far as Vogonwë was concerned, tossed him a line. Soregum dragged himself out of the water to the unrestrained chortling of the crew.

“Never mind,” called Merisuwyniel over the crashing noises Kuruharan was making in his barrel.

Merisuwyniel gazed back out over the ocean and took a deep breath of the sea air. (The crew stopped laughing to gape at her.) She could have stayed happily perched there until The End, but the plot intervened again (or maybe I should say, for once).

Shouts and thumps started coming from below deck. Peeved at the distraction, Merisuwyniel turned to see what was causing all the fuss. Someone kicked a door open and a knot of struggling crewmembers emerged, holding something that thrashed fiercely about in their grasp.

“A STOWAWAY! A STOWAWAY!” the crew shouted to each other. “Someone call the cap’n!”

At that moment Kuruharan knocked over his barrel, tumbled out, rolled across the deck, fell over the ledge, and landed in a pitiful heap at the foot of the steps leading up to the forecastle. “Make ‘em walk the plank and hang ‘em from the y-AAARRRR-d AAARRRRR-m!!” he yelled in a most contradictory (and annoying) fashion.

The captain and his officers emerged on deck.

“What…do…WE have…here?” the captain asked. He turned to his elven navigator. “Mister Neemoi…analysis.”

The elf, who had very straight black hair, stepped forward and peered at the whatever-it was the sailors were holding.

“Curious,” the elf said, almost to himself. “It seems to be some sort of giant rat!”

“Villain, Poltroon!!” shrilled a voice. “Tell your ill-bred ruffians to loose hold of me and give me my sword! I’ll cut the lot of you to ribbons!!”

“It seems to be a talking rat,” observed Dr. Macaw.

“Yes, doctor,” replied Neemoi in a tone that had the faint ordure of condescension. “I have heard of such things before.”

“What…SHOULD …we…do…with him?” interrupted the captain.

“Blast it Dim,” squawked Dr. Macaw, “I’m a doctor, not a practitioner of jurisprudence!”

“I am a mouse, not a rat, rapscallion!” shrilled a voice. “And if you fail to unhand me this very instant, I shan’t be responsible for the consequences!”

Something about this voice seemed vaguely familiar to Merisuwyniel. She climbed down the steps to the deck (making sure to stomp on Kuruharan on her way over) to have a look at this stowaway.

What she saw was a mouse that would have been almost two feet tall had he been standing, His fur was black and he wore a band of gold about his head through which was stuck a crimson feather (at the moment it was a little worse for wear).

“Why, it’s Grim Reaperneep!” she cried.

Upon seeing her, the mouse bit right through the hand of one of his captors and sprung free.

“Most Noble Lady,” the mouse piped as he knelt at her feet. “After seeing you I could not continue in this mortal coil if I failed to place my sword at your unending disposal. In pursuance of this great goal, I…ahem…gained passage on this vessel to pledge myself to your service.

Every head snapped around to stare at Merisuwyniel. Other maidens might have been abashed at this, but Merisuwyniel secretly lived for these moments so she blushed just enough to make herself more attractive before responding.

“We would be honored to have your blade Seigneur Mouse!” she declared grandly. “All aid is appreciated in our Quest to Reunify the Entish Bow.”

*BONG* goes a sudden realization.

“Uhhh, Pimpi, my dear,” Merisuwyniel gently intoned, as she grabbed the quarterling in a grip of steel. “You did remember to load our special wagon on board, didn’t you.”

“I’m not a porter,” came the incensed reply.

“Gateskeeper,” Merisuwyniel hissed.

“What wagon?” he asked.

“Vogonwë?”

“I had an ode to compose!”

“Orogarn?!”

“Two!”

“Kuruharan?!!”

“AAARRRRRRR!!!”

“Leninia?!!!”

“As if…”

“Chrysophylax?!!!!”

The dragon was out of earshot.

“TURN THE SHIP AROUND!!!!” screamed Merisuwyniel.

“But…” said the captain.

Merisuwyniel grabbed him by the throat. “TURN THE SHIP AROUND!!!”

They made remarkably good time and were back in Mithfortune later that afternoon. There on the pier sat the Ent that Was Broken, mocking them.

*Whew* sighed Merisuwyniel when she saw the Ent and heard its taunts. “That would have been embarrassing to show up in Valleyum with no Ent!”

After the Ent was safely contained in the hold, they set sail again.

“Now, to the Uttermost West and the End of the World!” cried a joyous Merisuwyniel as she watched the shore vanish to the rear.

“The end of the world is in the East,” said Reaperneep.

“What?” said Cirkdan. “That…IS…nonsense. The…End…lies to…the…West. I…HAVE…been…there.”

“What ca-ca!” shrilled Reaperneep. He turned to Merisuwyniel. “Is our noble quest destined to fail because of the addled ravings of a sea-borne lunatic? We must sail East!!!”

“Ugh!” snapped the captain. “Mister Neemoi…explain…to…him.”

The elf stepped forward.

“It is not logical that we should sail east, the land we just departed from lies to the east. If we sail east we’d run aground!” Neemoi stated.

“A minor problem!” cried Reaperneep. “Are we to be so easily defeated by such a trifling thing?”

“Err…” said Merisuwyniel.

“Claws,” said Cirkdan, “do…something.”

“Blast it Dim,” squawked Macaw, “I’m a doctor, not a navigator! That’s the Elf’s job!”

“Where’s…Tottie…our…engineer?” called the captain.

“Bombed out of his mind,” replied Neemoi.

“Oh good, another one,” thought Merisuwyniel. Out loud she said, “Gentlemen and et cetera, this quarreling cannot get us anywhere.”

“East,” cried Reaperneep.

“West,” snapped Neemoi.

“There must be something we can do to settle this,” Merisuwyniel shouted.

“West,” said Neemoi firmly.

“East,” said Reaperneep as he drew his sword.

“Perhaps we could go north,” Pimpi piped in. “That way both of you will get to go in half the direction you want.”

“You can’t sail in half the direction you want to go,” said Neemoi. “It’s not logical! You won’t get where you want to go!”

Reaperneep’s sword glinted.

“Uhh, maybe we had better go north,” said Merisuwyniel uneasily. She wanted to avoid adding to the Gallowship’s already impressive body count and there was something in the distant past about her people about arriving from Valleyum from the north. Unlikely as it was it seemed the only workable compromise.

“Very…well,” said Cirkdan. “North…IT..is.”

“AAARRR,” bellowed Kuruharan as he lurched off. Unfortunately, he tripped and flopped right into Soregum, knocking the poor chap over the rail and screeching into the drink.

The crew burst into uncontrolled spasms of laughter.

And so, here is our Quest, heroically embarked upon an attempt to save the world, sailing in a direction none of them think will take them where they are going.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel sat in the captain’s office, studying the sea charts as she had so often done during the past days. The first officer, Mister Neemoi, sat beside her, watching her with his usual impassive expression. Strangely, that emotionless face had inspired many females in the past to seek to awaken emotion in him, yet he had remained steadfast in his logical outlook on life, the universe, and everything. Even now, in the presence of a young and gorgeous Elven maiden, it was impossible to see what he thought of her, if he was thinking of her at all. He had explained some points of nautical navigation to her, pleased (quite logically) with her ready intellect and quick grasp of facts.

“So in going north, we are now approaching the island of Angol,” she said questioningly. He nodded in affirmation. “If we stop there, perhaps even go on land, and then sail on, we could change the direction without drawing Reaperneep’s attention to that, don’t you think?”

“That would seem likely,” he answered.

“It is a land famous in legends of old,” Merisu mused. “It is said that there are marvellous jesters there and tellers of great tales.” …and fabulous fashions, she added to herself, not wanting to speak aloud of something that would seem frivolous and superficial to the male Elf.

“I gather that you intend to go ashore,” Neemoi said, lifting one eyebrow. “I must warn you that none of our crew have done so for many years; we do not know if it is safe there. Therefore, I presume that all of our senior officers will want to go with you. Our captain never misses a chance to take risks.”

“I will inform my companions, offering them the choice; those who wish can come along. Yet we should not tarry too long; we have lost precious time already.” Merisuwyniel curtseyed prettily and left the room; the door swung open for her as if moved by magic. Then again, it might have been Elven technology that only seems like magic to us…

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

After what had been a rather boring shore leave (Angol didn’t have a reputation like the vacation paradise of Risa), Merisu, her companions, and those of the ship’s crew who had formed the landing party boarded the little boat that was to take them back to their ship. Dr. Macaw had flown onto his favourite perch on Merisu’s shoulder, where he had a good view – err, was able to monitor the regularity of her heartbeat. The captain had not shown up, so a search party was sent out and eventually found him pulling on his boots after what he called ‘negotiations’ with a female tribal leader.

Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë had spent time wandering in a forest that reminded him of his home and inspired several new poetic creations. Fortunately for the rest of the group, he was too busy planning how to unite them into one large epic to be able to recite any parts to an unwilling audience. A picturesque river had been his particular joy, and he thought to name himself after it. “The Bard of Avon” sounded good, he thought, and Pimpi had agreed somewhat absentmindedly.

Reaperneep had insisted on accompanying Merisu “to protect her from harm”. It had taken all of her diplomatic skill to keep him from duelling with a number of the natives, since he had considered their natural curiosity and interest in her beauty a personal affront. She was rather relieved that they were going back on board, hoping that he would stay out of trouble there. Kuruharan’s pockets were bulging more than they had when he left the ship; whether he had bought new wares or sold the natives something for an exorbitant price was anyone’s guess, and Merisu did not intend to ask him about it. Chryshophylax had flown over the island, but after several unpleasant encounters with knights and farmers who had such outlandish names as George and Giles (not to mention swords of great brightness and lineage), he returned to the ship earlier than the others.

Soregum, Leninia, and Gateskeeper had stayed on the ship, ostensibly to watch over the still sleeping Grrralph, but each of them actually wishing to keep a low profile for reasons of their own. Mister Neemoi had also remained on board, since the Captain had insisted on going ashore. It was illogical for both of the highest-ranking officers to leave the vessel, he argued.

(Pimpi had teased Merisu about the first officer, misinterpreting the amount of time they spent together as personal interest. She felt sorry for her idol’s loneliness, since she basked in the attention of two rivalling males, and wished that Meri could be happy with someone new and forget Gravlox. She remembered a snatch of an encouraging song: “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with”, she warbled. It was below Merisu’s dignity to answer.)

One disadvantage of the island of Angol was the rainy weather, and as the crew members (whose names she did not know, all of them wearing red shirts) rowed the little boat back to the ship, she shivered. Clouds drew nearer, darkening ominously, and the waves grew larger. Thunder rolled in the distance. Just as they pulled up to board the ship, a flash of lightning struck the mast of the small vessel in which they sat. Merisu’s skin tingled and she heard a slight crackle, then all seemed to be normal again. Hands reached down to help her climb the ladder.

When all were on deck again, she turned to go to the cabin she shared with the other two females. Astonished, she saw that Pimpiowyn was wearing clothing that seemed to have shrunk inexplicably. “What happened to you?” she asked.

“What happened to you?” came the Half-hobbit’s shocked answer.

Merisu looked down. Instead of her usual long divided skirt, she was now wearing a garment so short that she was not sure it deserved the name ‘skirt’. Her midriff was bare, unadorned by ruffles and frills. As if to make up for the lack of fabric, her boots were now thigh-high, and a wicked-looking dagger was shoved into one of them.

She turned to look at the others. Kuruharan looked like a pirate, but then he had already taken on that appearance during their journey, so that was nothing new. Vogonwë, now covered with fine mail and carrying a shield and sword, looked more a soldier than a poet. And Captain Cirkdan sported something unprecedented in a Elf – a beard!!

Already confused, she was not prepared for what came next. Neemoi, now with a very fetching goatee adorning his face, rushed up to her with a big smile, hugged her enthusiastically and said, “I’m so glad you’re back, darling! I missed you so!”

Leninia, dressed as exotically as usual, came up and exclaimed, “Aww, if I’d known that you were going to Carnaby Street to shop, I would have come along! Did you get those miniskirts at Mériquaunts? And your hairdos! You must have been to Sassûn’s salon. I’m jealous!”

Bewildered, Merisu decided that she apparently needed a rest; perhaps there would be a logical explanation for everything, if she could only understand what was happening. Yet instead of going to the girls’ cabin, Neemoi led her to his, where she found all of her belongings. Even the Entish Bow stood beside the bed, as if she had left it there. “Why don’t you take a nap?” the first officer suggested. “I’ll be back after meeting with the captain to plan our course of action for capturing the other Elven ships for our journey. I want to make sure none of the other crew members tries to assassinate him and take over.”

Though she tried, she could not sleep. Finally she sent an O-mail message to Vogonwë, asking him to bring Pimpi, Kuruharan, and Reaperneep to her cabin to discuss what had happened. They brought shocking news with them, of a crew that seemed to have turned barbarian, and of a plot to murder other Elves to capture their ships.

“A Kinslaying?” she gasped. “But who has heard of Elves killing one another? That is horrible – it must be stopped!”

“Shall I kill the whole crew to stop them?” Vogonwë asked, standing tall in his armour. Pimpiowyn looked up at him admiringly.

“I shall help you!” exclaimed Reaperneep.

“Waste of a good opportunity for profit,” muttered Kuruharan.

“Something has changed,” Merisu stated. “This is not the same ship nor the same crew; though they look similar, there are differences. Perhaps the lightning changed us so that we are no longer in our own Arda, but in a parallel world – as in a mirror, darkly. We must find a way to return to our world, but can we do something to avert a catastrophe here?”

“Do nothing hasty,” she continued. “I shall contact the Captain and Dr. Macaw to see if we can duplicate the conditions that brought us here. And since this ship’s Mister Neemoi seems to be my husband in this world, I will reason with him. Logic will show him that peace is better than the slaughter they have planned.”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Being an Elf who accomplished what she set out to do, it did not take long before Merisuwyniel and the other members of the landing party were once again seated in the small boat. Neemoi, his face filled with sorrow at losing the Elven maiden who had charmed him so (the one he would be getting back was less even-tempered than she), let down the ropes. He had promised her (what price she paid for that promise is left to the imagination of the reader) that he would turn aside the bloodthirsty schemes of the Elven Empire and seek to lead them to peace.

Once again, the wind tossed their small vessel to and fro. Once again, ominous clouds enveloped the sky, and thunder sounded from them. As lightning struck, Merisu’s thoughts called out to Yawanna for help and guidance. She fervently hoped that there was a benevolent equivalent to the green goddess in this world. Then she found herself and her companions aboard a ship that was just as she remembered it. All was as it had been, she was as she had been, yet though she was greatly relieved, why did she found herself wishing that Neemoi’s greeting had been more than just a cool nod?

[The Saucepan Man]

With every day that had passed since the Goodship Entish Surprise had set sail from Mithfortune, Soregum’s misery had increased. When he wasn’t being hauled unceremoniously from the water, he was fully occupied studiously emptying the contents of his stomach into the sea. Which, quite apart from being a shameful waste of perfectly good food, was particularly unsettling on the frequent occasions when the high wind swiftly reacquainted him with said contents.

Better out than in!

Soregum recalled the words of his old Duffer and cursed the senile old twerp for his trite homilies as yet another partially digested helping of salted beef and diced carrots made a break for freedom. Had he not been so indisposed, he might have reflected on the fact that the ship’s stores were utterly devoid of carrots, diced or otherwise.

After a few days, however, (and to Soregum’s great relief) the winds finally died down and the turbulent waves subsided. The ship sat becalmed amidst the peaceful ocean, still and serene. The midday sun glinted on its gently undulating surface, giving it the appearance of a great blue cloth bejewelled with a thousand bright diamonds. As Merisu and the ship’s officers fretted at the delay occasioned by the lack of breeze, Soregum stood on the deck and took in great lungfuls of the fresh salty air, tempered with the acrid smoke of his favourite pipeweed.

All was peaceful, save for the occasional cry of a seabird on the wing and the gentle murmur of Kuruharan, seated to the aft, counting his doubloons and muttering “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!” to himself. As Soregum surveyed the wide expanse before him, there came another soft sound: a swish, followed by a plop, as if a fish had disturbed the still surface of the water. Turning his head, Soregum saw ripples widening outwards from a point some fifty feet ahead of the boat. But he thought no more of it as Orogarn Two and Pimpiowyn joined him on the deck.

“It’s a fine day, little one,” ventured Orogarn Two.

Soregum’s irritation at the Grundorian’s insistence on calling him “little one”, was soothed by his delight at Pimpi’s presence. Idly, Orogarn Two stooped and picking up a large stone he cast it wide into the surrounding water. The stone vanished with a soft slap; but at the same instant there was a swish and a bubble. Great rippling rings formed on the surface out where the stone had fallen, and they moved slowly towards the bow of the ship.

“Why did you do that Orogarn?” said Soregum. “I am troubled by the ocean. Don’t disturb it!”

“Two”, replied the Grundorian automatically, wondering what a large stone was doing on board a ship.

“I wish we could reach Valleyum,” sighed Pimpi. “I’m getting fed up with ship’s provisions.”

Some of the crew seated nearby, a group of Elvish sailors, suddenly struck up an old sea shanty. The song spoke of their wistful yearning for the Western realm and the companions listened in wonder at their pleasing close harmonies.

Topfloorien girls are hip
I really dig those styles they wear
And the Workmud girls with their party punch
It knocks me out when I'm down there

The Mid-Mire farmer's daughters
Really make you feel your height
And the Dwarven girls with their braided beards
They keep their gold hoards warm at night

I wish they all could be Valleyfornia
I wish they all could be Valleyfornia
I wish they all could be Valleyfornia girls

The West realm has the lamp lights
And the girls all get so tanned
I dig a squid bikini on Calamari dolls
By a Mallorn tree in the sand

I've been all around this Muddled-mirth
And I’ve seen all kinds of girls
Yeah, but I can't wait to sail the ancient road
To find the cutest girls in the world

I wish they all could be Valleyfornia
I wish they all could be Valleyfornia
I wish they all could be Valleyfornia girls

The companions were reflecting on the poignant longing expressed in the words of the song and the wondrous picture painted of the land for which they were bound when suddenly, without warning, Kuruharan sprang into the air with a cry, his doubloons scattering. The cause of his impromptu launch was immediately apparent. A long sinuous tentacle had emerged from the water and, wrapping itself round his leg, had hauled him from the deck. A second tentacle, pale-green and luminous and wet, curled itself around Pimpi’s waist and lifted her too into the air.

“Help!” cried Pimpi “Help me!”

“My doubloons!” wailed Kuruharan as they rolled and bounced across the deck and into the water.

Soregum’s reaction was immediate. Without hesitation, and with no thought as to the consequences, he promptly dived under the nearest cover.

Vogonwë, hearing Pimpi’s cry, rushed out on to the deck and, drawing an arrow from his quiver, swiftly hurled it at the offending limb. But the missile bounced harmlessly off its tough rubbery surface. Orogarn Two’s sword flew across the deck as it too rebounded from the tentacle which held Kuruharan.

An immense shape, as large as the ship, emerged from the water. Two blood red eyes, deep as the ocean itself, peered out from a mass of writhing tentacles: eight in number. Beneath the tentacles, a fearsome beaked maw, framed by a thick growth of seaweed, opened and closed as the great beast drew the hapless captives towards it.

“Where’s that confounded Dragon when I need him,” grumbled Kuruharan, cursing Chrysophylax for having chosen this moment to go hunting and rummaging in his knapsack for something which might avail his predicament.

“Help me, Vogie,” screamed Pimpi, stabbing at the fearsome limb that enveloped her with the Elven blade, Hush. Having spent much of her life devouring, she was in no hurry to have the tables turned on her.

In desperation, Vogonwë drew another arrow and aimed for one of the glowering eyes, when his arm was stayed.

“Do … not … harm it”, warned Captain Cirkdan, who had appeared on deck accompanied by Mister Neemoi, Dr Macaw and the remainder of the All-at-sea-ship.

“But the vile creature has my beloved Pimpi in its evil grip!” cried Vogonwë.

“Are you out of your Half-Elf mind!” squawked Dr Macaw. “Don’t you know what that thing is?”

“But we must do something!” cried Merisuwyniel, readying the Entish Bow.

“The good Doctor is correct for once” said Mister Neemoi calmly, prompting the avian medico to raise an improbable eyebrow. “If you attack, you will merely drive it off, and your friends with it,” he continued. “It means no harm. Listen.”

And as they listened, the burbling that issued from the creature’s terrible maw resolved itself into something recognisable.

“It’s singing!” exclaimed the Gateskeeper.

“How delightful,” muttered Leninia. “A singing squid.”

The beast had brought Pimpi and Kuruharan level with its crimson eyes and was indeed serenading them, in a deep mournful tone.

Where darkness rules the ocean deep, and sea begins to freeze;
Where light doth fail to penetrate, untouched by any breeze;
Where creatures strange and monstrous live, in black and watery lair,
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my realm is fair.

Then its voice changed, taking on a lighter, more feminine timbre, although the tone remained mournful.

Where light is come to shallows clear through curtains green and blue;
Where fishes play and corals lay, in bright and varied hue;
Where sunlight shines and shellfish fine adorn a rocky stair;
I’ll linger here, and will not come, because my realm is fair.

“That … is the … Bachelor in … the Water,” explained Cirkdan.

“One of the great Krakens of old,” added Macaw. “The first of all the great sea creatures to awaken in Muddled-mirth.”

“It is … said … that they were awoken … by … the songs sung … by the … Calamari … as they … sailed … in their squid ships out … from their great … haven, … Valleyfornia,” said Cirkdan.

“Their story is a sad one,” continued Macaw. “They haunt the wild depths of the ocean and once swam there happily with their wives. But the Kraken-wives yearned for the gardens of the sea: the coral reefs and rocky shallows. It is said that one day the Kraken-wives just upped and left and the Krakens have been searching for them ever since.”

“A most improbable tale,” said Neemoi. “The existence of a life form in which the two genders are unable to cohabit harmoniously is highly illogical.” Oblivious to the stares of disbelief which greeted his words, from male and female alike, he continued: “And even if true, it is most improbable that there are any Kraken-wives left in existence, and so their persistence in continuing to search defies all logic.”

Merisu shook her head sadly, despairing of the first-officer’s complete failure to grasp the concept of romance.

“But there can be no doubt as to the creature’s identity,” continued Neemoi. As he spoke, he unrolled a chart. “We are here,” he said, indicating a point on the chart which bore the legend: Here be Keening Krakens.

By now, the Kraken had returned Pimpi and Kuruharan to the ship, having secured their promise to keep an eye out for the Kraken-wives. Kuruharan contentedly pocketed the pearls which he had extracted as the price for his promise, and also for a lotion which he had sworn blind was “guaranteed to attract over-sized female squids across the ocean wide”, but which was in fact an application for the treatment of unsightly blemishes. Tragically, unsightly blemishes were considered the height of attractiveness in Kraken society.

As the noble beast disappeared once more beneath the waves, Pimpi waved farewell.

“Goodbye Seabeard!” she cried. “I hope that you will find Eightlimb one day.”

When all had become quiet once more, Soregum crept from his hiding place. Luckily, it seemed, no one had noticed his absence in all the commotion. And yet he was thoroughly ashamed of his cowardice. How could he have deserted Pimpiowyn like that? The nagging doubts in his heart surfaced once more and he began to conceive of a possibility that went against all that he had learned throughout his many days: perhaps there was more to life than pure self-interest.

[Rimbaud]

These thoughts and more rushed like greased rabbits down a glacier through Soregum’s mind as he went to stand at the bow, ever looking forward. ‘Onwards and upwards’, as their newly met fresh-faced rodent chum was prone to mutter. Something took his attention then.

“A bird! A big white bird!” he shouted.

“Arrr!” said Kuruharan, approaching absent-mindedly, desperately scanning the nearby deck. He was a coin short after the affair with the melodious monster.

“Perhaps it’s an albatross,” suggested Vogonwe, more usefully as he neared. The Itship gathered around them, leaving the crew peering round ropes and halyards to look at them. By now, they were all looking at the darting white shape, swooping below the dark clouds and riding the strong winds.

“A bit small, really,” said Pimpi, doubtfully. “I thought albatrosses were the big ones.”

“Bad luck, anyway,” muttered Oragarn Two.

“Aye,” said Vogonwe, readying an arrow.

“No!” cried Kuruharan. “It’s only bad if you harm them.”

“Oh. Well how do you know?”

“It’s a long story,” said the merchant. “I heard it from this wizened sailor in a pub, a few years back. Ayn Chunt Marrinar was his name. Fool shot one of these albatrosses, anyway. Next thing you know, some band had written a dirge about it that stayed at Number One for ages. Nightmare.”

“Frogmorton Mac,” nodded Orogarn Two. “I heard rumours. A nasty business.”

At this moment, they sailed into a patch of calm, and the winds slackened. As the waves fell away around them, they caught sight of the oddest boat on the horizon. Curved and carved at the bow and stern to resemble a giant shrimp, it had a full sail, but was barely long enough to be termed a ship. It looked fundamentally implausible, and certainly not sea-worthy, but it was making strong progress towards them. Through a gap in the cloud, sunbeams poured now, sparkling on the wave tops. The strange non-albatross swooped to seat itself on the rail of the ship, nearest Merisuwyniel. The pure white bird fixed her with an eye that can rather predictably be termed beady.

In fact, as Merisuwyniel gazed back at their new acquaintance, she realised that beady was a more apposite term than she could have imagined. One of the bird’s eyes was indeed a carved blue bead. Their feathered omen was only partially sighted! Peering closer, she saw a nametag around its snowy neck. Fetherfled the Unsteady… Curiouser and indeed, more curious.

As they sat, now becalmed, drying in the sun, they watched the progress of the shrimp-shaped vessel, as it tacked to and fro, almost comically awkward on the water, like a skittish water beetle approaching them. Their new avian pal said little, being a bird, but seemed cheerful enough.

The reason for his name was becoming apparent, as the decking below his new perch, was liberally strewn with thick white down. Yet the shedding seabird seemed to remain thickly feathered. Questions arose in Kuruharan’s mind, bubbling to the surface like a miasma of capitalism. A never ending supply of white feathers…Boy, would his cousin dwarves Bawlin and Snorin, with their dwarf bedding superstore be pleased with that…!

As she watched their would-be rescuer approach, Merisuwyniel felt her heart leap, like a limber young salmon with a sight of upstream water, into her mouth. They could make out a figure at the tiller. A tall, broad-shouldered familiar figure, with a thatch of what appeared to be Gormlessar hair. She gasped. It couldn’t be…? A rush of memory engulfed her, a feeling of intense exasperation, and astonishment at someone else’s stupidity…

Their hospitable captain now came forward with Mister Neemoi.

“Madam, should we let the vessel approach?” ventured the latter, levelly. “We could still outrun them, even with our increased warp factor.”

“Warp factor?” questioned Orogarn Two.

“Yes,” replied the taller, arching an eyebrow, then squinting in pain.

“Are you alright?” asked Merisuwyniel, a little too quickly for her own liking.

“Fine,” muttered Mister Neemoi, rubbing the eyebrow in question. “Cramp. Since we’ve been at sea, we’ve suffered some warping of the timbers. This affects our speed through the water. Through a complex system of mathematics, we’ve been able to calculate the exact effect of this ‘warp factor’ as we…”

Vogonwe, who had rather switched off after ‘complex’, shouted over him, “Too late now! Here it comes!!!”

And indeed, the other vessel was sliding alongside. All could see its name written in flaking pink paint below the rearing shrimp’s head at the bow. Their newly met seafarer was The Prawn Spreader.

They all pushed their questions to the back of their minds, as the other vessel nudged alongside and there was some rather haphazard rope throwing, tying and climbing that is frankly to tedious to record.

Nevertheless, the Shipborne-ship soon found themselves face to face with a shadow of the past.

“Halfullion!” gasped Merisuwyniel. “It can’t be!”

“Indeed, it cannot be,” interjected Mister Neemoi. “As you have told me, the well named Lord Gormlessar is dead. And if I remember rightly, he was a man of great beauty, whereas…”

And indeed it was so, as they looked. Although the unprepossessing man before them was of a stature with Lord Halfullion Gormlessar of The Gilded Scissor, and his hair was of the same remarkable teased colour, there the resemblance stopped. For he hunched, and he limped, as one leg was longer than the other; his hair was not the frankly mind-blowing follicle-ensemble that had been their privilege to witness astride their old companion, but an uneven straw-like thatch of tousled and knotted hair, unkempt from the wind and seawater.

His teeth, as he opened his mouth to talk to them, they noticed were slightly crooked. His voice, when he spoke, held not Halfullion’s timbre and tone. Moreover, there was a look of acuity in the grey eyes, which had been…missing from their deceased pal. Yet brothers they must be, and so it turned out.

“The half-half-elven Right Hon. Halfemption Gormlessar, son of Old Gumption Gormlessar IV, half-brother of the, admittedly self-titled, Bravest Half-Elf in the World Ever, Captain of The Prawn Spreader, at your service,” said the newcomer with an improbable number of clauses, bowing deeply, and ignoring Mister Neemoi’s slight. His voice held a slight quaver, yet despite this, there was a personality behind the words that Halfullion had lacked.

There was dead silence. This of course, wasn’t true, as the pedant in me points out. There was the sound of the wavelets lapping at the newly twinned hulls of the ships, the creaking of timbers, the slight flap of the sail, not to mention the breathing of a large assembled party, the shouts of the crew, and Kuruharan’s faint clinking as he resumed another hurried recount of his trouser-and-purse-held financial assets. Yet, in terms of direct speech between the immediate protagonists in this scene, there was a…lull for some time. It was only understandable really.

Eventually, Merisuwyniel came to her manners. “Dear sir,” she said. “Welcome to the Entish Surprise. We knew your brother well, and your appearance reminded us of him.” The It’snotaboat,it’sa-ship made their own introductions, but Gormlessar seemed not to be listening.

“Knew?” asked Halfemption. “My brother rarely has the politeness to cease accompanying people, if…” and he gestured to the motley group, “…they appear to be questing.”

Merisuwyniel swallowed. “Lord Gormlessar is…dead!” she squeaked.

Again, dead silence, (with qualifications).

Eventually – “Ah,” said the stranger. “Father will be devastated. He always preferred Halfie. You run off to fight the war, Halfie! You get the expensive haircut, Halfie! Your mother won’t miss that, Halfie, she doesn’t fit into it anyway. Et cetera, et cetera.” The Fellow/Gal-ship detected a note of bitterness.

“Are you not also a ‘Halfie’?” asked Pimpi, trying to brighten the mood.

“No, ‘fraid not,” said Halfemption. He sounded rather mournful. “The family called him Halfie, and so naturally called me Empty. I eventually got them to call me as I wished.”

“Which was?”

“Hal. And listen. If my brother died in the service of this Company, than I feel it is my obligation to succeed him and carry on his work. What help can I give you?”

“Um…”

“If you'll be my Company - I can be your long lost pal; I can call you Meri, and Meri when you call me - you can call me Hal,” quoth the Gormlessar man, with a grandiose flourish, if a little soft in the middle.

The quarter-elf noticed Kuruharan muttering to himself and rooting through his pockets.

“What do you think you’re doing, Kuru?” asked Hal, ominously.

“Ah!” said the Dwarf triumphantly, holding up his missing coin. “Two thousand and one!”

[Kuruharan]

“Land Ho!” squawked the lookout in the crow’s nest.

“Hmmuphh…” groaned a suddenly awakened Merisuwyniel.

She sat up and got out of bed and went to investigate the commotion out on deck.

The sea was a scene of moonlight tranquility and Merisuwyniel took a moment to admire the view and smell the breeze.

(She did not notice how dead silence fell like a two-ton boulder as she did this. The wind had caught her gossamer robe and had its way with it.)

The graceful elf strode over to the captain.

“Wot’s all the hubbub, bub?” she melodiously intoned.

The captain pulled his jaw up off the deck and tried to form coherent sentences.

“Uhhh…errrm…I…woo…ha…” replied the captain.

“Mister Neemoi?” said Merisuwyniel.

“We have sighted another island off the starboard bow,” offered the navigator. “We were discussing if we should send a shore party.”

“Oh, yes, let’s,” said Pimpi pleadingly. “We haven’t had a good party in ages.”

“Not that kind of party,” snapped Neemoi.

“We…need…to…determine…how large…the…island is,” said Cirkdan. “Claws…opinions?”

“Blast it Dim, I’m a doctor not a cartographer!” replied the old bird.

“Captain,” said Neemoi, “I believe it logical that we should avail ourselves of the opportunity to resupply. This may be the last island for a considerable distance.”

That settled it. Within moments the ship was in a frenzy of preparation. The crew donned their red shirts to make sure and attract the attention of any enemies who might be present, the entire Gallowship decided to go ashore and frolic, and the captain and his officers went to oversee the crew in their provisioning.

When the party reached the shore, the Gallowship immediately cut down a swath of trees to make surfboards while the crew killed most of the animals in the general area and refilled the water barrels.

Afterwards, the Gallowship sunned themselves while the crew stood in a little knot over to the side. They began to be puzzled by this mysterious whistling noise. It continued to get louder and louder and louder. Then they noticed that it was suddenly getting very dark right in the area where they were standing. The crew glanced up. There was a large object above their heads that was getting bigger by the second. How curio…

*SMUSH*

Dr. Macaw flapped over to the giant rock that had suddenly appeared right where the crew had been standing. The doctor sniffed about the base of the rock.

“Their dead, Dim,” he sadly conveyed.

This was enough for Cirkdan and Mr. Neemoi. They were veterans of the seas and they had seen this happen about 80 times or so. They knew exactly what to do.

“RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!!!” they yelled, as they scampered into the jungle.

“But…” said Merisuwyniel.

“RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!!!” howled the Gallowship as they scattered into the jungle, Vogonwë and the Gateskeeper dragging Grralph along with them.

“But…” said Merisuwyniel.

She stood alone on the deserted beach.

“Well, I guess it’s up to me to rescue everyone,” she thought, as she walked into the jungle.

Behind her there was a sudden sound and she knew no more.

++++

She awoke to find herself in a most comfortable bed. It must have been a dream. She yawned deeply and scratched her beard.

Wait a minute, her beard?

“Oh, how silly!” she thought to herself. “Someone’s having a little prank with me and put a false beard on my face while I was asleep.

She reached up and tried to pull it off.

“Ouch!” she gasped. It was some very stubborn glue. She yanked on the beard. “Yeeouch!” she cried. “Okay, maybe the beard can stay until I find some solvent,” she thought.

She was just thinking there was something familiar about that beard she suddenly noticed her hands. They were not her hands at all. Instead of the slender and graceful appendages she was accustomed to wearing, these were stubby and rather chunky hands. She stared incredulously at them as they waved at her. Then she noticed these hands wore the same rings that Kuruharan was always wearing.

“It couldn’t be,” she thought with a feeling of growing horror. “It just couldn’t be!”

She looked carefully at the beard again. It certainly did look like Kuruharan’s. She noticed she was not feeling as long and slender as she was wont. Truth be told, she felt rather short and stocky. This couldn’t be! She was a lovely female elf! Not a short bearded male dwarf! She was a She and…

“OH MY EMU, WHAT IS THAT?!!!!”

She noticed there was a tall protrusion sticking up under the covers. She tore them off to reveal…Kuruharan’s peg leg which was still strapped to her leg, except it wasn’t her leg, but it was her leg, but it couldn’t be, but the strap was cutting off the circulation. She took the peg leg off and got out of bed.

Time for some panic-stricken flight!

She (sort of) bolted out the door and down the hall. The hallway was lined with doors, but Merisuwyniel did not notice.

Flying round a corner she crashed right into Soregum.

They picked each other up off the floor.

“Kuruharan,” said Soregum, “something strange has happened here.”

“I’ll say,” said Merisuwyniel. “I’m not Kuruharan.”

“And I’m not Soregum,” said Soregum.

“Who are you,” asked Merisuwyniel.

“I’m Orogarn Two, who are you?”

“I’m Merisuwyniel.”

“EEEWWWWW,” moaned Orogum Two. He went rather green in the face.

“We need to get out of here,” said Kuru-suwyniel.

“Excuse me,” groaned Orogum Two. “I think…I have…”

He darted into a nearby door. Sick noises came from behind the door.

“Stop doing that to my chair,” came a voice.

The door flew open and Orogum Two hastily backed out.

“Sorry…natural reflex,” he muttered.

The Gateskeeper came storming out.

“Is that how your mother taught you to behave around a lady?” snapped Gateskeeper.

“Lady?!” cried Orogum Two as he burst into laughter. Even Kuru-suwyniel couldn’t resist a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” demanded the Gateskeeper.

“Err…why don’t we go to your mirror,” suggested Kuru-suwyniel.

In the interests of good taste this account will tip-toe around the unseemly scene where Pimpi came to terms with the fact that she wasn’t feelin’ like a woman anymore.

Orogum Two shuddered as he walked down the hall. “I never knew a man’s voice that could screech that high…”

“Oh, there I am,” piped the voice of Grim Reaperneep. He walked up to Orogum Two. “How does it feel to be me? And who are you?”

“I’m Orogarn Two,” Orogum replied, “and I seem to be adjusting better than some people.”

After that round of introductions, the motley crew proceeded onward.

After meeting up with Mr. Neemoi in Leninia’s body, Dr. Macaw in Pimpi’s body, and Vogonwë in Cirkdan’s body, Kuru-suwyniel said, “I don’t think this hallway goes anywhere.”

“Where should it go?” muttered a surly MacPimpi.

“Cheer up, darling! Don’t be so glum!” said Cirk-onwë

“Blast it Dim, I’m a doctor, not your darling!” snarled MacPimpi

“Sorry,” said a suddenly sheepish Cirk-onwë. “And don’t call me Dim.”

“I’m your darling,” snapped Pimpi-keeper, “and I’m in need of some serious consoling.”

“Errr…,” said a suddenly dubious Cirk-onwë, “maybe later.” He ran forward to join Kuru-suwyniel and Neelinia at the front.

After following the hallway some more, meeting Cirkdan in Orogarn Two’s body, Leninia in Halfemption’s body (in high dudgeon too), and Gateskeeper in Grralph’s body, they came to the end of the hall.

“Now what?” asked Orogum Two.

“Idiots!!!” screeched Half-Leninia, administering a sound whallop to Grrrateskeeper.

“Watch it!” snarled Grrrateskeeper. “Not only am I possessed of the powers of Norton and McAfee but now I can freeze you to the core and leave you shriveled up before the Hairless Nostril for all eternity!”

“Oh, please!” said Half-Leninia, rolling her/his/something eyes.

“Why don’t we try opening one of these doors,” suggested Sore-neep. Unfortunately, he could not reach the doorknob. Kuru-suwyniel opened it for him. It was a room just like all the ones they had all awakened in. In the bed they found the unmoving form of Neemoi.

They tried to revive him but failed.

“Must be Grralph,” Cirk-onwë opined.

Carrying Grrmoi with them, they went back up the hallway, opening all the doors as they went, but all the rooms were empty.

They continued on until they reached the room where Kuru-suwyniel had awakened.

“Now what,” asked Orogum Two.

“Someone…is…following…us,” warned Cirk-garn Two.

The lithe figure of Vogonwë sprang into view. He danced and twirled and did a few somersaults before landing gracefully in front of them.

“So this is what it is like to float like a butterfly,” mused Vog-emption.

“We could try opening this gigantic door at the end of the hall,” offered Sore-neep.

Seeing little choice, the More-ill-sorted-than-usual-ship moseyed on over. They found Dr. Macaw attacking the door. More accurately, they found Kuru-caw attacking the door. Upon seeing the Gallowship, the parrot flew over and landed on Kuru-suwyniel’s head.

“How did you get in there?” he demanded. “Get out!!”

“Believe me, I’m as unhappy with the situation as you are,” replied Kuru-suwyniel.

“I’m not sure how to take that,” muttered the bird.

“Take down the door!” shouted Orogum Two.

“What with?” asked Pimpi-keeper.

“Use Grr-moi as a battering ram!!” yelled Half-Leninia.

“NO, THAT’S NOT LOGICAL!!” bawled Neeninia.

Alas, for him/her, no one paid attention to his pleas. They seized Grr-moi and battered the door with his head.

“Oh, my body,” whined Neeninia, “my poor, poor body.”

The door finally fell into ruins.

On the other side of the door sat a fussy little man behind a desk. The desk was piled high with papers. He was speaking into a most curious instrument which he held to his ear.

“No, no, no,” he was saying. “I filled out the forms in triplicate and faxed the copies to the relevant agencies day before yesterday. This office cannot be responsible for your mechanical foul-ups. The schedule says the materials should have been here this afternoon.”

He paused and seemed to be listening to some sort of reply coming from the device he held against his ear.

“And the same to you!” he shouted as he slammed down the device.

“A dangerous enemy, this,” intoned Orogum Two solemnly. “A bureaucrat. None know how to defeat their impenetrable defense of non-recognition.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Pimpi-keeper. “Time for me to put my improving shield-maidenly skills to the test.”

There was a furious burst of ill-controlled sniggering somewhere to the rear of the Gallowship.

“Uuhh,” said Cirk-onwë, “I think this might…”

But Pimpi-keeper was already sauntering gracefully over to the desk. (Well, Pimpi-keeper thought she/he/it was sauntering gracefully, lumbering garishly would probably be a better description for it.)

Pimpi-keeper leaned over the desk and adopted her patented pouty-face that usually had men eating out of her hand.

“I need a favor,” she/he/it whispered engagingly.

“No interviews without appointments, except between Nine and Ten P.M., second Saturday of every month,” replied the bureaucrat without even looking up.

Pimpi-keeper opened her eyes to the size of saucers and did the trembling lip routine. The ill-controlled sniggering turned into scarce-repressed chortling.

This time the bureaucrat did look up.

“EEEKKK!!”

“Wotsamatter?” purred Pimpi-keeper.

Alas, this had the effect that one might expect of a computer geek trying to seduce anyone.

*WHALLOP*

Pimpi-keeper went flying across the room and crashed into the opposite wall. The Really-In-It-Now-ship picked her/him up and beat a hasty retreat.

“Now what?” asked Orogum Two.

“We need to try and find my body,” said Kuru-suwyniel.

Will our heroes find Merisuwyniel’s body? Will they return to being the people they once were? Will this plot ever progress? Will this writer ever shut up?

Find out next week, same bat-time, same bat-channel! (yeah right)

[Rimbaud]

Face it, Hal, you came out pretty lucky, thought the quarter-elf, inside a half-Elf’s head. Halfemption mused on their predicament, but realised that he was spending most of the musing time working out who was who, or rather who wasn’t who. Or something. He began to feel a little like his late half-brother. He felt a little like the deceased Halfullion as well, but it was his actually-always-late half-brother, Hees Tardierthanthou, that he felt like. Second to every conclusion, first to none. Or in his youngest brother Runt the Monk’s case, first to nuns.

“I wish,” he started out loud, in Vogonwe’s velvet tones, “that all this confusion would just sort itself out and save me the trouble of devising an improbably clever solution to it all!”

*blam!*

There was a loud noise and a blinding flash of light.

They all looked nervously at each other. Sadly, they realised , nothing had altered, they were still the Hellthisissomemixedup-ship.

“Nice try,” said Pimpi-keeper, rubbing her/his shin. “Bad luck – hang on, who are you?”

“Hal,” said Vog-emption.

“Thinking of a way out?”

“I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do,” replied Vog-emption, a little snidely.

“I read you, Hal,” replied Pimpi-keeper.

“Look!” exclaimed Kuru-suwyniel, and for once it wasn’t so much of a pleasure to do so. “We have some priorities.”

Everyone relaxed. It was comforting when Merisuwyniel took control, even when she was trapped inside the somewhat less aesthetically pleasing Dwarven form.
The Heroine-in-a-Halfman continued. “One, we need to find my body. The pretty one. Two – we need to get through this door and escape.”

Vog-emption said, “Since this is the only way out, and it seems we all woke up in here, logic suggests that your body is back whence we came.”

They all looked back down the maze of passages, little rooms and corridors with an under whelming enthusiasm. The sort of enthusiasm that is normally garnered when your unwanted guests suggest another bottle. Of your wine.

Kuru-suwyniel’s hand edged backwards, surreptitiously. No wonder men are always scratching. She caught Kuru-claw looking at her suspiciously and cleared her throat.

“I know in my heart,” she began.

“My heart!” squawked a dwarf in a parrot’s body.

“…in my heart, that we need to find my body before we can leave. And what anybody would want to do with my body is quite beyond me,” finished the be-dwarfed wielder of the Ent that was Broken.

There was some liberal shuffling of feet after this last bit, and few met her eye.

But the usual suspects for tedious heroism stepped up to the metaphorical plate, although they looked an even more motley crew than normal: Orugum Two, Cirk-onwe, Vog-emption and Half-Leninia volunteered to explore for hijacked Elven waifs, while the others remained behind worked out a way of overcoming the fearsome bureaucracy of the only way out.

And so it was that on Stardate, um, three-ish, that the Company known as the ReallyConfused-ship split asunder, if only for a short time.

The Hero Searchers

Those that would seek the Elf that was Hijacked, named themselves the Body Snatchers, after a brief but passionate row. The corridors of their strange new prison were duly invaded by the Body Snatchers, who decided after tripping over each other for a while to divide into two further sub-groups. After more bickering, the two sets were the Aggressively Deadly Duo, comprising Half-Leninia and Vog-emption (Halfemption felt proud to be wholly included), and the Concern of the Alliance of Grundor and Elves, comprising Orugum Two and Cirk-onwe.

The ADD moved absent-mindedly off to the left, and the AGE Concern shuffled off to the right.

The search was long and not especially funny to describe, not even the scene where the ADD found themselves in a sauna with a small penguin, a priest and a rabbi. It was, the ADD mustered the attention to be annoyed by, the AGE Concern who discovered her body. Piloted, it seemed, by a rather confused rodent, she had simply curled up and gone to sleep. Orugum Two cursed his weaker body, as he saw Half-Leninia effortlessly hoist the fair maiden upon her shoulder and trek back. She, naturally, was rather pleased by the whole affair.

When they arrived back, they came across a scene that can only be described by someone with the willpower to do it, so we’ll skip right to the dialogue.

“Why on earth…?” began Vog-emption.

“That’s just not right…” said Half-Leninia, depositing the Mouse-in-Elf gently on the ground.

“Oh good grief…” muttered Orugum Two.

“Sweet heavenly Errata of the skies…” mumbled Cirk-onwe.

The Remainder of the Reunited-ship were, frighteningly, writing. Scribing. Scratching. Looking a bit, well, academic. Well, all apart from Kuru-claw who was flying around and landing suspiciously close to everyone’s pockets.

“What the…” began Vog-emption again, still not grasping the true horror of what
he was seeing.

“It had to be done,” sighed Kuru-suwyniel. “We have to fill out these forms. I don’t think there’s another way.”

“Really? replied the Quarter-in-a-Half, divisively. “I was thinking brute force.”

“We don’t have any champagne,” replied Pimpi-keeper, missing an ‘e’.

However, Kuru-suwyniel had her way, and the forms were filled. The Mouse and Grrmoi slept still. The parrot-dwarf flew around, but agreed with them that there was certainly a limited number of options.

Finally, they were done. Forms were filled, and as everyone was thoroughly sick of the whole trans-corporeal experience, they delivered them straight to the quite staggeringly named Mr Smith.

However, as they had not detached the yellow duplicates, he refused to accept the originals. There were further hold ups, before he finally agreed that they had a) no right to be there and further were b) utterly improbable as people so that c) they probably weren’t there at all and therefore d) it mattered not if the door was opened or not.

Vog-emption, Pimpi-keeper and Orugum Two leant their shoulders to the task, and swung the double doors open, as one would open a large pair of double doors.

There were gasps.

They had reached – a superior bureaucrat’s office. Who had a similarly large door at the other end of his office, which was slowly closing. Through which they could see another office. And another.

“This won’t do,” said Kuru-suwyniel, slumping to the ground. “This isn’t the answer.”

“Brute force?” asked several of the Company of Lost Souls again, and she wearily acquiesced. Several splintered doors and satisfyingly dead bureaucrats later, they all confessed that that probably wasn’t the key either.

“What do they want?” asked Pimpi-keeper frantically. “What is it that has caused this?”

It was, oddly, Grr-moi, who solved it. Or rather, Kuru-caw, who was pecking at his finger. At the large gold ring on his finger. The large unfamiliar ring on his finger. This sentence is redundant.

“Um,” said Cirk-garn Two. “I don’t remember Neemoi having any jewellery.”

Then, slowly, they all realised they had identical rings on. Kuru-suwniel gasped.

“There are fourteen of us! And fourteen rings! This is the work of the mysterious Saturday the Fourteenth Gang. This is the band of pirates who were not quite as hard as the Friday the Thirteenth Crew. The Saturday Gang forged fourteen rings of power, to enslave all who wore them.”

“But,” said Pimpi-keeper, sounding increasingly Blanchettian. “They were all of them…deceived. For another Ring was made…”

“One so shiny and glittery that only the tasteless would wear it!” shouted Vog emption.

“The Status Symbol of the Small Minded!” bellowed Cirk-onwe.

They all cried, “The One Bling!!!”

“Handy, really,” said the Parrot-Dwarf Kuru-claw, settling on his mind’s true body.
“Because I bought it at a jumble-sale just two months past.”

“You mean?” said Kuru-suwyniel blankly.

“Yep,” said the Parrot. “It’s in that bag on your back. My back. Your back. You know.”

Kuru-suwyinel dug around in the pack, and eventually came up with the gaudy great Ring. As soon as she pushed it onto her thick, gnarled finger, everything turned white around them and then black, and then some static, and then a small snippet of a Radio Four program about tourism in Hull, and then darkness, and then they were back on the beach.

In their own bodies. Which made everything a lot easier. Except. They. Had. Lost. Both. Syntax. And. The. Damn. Boat.

Yep – couldn’t see it anywhere. In the words of Marcel Proust – shucks.

[Mithadan]

The Maroonedship stood flummoxed, bollixed and bebothered upon the sandy, but otherwise empty and quite boatless, beach. Pimpowyn, who had just eaten her last sandwich, was particularly vexed by this unfortunate turn of events.

"Well this is just great!" she screamed, ranted and raved. Vogonwë cringed, then ducked as a largish seashell came hurtling through the air, folowed by a smaller, but undoubtedly harder rock. "Marvelous!" she continued. "Just spiffy! No boat! Did you hear me? NO BOAT! No boat and no food equals no quest and a bunch of dead adventurers."

Orogarn (2) and Gateskeeper clucked sympathetically as Vogonwë attempted to calm his betrothed down. "Now, now dear," he said calmly. "Something will come up. Things will work out."

"Things will work out?" she cried ignoring Merisu's whispers about conduct unbecoming a shieldmaiden. "How will they work out?" She stalked purposefully over to the edge of the waves, raised her right hand high and extended a thumb. "I suppose we can just hitch-hike and get a ride back to our ship?"

"Need a ride...?" came a voice from nowhere.

Actually not quite nowhere. For just as Pimpi extended her thumb, a ship came around a conveniently located, nearby promontary and floated up to the Itship. It was a grand old ship, crafted by Elves in a slightly dated style reminiscent of the late First Page. It had a high prow shaped like the head of a duck and three tall masts. Upon the top of the tallest mast a light swirled, flowed and glowed so that it could be seen from miles away, at least so long as a pesky promontary was not in the way.

"Ear-hand-ill," whispered Merisu in awe.

"Need a ride?" offered the mariner once again.

"Yes!", cried the Itship as one.

"What's that?" he said. "I'm a bit hard of hearing you know." And indeed, as he turned to face them, the Guyandgalship saw that his right hand was firmly ensconced in his right ear. They clambered aboard the vessel, using a rope ladder which the mariner slung over the side and communicated their desire to be carried to their ship via much shouting and hand signs.

As they got underway, the Itship gathered around Merisu. "What's this guy's story?" asked Kuruharan. "You seem to know of him."

"It is a long tale, and a sad one," she answered. "Perhaps someday there will be time to tell it in full, but for now, here is the Tale of Ear-hand-ill the Mariner.

"Perhaps you have heard of Benny Clammyhand and Lucy-Jane Thinguviel. Benny was a simple farmer in Mytoenien, long ago in the First Page, when he was evicted by Mogul Bildur. Homeless and sad, he wandered until he came to the enchanted realm of More-iath, which signifies 'lots of trees' in the common tongue. There, at an all night keg party, he met Lucy-Jane, daughter of King Thingy and they fell in love. But Thingy was displeased and declined to allow them to marry until Benny proved himself by capturing one of the Silmaroils, the great Lava-lamps of old.

"Benny went off, idiot that he was, to seek a Silmaroil, but Lucy-Jane came with him and they went even to Slangbad where they were taken before Mogul. Then Lucy-Jane recited heroic Noodlarian poetry for hours on end until all his minions fell asleep from boredom. But Mogul would not sleep. He challenged Benny to a duel. But Benny, who had been hiding under a chair, would not fight. He kept whimpering about being good and eating many fishes if he were allowed to leave. Instead, Lucy-Jane offered to play one hand of poker with Mogul, winner take all, and I do mean all. Mogul drew two pair, but Lucy-Jane filled an inside straight and beat him. Mogul was so angry, he smote himself on the forehead and knocked himself out. Seeing their chance, they pried one of the Silmaroils from Mogul's crown and fled back to Thingy who had no choice but to let them marry."

"A beautiful tale!" said Vogonwë with a sniff and a tear. "Especially the part about the poetry. But what's it got to do with Ear-hand-ill?"

"Popáyë the Sailor was a down on his luck mariner who moonlighted as a bartender at the Crow's Nest on the shores of the great sea. He was in love with Birdwing, a princess, but she would not marry him until he became rich. One night, Thingy came to town with his posse and the spent a long night drinking at the Bird's Nest. In the morning, he woke up with a horrible hangover only to discover that his purse had been stolen by the legendary Dwarvish thief, Kururobinhood. Having no money, he offered Popáyë a Silmaroil to settle his bar bill.

"Popáyë and Birdwing resolved to take the Silmaroil to Valleyum where they could cash it in for a reward. Now Popáyë was poor and not that bright, but he was a great sailor. He took ship and they journeyed for many weeks through storms, shipwrecks and other adventures until they reached Valleyum. There, they were greeted joyfully by the Velour and were wined and dined until they were quite snookered. Then the Velour took him before Mantoes for his reward to be decreed. And Mantoes asked Popáyë, 'Do you love the sea?'

"Popáyë, being quite fully in his cups, answered yes. And Mantoes asked, 'Do you really, really, really love the sea?' And Popáyë cried 'Yes, I love the sea with all my heart!' So the Velour rewarded Popáyë by making him the official Coastal Patrol of the Velour. They enchanted his vessel and affixed the Silmaroil to its mast and sent him off to pick up trash and rescue castaways for all time. But they also decreed that he must always stay on his ship. So Popáyë and Birdwing sailed back to Muddled Mirth..."

"But what does all this have to do with Ear-hand-ill?" asked Pimpiowyn.

"When they reached port, Birdwing asked Popáyë about their engagement. And Popáyë responded with the famous staves which are heard even now in sailors' bars on the shores of Muddled Mirth. He said:

"Birdwing,
you're a fine girl,
what a good wife you would be!
But my life, my love and my lady,
is the sea."

Orogarn, Gateskeeper, Soregum, Vogonwë and even Kuruharan winced upon hearing this. No wrath like a woman scorned, and all that. Merisu, seeing their expressions, nodded thoughtfully. "I told you it was a sad tale. Birdwing seized Popáyë's hand and shoved it into his ear. Then she stalked off and they never saw one another again."

Merisu sighed sadly. "I see that we've reached the Ent's Surprise..."

[The Saucepan Man]

A great white seabird glided majestically over the western reaches of the Blundering Sea, heading homeward to roost on the cliffs that spread north along the coastal regions of Valleyum. Beating her powerful wings against the wind, she wheeled and passed over the Isle of Toll Entrihëa, where the VIA (Valleyum Immigration Authority) diligently enforced Valleyum’s rigorous immigration policies. None born in Muddled-mirth entered Valleyum without passing via VIA, and few that attempted to pass via VIA were permitted to enter Valleyum. They had a strict “Elves and Those seeking to save Muddled-mirth from ruin only” policy.

Catching a thermal, the magnificent bird relaxed once more, gliding high above the Laurinandon Bridge, which led from Toll Entrihëa to the port of Valleyfornia on the mainland. The water sparkled brightly beneath her as the westering sun caught the sails of the beautiful vessels of the Calamari, the Squid Ships of old, which bobbed and ducked prettily in the sea. Nearer to the sandy shore, which swept southwards from Valleyum, a multitude of tiny figures could be seen perched proudly on carved wooden boards, the legendary sërf-flets of the Elves, as they navigated through the coasters that rolled into Valleyfornia’s beaches, while others paddled out to meet the towering waves. The art of sërf-fletting had long been forgotten in Muddled-mirth, but was carried on by the Elves of Valleyum, the Calamari and the Vaniti, since they had little else to occupy their time. The craft had been taught to them by the Velour in the First Page of the Light-Fittings, although the Velour themselves sërfed only on private beaches reserved for their sole use.

As she approached the shore, the great bird of the sea caught the first strains of the Musac of the Velour, its hypnotic, melodic, yet somehow bland, tune accompanying the pulsating rhythm of her wings as she once more wheeled, turning north towards the wilder northern coastal regions.

Had she carried on inland for perhaps ten miles, she would have come eventually to the modest country cottage where dwelt Häulié and Yawanna. Yet, although the dwelling itself was humble, the grounds were extensive and bounteous. Every plant that had ever put up shoots in Muddled-earth, and yet more that were native only to Valleyum, grew there amongst its fragrant gardens. The scent was intoxicating, and it was said that few that passed time there could resist becoming overpowered by the ambience of Yawanna’s gardens: the legendary gardens of Kïuw.

A radiant figure clad from head to toe in green hummed softly to herself as she tended to the gardens. Her skin was olive green and her verdant hair was bedecked with flowers. With tender care, she clipped an errant shoot here and soothed a fresh leaf there. She was in her element. As always, when Häulié was away on business, toiling in his workshop under Mount Tangential, Yawanna found solace amongst her flowers and shrubs.

“Hello Princess!”

The voice stopped Yawanna in her tracks.

“Mel?” she called out uncertainly, her voice wavering with emotion.

Slowly, Môgul Bildür stepped out from the foliage.

Yawanna stood blinking in amazement as a series of staccato drumbeats rang out, quickening in rhythm as they reached their climax.

=================================================

THENAMIR'S LONG-DELAYED POST
or, Long Ago and Fur Away

During the voyage Gateskeeper remained alone on most days in the cabin he shared with Soregum, seeing that on deck there was nothing to see but sea. (Soregum usually spent his time away from the cabin, alternating between filling his stomach in the galley, emptying his stomach over the rail, and following-Pimpi-dodging-Vogonwe.) Ever since the revelation of his former association with the Dread Developer, the All-aboard-for-Valleyum-ship had understandably withdrawn from him somewhat. Kuruharan would come down on the pretense of being friendly, but after a few pleasantries he merely pressed him for his inner-circle product secrets and high-pressure sales techniques. Pimpi and Merisu did check in on him from time to time in a motherly fashion to make sure he was alright, and to encourage him to join the rest on deck for a new game that Orogarn Two had invented.

O2 had taken the Brick-that-was-Broken, the memento left to him by Earnur before their departure from the Pay Havens, and rounded it off at the sharp corners, polishing the side opposite the inscription to a flat smoothness, intending to use it as a paperweight when (or if) he returned to Grundor. As he worked with it on the deck one sunny day, the stone slipped from his grasp and, to his surprise, slid scross the deck on the smoothed side for a considerable distance. Inspiration hit him like, well, a brick. By the end of the day, he had with Cirkdan's permission created a set of marks on the deck to use as targets with differing point values. By pushing the stone across the deck with the tip of his sword he could cause the stone to come to rest atop the targets from the other side of the ship with some accuracy. He decided to name this new game Schuphilboerd (after a half-remembered Muddled-Mirth children's story about a toothless dwarf and an orc-midget) and invited everyone else to take turns at the new diversion.

In spite of the levity, the inferior Maia still sought some way to show that he was "with them" in their quest now, despite the now-almost-continuous throbbing of his gloved hand. Perhaps a gift of some kind, especially for the two ladies which had shown him such kindness. It was at that moment that Captain Cirkdan poked his head through the door to announce that they would be stopping briefly for rest and resupply at the small and totally non-canonical island of Tol Kayssevin. Gateskeeper marvelled -- Cirkdan's skull must be thick indeed to poke through a solid-wooden door like that. "Nay," replied Cirkdan, "the only way to make the ship light enough to lift off the ocean for Valleyum was to use balsathrond, the lightest of all woods." "That's not exactly what I meant, you could have just opened the door" muttered the wizard under his breath as Cirkdan withdrew his head, leaving a splintered hole.

For Gateskeeper, the timing of this landing could not have been more perfect if the author had intended it that way -- which of course, was the case. Being a waypoint on the way to Valleyum for immigrating elves, what passed for the mall on Tol Kayssevin was actually a strip of duty-free shops selling mostly cheap miruvor,, low-quality pipeweeds, and knock-off Silmaroil-baubles -- but there were deals to be had for those with a keen eye. Once the ship had made berth, Gatesy wasted no time in disembarking (a term at which the Entish Pieces seemed to take some offense) with Kuruharan secretly following along to watch a master at his craft.

While the rest of the So-far-so-good-ship rested or shopped a figure that appeared to be a lame elf boarded the ship, introduced himself as "Mobilhench", and asked for the Captain. Cirkdan was otherwise occupied, having invited a local lovely down to his private cabin in hopes of boldly going where no man had gone before, and was not happy about the interruption. Eager to return to his guest, he swallowed the stranger's story about wanting to finally go to Valleyum and being weary of Muddled Mirth, etc, etc, and accepted the new passenger without the normal screening. After all, reasoned Cirkdan, aren't the folks at VIA supposed to keep out the undesirables? The new passenger laid his bundle on the bed of his cabin and opened it up straightaway, pulling out a gleaming Cell-antir. He poked a few buttons on its screen, waited a moment, then said only "I'm in." before snapping the cover shut.

Gateskeeper made his way from store to store, as Kuruharan took notes -- it was amazing how quickly he could sidestep the fluff and frippery and persuade proprietors to bring out the "good stuff" for his perusal. Nevertheless, the wizard bought nothing, obviously looking for something special, until he arrived at a small and exceedingly overpriced bar to take refreshment. As Gateskeeper nursed his beverage Kuruharan sauntered in as if by coincidence, hailed his shipmate, and dropped his pack by a chair at the table. "Friend dwarf," Gatesy began unexpectedly, "you are a trader of some reknown, and carry a store of things both useful and bizarre -- I wish to repay a kindness."

"Male, female, elf, dwarf, human, or other?" replied the subtle and crafty dwarf with a grin.

Gateskeeper retold most of the foregoing post to the listening dwarf, who nodded with the practiced sympathy of a successful used-car-salesman. "I think I have something that might do the trick," said Kuruharan, reaching into his pack and rummaging around. In a short time (and after discarding a small mountain of miscellaneous other items onto the table) he cried, 'Aha!' and produced what appeared to be a fist-sized cream-colored ball of fur which trilled and cooed. "What is that?" asked Gateskeeper out of morbid curiousity.

"This, my friend," replied the It-ship's master of the garage-sale-in-a-bag, "is a troubabibble." .

"Come again?" replied the sharp mind on the other side of the table.

"The perfect cute pet. It's soft, furry, and makes a pleasant sound."

"So would a chinchilla trumpet. I fail to see..."

"Look, Gatesy, I know it's not a guy-thing, but you know women and cute furry animals. They'll be swooning over it as soon as they see it, and you'll be restored to their good graces."

"Hmmm. Do you have more?" said the wizard in hopeful tones.

Kuruharan put the troubabibble back in his knapsack along with a cookie. "Any moment now." There was a brief crunching sound and then a strange pop noise, after which the diminutive trader pulled no fewer than eight Troubabibbles from the knapsack.

Gateskeeper returned to the Ent's Surprise with both his spirits and his pocketbook a bit lighter, with Kuruharan following after. As soon as they boarded the ship he bowed deeply to Merisu and Pimpi and handed each one of his newly-purchased Troubabibbles. The adorable furballs immediately began purring and trilling in a manner that would make the disposition of the most amiable cat look like that of a hemorrhoidal cave troll. Before his morning coffee.

This of course set up such a truly nauseating chorus of "awww", "so sweet", and "aren't they just darling!" that the rest of the crew and passengers gathered 'round, making even more such noises, except for Vogonwe, who glowered that his love was fawning over something other than himself, and Soregum, for the same reason. Gateskeeper winked at Kuruharan, but the dwarven entrepreneur was too busy to respond...he was selling the rest of his troubabibbles to those gathered around at a high markup. It was capitalistic greed enough to warm Gateskeeper's heart. Everyone was so enamoured with the new fuzzy arrivals that no one noticed when the ever-present comestibles in Pimpi's hand were suddenly and inexplicably not present.

Later at dinnertime, taken for once onshore at a touristy but moderately priced inn, the Ship-O-Ship was introduced to their new passenger. Everyone seemed to accept the newcomer right off, except for Merisu. Being practically perfect in every way ( as was her sister, Meripoppins) she was conflicted in her heart, suspecting something not quite right about the lame elf, yet not wanting to point it out and ruin the convivial dinnertime atmosphere. She did feel compelled to point out something that immediately had everyone on their feet, swords drawn: Pimpi was late to dinner.

Reeperneep immediately piped up, with good leaf too, before waving his rapier and shrilly crying out, "We must find out what foul play is afoot, and I will challenge the villain to single-combat..."

"Sorry I'm late everyone!!" Cried Pimpi as she ran into the room clutching something bound up in her pillowcase. "I couldn't get away because my troubabibble was having...kittens? babies? troubabibblettes?" The assembled gathered around to see the new arrivals and began another round of positively puke-inducing cuteness. All except Mobilhench, who backed tenuously away from the sack of furballs. Merisu, holding one of the adorable hairballs walked up to their newest guest and fawned, "isn't he just the most precious snookie-wookums? Here, see for yourself." Suiting the action to the word, she held the creature almost under the nose of Mobilhench.

Perhaps not surprising to some, the troubabibble began to screech and hiss in a most appalling fashion. Merisu raised an eyebrow. "How odd," she began, "it doesn't like you." She gestured around the room. "They like elves, humans, dwarves, wizards, halflings, half-halflings, and even parrots...but not you. I wonder why? Doctor McCaw, if you would be so kind?" Mobilhench tried to remain still, but the cold claws and sharp beak of the medical mockingbird made him flinch as McCaw mumbled things like, "no heart...heavy makeup...fake ears...foul stench...Dim, this man is a orc-Klingon!"

Dimwi T. Cirkdan jumped to his feet again. "Tones...what..do you mean...orc-Klingon?"

McCaw replied in a yelping screech, "Blast it, Dim, he's an orc, clingin' to my feet and wings -- he's taking me hostage!!"

Once the groans at the long-expected punny had subsided, Merisu wailed "Mobilhench -- Mogul Bildur henchman!! Why didn't I see it sooner!!"

The malevolent miscreant bellowed, "That's right, and I mean to blow holes in your ship and keep you here until The Dark Lord can arrive to deal with you right and proper. And if any of you makes a move to stop me, I'll rip this cockatoo's wings off."

"Blast it, I'm a parrot, not a cockatoo!" squawked the purloined parrot before Mobilhench wired his beak shut.

"You'll never get away with this," spoke Merisu the expected line.

"Ah, but I will," Mobilhench sneered, "All I have to do is escape through the kitchen door here behind me, and if you follow me, the bird dies!"

The What-do-we-do-now-ship stared in frozen horror as the parrot-carrying-shifty-eyed-ex-lame-elf-now-orc tried to open the door, which seemed to be stuck, causing the horror to thaw just a bit. At last the door slid to one side, and the would be Docnapper tried to make good his escape.

Unfortunately for him the kitchen was filled to bursting with troubibabbles, thousands upon thousands of decendants of one lone creature which had managed to roll itself into the restaurant's pantry stores of grain. With nothing to hinder them, they ate and reproduced at will, and boy did they have a lot of will. The mountain of fur tumbled out of the kitchen doorway, and in surprise the orc to released the hapless Doctor McCaw who wasted no time flying out of reach.. The troubibabbles, though, finding themselves piled atop the one thing in the universe they hated, screeched and howled with fear and rage, tearing into the orc which was rapidly disappearing under the accumulating balls of fluff. The Never-Seen-That-Before-ship, seeing that (a) the problems with the newcomer were being taken care of by the troubabibbles, (b) there would be no dinner forthcoming from this particular kitchen, and (c) the troubabibbles were still eating (and therefore multiplying), beat a hasty retreat from the restaurant and back to the ship.

Once all were back aboard, Orogarn Two and Cirkdan counted noses to make sure no one had been left behind. All the noses were there, but one snout was still unaccounted for -- Chysophylax! All of a sudden there was a thundering boom and a flash of light from where their restaurant once stood. A few moments later Chrysophylax himself could be seen taking off from the site of the explosion, alighting a short time later on the quay beside the ship. Casually breaking a plank off from the wood of the dock and picking his teeth, the fiery dragon burped, and said only "Tastes like zerl."

It was not long after that the Oops-we-did-it-again-ship was again under sail before they could be caught.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Weeks passed, and the Sail-Away-Ship saw no more land. The water surrounding them seemed endless, spread from horizon to horizon. Days were long and tempers short, and Merisuwyniel soon tired of hearing the males’ favourite complaint: “Water, water everywhere, but not a drop of ale…” After patiently answering Pimpiowyn’s dozenth “Are we there yet?” one afternoon, she decided to occupy them with Tales of Toll Entrihëa and songs of the Lessened Realm. Her companions and those of the ship’s crew who had survived their various adventures listened, enthralled by the charm of her voice so much as by the beauty of her words. If the attention of several wandered to noticing the shape of her lovely mouth or the falling and rising of her breath (frequently detrimental to their own), who could blame them?

She sang to them a song of the Straight Road:

Would you like to fly in my Elven sailing ship?
Would you go up high in my Elven sailing ship?
We could float into the West together, you and I,
For we can fly!

Up, up and away in my beautiful, my Elven sailing ship!

So engrossed were they that they heeded not the background noises nor heard Captain Cirkdan’s voice calling out, “…three, two, one, zero, lift-off! We have a lift-off!” Only when the crew members began to cheer did they look, and lo! the waters beneath the ship faded away. It seemed that its prow rose, or perhaps the sea sank; at any rate, they appeared to be sailing on air.

Uncertain, Merisu’s voice faltered and halted, at which the ship rushed downwards, falling toward the waters below. Neemoi, the enigmatic first mate, ran to Merisu and shouted above the din of waves and screams, “Keep singing! You must keep singing, for your song creates the Straight Way upon which we sail. Without the singing, it cannot carry us.”

And so she lifted up her clear voice once more, and the ship steadied itself and rose again – as did the spirits of her companions, save one. Soregum stood at the railing, and none cared to come closer to aid him.

“We must all sing,” Merisu rallied the Song-Sung-Blue-Ship around her. “You must help me, for I cannot do this task alone.”

“But your voice is better than ours,” Gateskeeper replied.

She answered, “The woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those who sang the best.”

Soregum moaned, Dizzy, I’m so dizzy, my head is spinning. Like a whirlpool, it never ends. And it’s you, ship, making it spin, you’re making me dizzy.

“Wonderful!” their Elven leader exclaimed brightly. “That’s the spirit!”

Hang down your head, poor Soregum, Vogonwë sang, rather spitefully, hang down your head and retch…, breaking off when Merisu looked at him reproachfully.

Orogarn² struck up “Varda in the Sky with Diamonds” in his fine baritone, and all joined in, singing “La, la, la” most of the time, since they didn’t know the rest of the words, but it mattered not. As long as they sang, the ship sailed onwards, upwards.

“How about you, Kuruharan?” Meri asked. “Is there a song of your people that is fit for this occasion?”

He hesitated. “Well, Dwarves are not normally allowed to take this road, but perhaps I can change one to fit.”

Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to Valleyum we go..., he began, and the others soon learned the catchy melody and sang with him. He followed that up with a rousing chorus of “Chrys, the Magic Dragon”, which seemed appropriate to a journey beyond the sea. Unfortunately, Chrysophylax was not allowed to sing along, as his fiery enthusiasm would have been detrimental to the ship’s sails and other accoutrements.

Next Reaperneep sang them a song of wistful homesickness:

I’m not by Tolkien, I’m by CSL, my dear,
For me, this journey is not right.
Speaking animals are rare over here,
I’m a Narnian in Muddled-Mirth.

Oh, I’m an alien, I’m an Arda alien,
I’m a Narnian in Muddled-Mirth.

“Leninia?” Merisu directed a questioning look at the reticent pop star. “I’m sure you have a wealth of songs to perform.”

Leninia shook her head, muttering something about the audience and the money not being worth the effort, then reluctantly began:

I made it through the Sundering Sea,
Somehow I made it through,
Didn’t know how far it was
To sail with this crew.

Like a Velour,
Landing for the very first time,
Like a Velour,
With your sërf-flet
Next to mine.

Her movements, decidedly un-Velour-like, were calculated to attract attention, and she soon had all of the males goggle-eyed.

All but Vogonwë the Faithful, of course – he was looking at Pimpi, happy to have her undivided attention. (Soregum was seated in the back, near the railing – just in case.) He began to sing a new poem he had written for her.

Lay down
Your sweet and curly head.
Ship is falling,
You’ve come to journey's end.
Sing now
Of the ones who came before;
They are sërfing
The waves on the distant shore.

Why do you eat?
What are these crumbs upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your hunger will pass away.
And you’ll be here in my arms,
Digesting.

What can you see
Upon the menu?
When does the dinner gong call?
Across the sea
Neon lights beckon
’Restaurant at End of Universe’.

Her big blueberry eyes and cherry lips smiled at him so sweetly that he grasped her hand and pulled her to the prow of the ship. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Well, I suppose so,” she answered, more truthfully than romantically.

He clasped her waist and held her as she spread her arms wide to welcome the wind. Unbidden, a song came to her and she warbled,

Every night in my meals
I see you, you feed me.
That is how I know I eat on.

Far across the table
And plates in between us
There is food for us to feed on.

Hot, cold, not timid, but bold,
I help myself and you carry on.
Once more, we’re never too poor,
You’re here sharing my meal,
And our meal will go on and on.

In the meantime, the ship’s crew had struck up a hymn to their beloved ship.

Ent’s Surprise, Ent’s Surprise,
every journey you greet me,
Sails so white, shining bright,
You look happy to meet me.

Waters below do we leave and go
To Valleyum forever.
Ent’s Surprise, Ent’s Surprise,
Find my homeland forever.

So engrossed were they in their singing that none noticed the droplets that filled the air until they ceased, and Hal’s voice, still unfamiliar to them, sang:

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all Valleyum in my way.
Gone are the dark shores that had me down,
Gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny age.

And lo! the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and they beheld white shores and beyond them a far country under a swift sunrise. From afar they smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of music that came over the waves. They listened, enraptured, to the words that welcomed them: “Good, good, good, good vibrations!”

Unfortunately, they had stopped their own singing a bit too soon. The ship pitched downwards and crashed on the sandy beach. It splintered, destroyed beyond repair (What, that surprises you?!), but all survived. Well, at least the Questers and the crew did; no one noticed the white feathers flying up from below the prow.

[The Saucepan Man]

And it came to pass that on the Two Hundred and Twenty-Ninth Post of the Sixth Page Melvin Bluenote who was called Môgul Bildûr appeared unto Yawanna who was called Kámomyltî in the Gardens of Kïuw saying unto her the words Hello Princess! And Yawanna was sorely flummoxed and said unto Melvin Mel! You scared the bejeepers outta me! And Melvin did not reply but bestowed upon her a roguish grin. And Yawanna’s heart was sorely moved, for she had known him of old and in sooth he had appeared unto her in a seriously fanciable guise.

What are you doing here, Mel?

Oh I was just passing and I thought I’d look you up.

No, really. How did you get past VIA?

I didn’t. I came by another route. It gave me the chance to catch up with an old friend on the way.

But none can enter Valleyum without passing via VIA.

I can. This place was once my home, remember.

And verily did Yawanna remember. For she and Melvin had been going steady in the Olden Days when the world was young and the living was fast and easy for a free-spirited and nature-loving Velou in the bloom of her youth. Truly had those days been the happiest of her life.

How’s Häulié?

Oh, you know Häulié. Always tinkering in his workshop.

You’re not expecting him back soon, then?

Yes, he’s …

But Yawanna could not tell a lie for she was pure of spirit and had lived all her life in the blissful realm of Valleyum where evil had ne’er till this day penetrated. And Häulié who was called Wèrkâholik was a neglectful husband for in sooth he spent the greater part of his days in his Great Workshop under Mount Tangential.

… No. No, he probably won’t be home for days yet.

I should imagine that you get rather lonely then.

I have my children.

Wherefore Yawanna spread her bounteous arms and, behold, all the flowers, grasses, bushes and trees that grew in her fertile gardens revelled in the glory of her gaze.

Must be a blast!

Why have you come, Mel?

And Melvin did not at first make reply but stood beholding his former sweetheart. And lo his eyes were dark and terrible, but also rather gorgeous. And at length he spake unto her and his voice was grave and serious yet deep and manful.

The Ent must not be re-made.

Of course it must, Mel. It’s all that I have been working towards since first it was disassembled. It is what has kept me going. Do you realise how boring it is for me sitting alone here in my gardens while Häulié’s off creating Emu knows what? I love my children of course, but I crave intelligent conversation. Every Elf that I take into my service conks out at the first whiff of this place. I will simply die of boredom if I don’t have some company soon. And now the shield-maiden Merisuwyniel and her noble companions have arrived on the shores of this land bringing with them the Entish parts. Soon the Ent – my Ent – will be whole again. Someone to be with – to talk to – a companion at last! Surely you cannot deny me that?

And verily had Yawanna worked herself up into a bit of a bother. Yet Melvin remained unmoved.

But it’s your own fault that the accursed thing was broken in the first place. You had Mantoes pronounce my doom upon it just to spite me. All because you made the wrong choice in marrying Häulié.

No. No, it was because you had changed Mel. You had become someone that I no longer recognised. Someone … evil. Someone that I could love no more.

Is that true? You no longer have any love for me?

Yes, I …

But Yawanna could not tell a lie.

Of course I love you Mel! I always have!

And so it came to pass that Yawanna broke down into a weepy fit. And dramatically did the violins play, yea unto a great crescendo.

And you know what will happen to me if the Ent is reunified? Do you want my destruction?

Yes … no … I … oh I don’t know what I want …

There is another way.

Whereupon Yawanna looked long and hard at Melvin. And verily did he perceive a gleam in her eye.

Another way?

Yes. Come with me. Be my consort. Together we can rule the lands of Muddled-mirth and bring to its people bounty and plenty and profit. What need will you have of your Ent then?

But, Mel, you have always destroyed that which I love the most. You lay to waste the meadows and the forests and build in their place monstrosities of stone and iron.

No. You are mistaken. After the rather … erm … unfortunate circumstances that led to the creation of Orcs, I have learned the errors of my ways. I realise now that the denizens of Muddled-mirth cannot live in concrete landscapes alone. They need the beauty of nature to fully realise their potential as efficient and profitable units …ahem … happy and fulfilled spirits.

Wherefore Melvin produced from his dark cloak an ordinance bearing the mighty seal of Môgul Enterprises LLC. And writ upon that very ordinance were the words: A quarter of the lands of Muddled-mirth shall be left in their natural state or given over to parkland and gardens – by order of Môgul Bildûr. And Yawanna, being pure of spirit and unsullied by evil thoughts could not conceive that the ordinance might be a sham, nor did it cross her mind that Melvin might be her spinning her a bit of a yarn. Yet she was not so pure as to abstain from indulging in a little horse trading.

Well … a quarter does not seem very much.

You drive a hard bargain Princess, but so be it. Let’s say a half, shall we?

You mean it? Half of the lands shall be left unsullied?

Yes. And you shall be their Queen.

And I can bring my children?

But of course.

But Yawanna did not perceive that Melvin had his fingers crossed behind his back. And even had she done so, she would not have known their import. And so it came to pass that Yawanna, believing her former beau to be true, surrendered to the feelings that had lain dormant within her for countless millennia. After all, he was a bit of a dude.

Oh Mel! You really have changed.

Come with me, my Princess.

Yes Mel. Yes, I shall. We shall be together at last.

And the Entish parts?

I … I suppose that they shall have to be destroyed. After all, I shall have no need of the Ent if I have you.

Well then, what are we waiting for?

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel shook the sand out of her skirts and looked around to see if all were unharmed. Reassured of that, she checked the condition of their equine companions, who had spent much of the journey under deck, and of the baggage, most importantly, of all the Entish Parts. She was still counting them when she heard a sharp, unfamiliar voice behind her.

“Who is responsible for this unauthorized landing?” it asked. She turned around and saw a black-cloaked, yet obviously not evil, person (you could tell the latter by the state of his grooming – shining hair, squeaky-clean; pearly white teeth; and a fair, unblemished skin). She pulled herself up to her full height, standing tall and gracefully before him.

“Oh, you are an Elf!” he exclaimed. “You are welcome here, but why in Manuël’s name did you allow these other … creatures … races … persons … to accompany you? Anyway, you must all come with me, for none can enter here without first passing via VIA.”

“And who are you?” she asked, with an eyebrow raised so high that it would have done credit to Mister Neemoi.

“I am Bürôkration, a Toll Maia,” he replied.

“Uh, wots a maiar???” Soregum’s voice could be heard somewhere behind them.

Merisuwyniel was used to ignoring such questions; surely one of the others would be more than happy to increase his knowledge.

“You mean we have to go through formalities?” she asked.

He had taken a roll of a red, sticky substance out of his pocket and began wrapping it around their possessions.

“Look here, what’s this?” O2 strode up to the official and stood before him with all of the authority of the Wight City’s junior ruler. “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed, heir to the Porcelain Throne of Grundor, of Noodleorian heritage, and I demand to know what is going on.”

The Maia answered politely, though coldly, “I’m very sorry, but it is necessary for me to apply this VIA-duct tape to all who desire admittance here. Unless, of course, they have a green vial.”

“What is a green vial?” the Gateskeeper, who recognised the official’s firewalling techniques, asked.

“Is it possible that you do not read your O-mails?” Bürôkration asked. Now it was his eyebrow that was raised to improbable heights.

“Spämfiltér,” Gatesy muttered. “I never look at those offers.”

“Had you a green vial, I could quickly check the viability of a quick entrance via VIA, but since you do not, you must endure the red VIA-duct tape,” came the answer.

“But – I do have a green vial!” Merisu exclaimed.

All spun around to look at her.

“Just a minute,” she said, rummaging through her luggage. She lifted a round object and removed the cloth in which it was wrapped.

Her companions gasped. A shining Cell-antír appeared, with a bright green light glowing from within it.

“The Green Goddess sent me this whilst we were yet upon the shores of our homelands, at the White Towers, and bade me keep it against our coming,” she explained. “I suffered much to attain it.”

“Then that settles things, right?” Pimpiowyn asked cheerfully.

“Wait just one moment,” the Toll Maia said. “Do you have any viands to declare?”

[Mithadan]

While the Itship dealt with the Toll Maia, Captain Cirkdan stood sorrowfully before the wreckage of the Ent's Surprise. Dr. Macaw flapped over to perch on his shoulder and squacked sympathetically. Dim shook his head in grief and wiped tears from his face. Then he spoke.

"My Emu.... Macaw! What... have... I.... done?"

"You've done what you always do, Dim," replied the healer. "You've disregarded all rules, regulations and common sense in favor of imposing your own sense of values, standards and morality upon all you come across, often resulting in a brief and tawdry affair, or, in this case, a moderate fee for your misguided services..."

The Itship, being engrossed in satisfying the inquiries of the Toll Maia, did not notice the loud squack or the flurry of colorful feathers which filled the air behind them. Indeed, all seemed to be going well with the VIA. Each member of the Itship proclaimed, in turn, that they had nothing to declare to the VIA agent. Merisu, Pimpiowyn and Orogarn coveniently became engrossed in examining the scenery when it was Kuruharan's turn to make his declaration, though Soregum and the others covered their grins as the Dwarf proclaimed that he had nothing to declare and was not carrying any contraband, forbidden items or fruits or vegetables. Then the Toll Maia browsed about the wreckage on the beach, occaisionally pausing to brush some blue down which had settled upon his robe. Suddenly, he stopped and prodded a black lump which lay sprawled on the sand.

"A-ha!" he cried.

The Itship rushed over to see what could be the problem. The Toll Maia scowled at them. Then, straightening up to his full height, he proclaimed, "I'm afraid I can't allow you to enter Valleyum."

"Why ever not?" cried Merisu in alarm.

"You are attempting to bring in, over our borders and into our sovereign territory, in violation of Chapter 346275, Subpart 3.27, Paragraph 6(a)(1)(B) of the VIA Code.... a dead Wraith!" he replied.

"What's the matter with a dead Wraith?" inquired Kuruharan. "Just out of curiosity, of course."

The VAI agent took a black manual from a pocket of his robes. He flipped through its pages for a moment, then squinted at its nearly microscopic type before clearing his throat. Then, to the Itship's dismay, he sang, off-key and in a squeeky voice:

"Dead wraiths aren't much fun.
When you call them they don't come.
Dead wraiths aren't much fun.

You can't make them beg for food,
you can try; it's no good.
They won't roll over, won't play ball,
they'll play dead - that's all.

When you pick them up they sag
when you walk them it's a drag.
Yawanna isn't feeling well,
I think she doesn't like the smell.
Dead wraiths aren't much fun.

The Toll Maia straightened his robes and glared at the Itship. "Well, I guess that's all," he said with an officious smile. "Good morning!"

"Wait!" cried Merisu. "He's not dead! He's resting!"

The VAI agent stood still, looking as if he had been slapped. Then, after some hemming and hawing and another glance at Grrralph's unmoving form, he replied, "Look, I know a dead wraith when I see one and I'm looking at one!"

At that moment, a slightly ragged looking parrot flew over. "See Dim," it squacked. "I told you he was dead!"

"You stay out of this!" cried Pimpiowyn as she directed a kick at the parrot's posterior.

"No!" continued Merisu. "He's not dead. He's just resting."

"Resting?" repeated the Maia with a dubious look on his face.

"Yes," continued Merisu. "Remarkable things, wraiths. Lovely cloak..."

"Look," interrupted the now highly disturbed Maia. "His cloak doesn't even come into this. He's stone dead! All right, if he's resting I'll wake him!"

The VIA agent stood over Grrralph, leaned over and shouted into his hood, "HELLO WRAITH. I"VE GOT A NICE ORC FOR YOU. WAKE UP!"

Ever quick on the uptake, Vogonwë sidled over to the prone waraith and nudged it with his foot. "There!" he cried. "See? He moved!"

"No he didn't," hissed the unfortunate civil servant. "You pushed him."

"I did not!" demurred Vogonwë.

"Yes you did!" growled the Maia. His face had turned red and his right eye twitched nervously. Taking a deep breath, he approached Grrralph and, with wild eyes began kicking the wraith while he shouted. "HELLO WRAITH! TESTING. TESTING. THIS IS YOUR NINE O'CLOCK WAKE UP CALL!"

Panting heavily, the Maia turned back to Merisu. "That is what I call dead."

He's not dead," retorted the Shieldmaiden. "You stunned him. Wraiths stun easily you know."

"'Wraiths stun...easily," muttered the VIA agent. "Madam, this wraith is dead, deceased, departed. He has passed on, kicked the bucket. He is pushing up daisies! He is an ex-wraith!"

At that moment, a voice came from the body formerly known as Grrralph. It said, "Hi, hello. Good morning! Thank you for waking me! I'm feeling very rested now."

After a moment's pause Vogonwë and Orogarn (Two) rushed forward and eased Grrralph up from the ground. Propping him up between them, they smiled at the Maia. Kuruharan, sneaking up from behind, lifted the wraith's arm and waved.

The VIA agent became very pale. He took a ragged breath, then sighed, before continuing in an unsteady voice. "Very well. Move along. Enjoy your stay in Valleyum." Muttering under his breath and shaking his head, he stalked off, vowing to seek a position with the Valleyum Organization of Ozone Management ("VOOM").

Merisu waited until the Maia disappeared, then looked about. Behind her, Gateskeeper was putting away his Cell-antir with a toothy grin...

[Kuruharan]

“Now what?” asked Pimpi.

Merisuwyniel drew herself to her full height and her eyes shown with the light of one who is about to achieve a lifelong goal. “Yea verily! We must proceed onward to the Velour and the accomplishment of our Quest!”

“HUZZAH!!” cried the rest of the Gallowship, or some of them anyway.

“But how do we find them?” asked Pimpi.

“For those whose souls are true and strong,” intoned Merisuwyniel, “who are loyal to the Quest…Behold! The light of the Velour will reveal itself and show the way to those who are pure in spirit and…”

“Why don’t we just follow the signs,” interrupted Orogarn Two.

Sure enough, enormous signs proclaiming in sizzling neon pink “VELOUR THIS WAY!!!” lined a gigantic highway meandering through rococco hills off into the distance.

Mounting their horses (and dragon) the entire group began the last stage of their journey.

“I don’t see why you people couldn’t have walked,” said an annoyed Kuruharan to Cirkdan, Neemoi, and Macaw, who shared his perch atop Chrysophylax.

“Physical…ACTIVITY…is not…MY…cup…of tea,” said Cirkdan.

“I can tell,” said Kuruharan, reproachfully jabbing a finger into Cirkdan’s middle.

“Talk to my physician he’s in charge of my diet,” snapped Cirkdan. He turned to look at the parrot.

“Blast it Dim,” Macaw squawked, “I’m a doctor, not a…wait a minute.”

Down on the ground, Merisuwyniel’s ears pricked to a mysterious sound. “What’s that noise?” she asked.

“What noise?” asked Gateskeeper.

“I hear it too,” said Halfemption. “It sounds like the charging of a group of great beasts. How strange, I thought Valleyum was a dull and peaceful land.”

“Let’s climb this hill to get a better view,” said Merisuwyniel.

The group above them already had a better view and whatever they saw seemed to have started an argument. However, the rest of the group took no notice.

“Look,” said Soregum, “there is a great dust cloud to the North.”

“Aha!” cried Reaperneep from his perch on Merisuwyniel’s saddle pommel, “Let them come! I will be able to display my prowess with a blade!”

The harsh sound of shouting fell upon their ears as the quarrel on the dragon grew heated. It seemed Kuruharan and Chrysophylax had some sort of dispute with Cirkdan, Neemoi, and Macaw. The rest of the Gallowship still took no notice.

And, as if in answer to the squabbling, there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. Across the vapid countryside they dimly echoed. Great horns from the North wildly blowing. With the horns came yet another note. Hounds, hounds, hounds. Great hounds from the North wildly barking.

Suddenly, a great stampede of creatures broke from cover and scattered in all directions. With them ran the usually sedate Elves and mighty Maya, their faces fallen into masks of abject terror.

“Run away!!! Run away!!!” they all screamed.

“Cowards! Poltroons!” shrilled Reaperneep. “Stand and fight you villains!”

Above them, Cirkdan seized hold of Chrysophylax’s tail, trying to steer him in the other direction. Kuruharan hopped up and down, stuck a hand in his robes and pulled out a very small object. He said something strenuously, but the words were lost by the distance.

“What do you suppose all this ruckus is about?” inquired Orogarn Two.

“Ummm,” said Merisuwyniel dubiously.

“Look!” cried Halfemption.

Several hills away a pack of hounds burst into view. They were bigger than houses, much bigger than houses. They were charging due South, but then turned and started charging West. As they vanished behind the next hill the Rider appeared. At this distance it was impossible to see him distinctly but he was dressed in crimson and white and a light seemed to surround him and emanate from him. As he topped the hill he raised a great golden horn to his lips and blew a great merry blast that shook the countryside. Then his great horse leapt down the slope after the hounds. A few seconds later a band of smaller figures, also in scarlet and white, went running over the hill and then vanished.

The noise began to recede.

Above them, the argument had abruptly ceased and Kuruharan resumed his seat with an air of smug and insufferable complacency.

“They seem to be moving off,” noted Gateskeeper dryly.

“Cats!” cursed Reaperneep, “He looked to my eyes to be a worthy foe! After him!”

“No,” said Merisuwyniel, “we must be on our way. However, if that was who I think it was, then you shall see him again.”

And the party resumed its journey.

[Rimbaud]

Shaken, but not stirred, as the great but spittlesome Third Age poet Eean the Phlegming would have had it, they went on through the land; as a stoat pushing through an anti-stoat fence; soon they were, so totally like, near Valleyfornia.

“All the leaves are brown,” said Hal perceptively and pre-emptively, suspecting someone might soon make the same observation.

“And the sky is grey,” mentioned Meri. “Looks like we’re in for a bit of a walk.”

“On a winter’s day,” shivered Hal in return. “I’d be safe and warm, if I was in LA.”

“Where?” asked Meri. Hal said nothing, but at that moment the sun came out from through the clouds, and spread warm light upon the Wellittakesusawhilebutwegetroundtoiteventually-ship.

“Valleyfornia’s beamin’,”said Hal, dreamily. “On such a winter’s day.” And indeed before them, the sunbeams alighted lightly on the City of the West, which the author would love to suggest was gleaming spires, with perhaps the odd minaret thrown in, but was rather some rather pricey looking stuccoed villas, and carefully manicured lawns. It was eerily quiet.

“Quite finished?” asked Orogarn. “We do have work here, not mere idle banter.”

And so they walked down the broad avenue, into the heart of the sun’s final location. They saw a sign for what appeared to be a great high street, or shopping centre, which reminded them of the boutiques of Topfloorien. This place was called Valleyfornication.

“I expect,” mused their fair Elven leader, “that the inhabitants of this wondrous yet curiously deserted place are at the mall.”

If she was honest, the idea of a little boot-shopping in Valleyfornia did also seem pretty righteous. She pushed this pedal-purchase-penchant to the back of her mind and led them on.

Yet the party were hungry, and at a sign saying Mamas and Papas’ Nip-in Nippon Dining, they stopped for refreshment. The tables were terribly low, but they were ravenous enough not to care.

So they stopped into a place, they passed along the way. Well, they got down on their knees, and they began to eat. The Fellowship, they liked the food – thought they were going to stay. Valleyfornia dinin’ – such a winter’s day.

When they were sated, it was time to take stock. Hal took vegetables, and Vogonwe collected up gravy boats. When they had taken stock, it was time to appraise their situation.


“So what’s the gist of what you chaps are up to, anyway?” asked Hal reasonably.

“It’s complicated,” sighed several people.

“…Ents…”

“…broken…collected…reunified…”

“…bosoms…”

“…great quest…very heroic…Elrond…”

“…stockings…”

“…need to find the rest…to be honest…no real idea…”

Eventually, Hal thought he had the story straight. He was stuck in a party of the most ludicrous insanity, with a slim chance of survival, no chance of dignity, and the ominous fear that at any minute his storyline might be corrupted by a veritable gaggle of puns. Unfortunately, he knew not that the correct collective noun for the pun was in fact a ‘punishment’. This, as will be seen, was as apt as one might singularly imagine. And ones were about to become singularly important. Because, as any child worth his salt knows, firstly – salt isn’t worth much, and secondly, if a large group goes shopping together, in no short order separation ensues.

Valleyfornication mall was huge, the size of a small country. And it was teeming, oddly not with teams, but with people. People who liked each other a lot, or rather just liked the word like a lot.

Thus it was, among the shops of Valleyfornia, that the Notagainship was rendered, rent and remaindered.

Hal found himself wandering, if not as lonely as a cloud, then certainly as ambivalent as a mild fog. He trudged through the bright lights and vast crowds. He would have trudged slowly over wet sand, but no one would get that. He ambled through the thickets of bleached blonde baby-faces of this western oddity.

So lost was he in thoughts of this strange place, that he bumped into Merisuwyniel inadvertently.

“Ah,” he said gallantly, feeling more like his brother than normal. “How are you?”

“Fine, Hal, fine,” she said “but we need to get on with finding the Velour.”

At the exact moment she said the word, a giant bubble appeared before them, rotating and blue. It popped, *pop*, and inside sat a small man, no taller than three inches, sitting on a flying carpet.

“Velour?” he squeaked.

“I’m dreaming,” murmured Hal.

“Of genie?” questioned Merisuwyniel. “Let us follow him.”

And follow him they did, for he set off through the shopping district at a ferocious pace. They weaved through the thronging Elves until they came to a great staircase. Before the staircase was a peculiar feature: what appeared to be a water-fountain, but rather than clear water, strange devices tumbled noisily down to smash on the stone base of the thing. They were black or silver, with strange apertures on one side, and blinking red eyes on the top. They clicked and buzzed oddly, and occasionally emitted blinding flashes.

“Fount Olympus,” murmured their guide. “No pictures up here.”

“We must summon the others,” cried Merisu. “Hal, your brother carried a piercing tin-whistle. Do you have a family heirloom of similar use?”

“Sadly,” began Hal, in his doleful voice, “my family left me an actual loom as my heirloom. I suppose it’s what you would call irony. It’s of no use now. However,” he added, brightening and feeling at something tied to his belt, “I do have this trumpet.”

“Then call the others!”

He did, and they arrived all at once, with the convenience of large groups in poorly narrated stories. They stood gazing at the stair, which wound its way up beyond the clouds that formed, oddly, below the ceiling of the great hall. Inscriptions were carved on each step: “All that glitters is gold”, “She knows if the stores are closed”, “A songbird who sings” and so on.

Thus they went on the stairway to heavens higher than the clouds, with feet of lead, but hearts of zeppelins. They were nearly there now.

[Kuruharan]

“Now,” said Merisuwyniel as they ascended up toward the ceiling, “we have the pieces of the Ent that was Broken…”

Kuruharan smacked himself in the forehead. Orogarn Two rolled his eyes at the stupidity of his companions. “The what…?” inquired Halfemption. “Not again,” groaned Vogonwë and Leninia. “We’ve already done this gag,” muttered Chrysophylax.

“Look!” cried Gateskeeper. “A plot hole!!!”

Sure enough, hanging in mid-air right next to the escalator was the biggest, ugliest, most inexplicable plot hole in the history of literature or moviedom.

“HUZZAH!!” cried the Gallowship, or some of them anyway.

“Plot holes of this nature are incredibly dangerous,” intoned Merisuwyniel. “Who now is able to fathom them? Characters, plot elements, even coherence itself have all vanished in such plot holes as these. Conversely, characters, plot elements, and usually more incoherence have emerged from such plot holes. What…”

“If you don’t shut up it’s going to be two stories below us before we can do anything!” snapped Orogarn Two.

“There’s nothing else for it,” said Kuruharan. “Somebody is going to have to jump into the plot hole and return with the Ent that was Broken.”

Everyone glanced at everyone else uneasily.

“I nominate the Captain,” said Soregum.

“I second,” said Pimpi.

“Now, wait just a minute,” said a suddenly ruffled Neemoi.

“But,” said Cirkdan. “We…SHOULD…do our…bit…for the…QUEST.”

“Blast it Dim,” chirped Macaw, “I’m a doctor, not a go-fer.”

“AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH” screamed Soregum. “GRAB ‘EM!!!”

Quick as thought, a sharp struggle broke out. Cirkdan, Neemoi, and Macaw were tossed over the edge of the escalator and into the waiting maw of the plot hole.

“Don’t forget to toss back the Ent that was Broken!” shouted Orogarn Two after them.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” replied the brave volunteers.

The plot hole emitted a sudden overwhelming cacophony of noises. Great tentacles reached out and seized the three crewmembers and dragged them through the opening. The noises grew louder. The agonized cries of ten thousand souls in torment mingled with a roaring and banging that defied description. Above it all rose a noise that sounded for all the world like the scream of a Thing-wraith.

Grralph stirred uneasily in his slumber.

“What’s taking them so long?” demanded Leninia.

Suddenly, out of the gaping plot hole popped the head of none other than Earnur Etceteron.

“Hullo, there,” he said cheerfully. “I say, one of you wouldn’t happen to have a bit of something to drin….whoops,” and he vanished. “Bonehead pillock!” laughed a metallic voice out of the maw.

The Gallowship stared with their mouths hanging open.

The Balfrog’s head shot out of the hole and took a swipe at Chrysophylax, who bravely tucked his tail between his legs and scrambled out of the way. The Balfrog roared and disappeared.

The plot hole heaved…and belched.

“Eeeeeewwww,” moaned Merisuwyniel and Pimpi together. “How crude!”

Out flew the wagon bearing the Ent that was Broken. It crashed on the escalator a few steps behind them.

The Gallowship breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude, or some of them did anyway.

“Thank you captain, wherever you are,” sighed Merisuwyniel. “And to you my darl…I mean Mr. Neemoi,” she added.

“What?!” bawled Orogarn Two. “They were both pompous a…”

“Watch it!” snapped Merisuwyniel.

“Were here,” said Pimpi.

“Where’s here?” inquired Vogonwë.

That was a question not so easily answered. The Lostship stepped off the escalator (dragging the wagon with them). They could see nothing except white light and a vague outline of the floor beneath them.

Reaperneep sniffed the air and trotted forward. “Are we to be halted here at the completion of our Quest?” he shrilled.

“No,” said Merisuwyniel. “Muddled Mirth is counting on us.”

“The light makes my head hurt,” moaned Chrysophylax.

The Bemused-ship slowly walked forward. They had not gone far before they noticed the Muzak. It was beautiful and strange. It roused a longing that was pain (even worse than lust for Merisuwyniel). Nothing else seemed worthwhile but to listen to that sound forever.

“Come on,” cried Reaperneep, his naturally adventurous nature aroused by his adventurous surroundings. The Brainsnearingthestateofjellyship staggered on.

The music began to call to them. It was a merry bubble and joy, thin, clear, and happy. The call of the music became stronger than the music was sweet. The Brainsreachingthestateofjellyship could not help but move forward now.

They came to a great golden door that was more magnificent than mere words could describe. The liquid of that glad music broke on them like a wave, caught them up, and possessed them utterly. They were conscious that they were nearing The End…whatever that might be.

“We must go in,” whispered Merisuwyniel.

“…just…five more minutes, Mommy,” muttered the Gateskeeper, with his eyes closed.

Kuruharan slowly swayed from side to side. “If I could only make a recording of this stuff and sell it! I’d make a fortune!!!”

Slowly, trembling with doubt and hesitation, Merisuwyniel reached to push open the door.

“Oh, let me do it!” cried Reaperneep, who was beside himself in eagerness and impatience.

He opened the door.

They were filled with the feeling that they were exactly where they were meant to be at that moment in time.

As they passed over the threshold, the music was overwhelmed by a Great Theme of Muzak. It was greater and more wonderful than any yet revealed. The Motleyship were overcome by its glory and splendor. They bowed down inside the door.

The Muzak stopped. They waited.

…and waited.

Finally, Reaperneep dared to look up. He beheld great shining thrones upon a dais on the far side of a pillared hall. He stood and trotted forward.

“Look,” he cried. “I found something.”

The Puzzledship gathered around him.

He had found A Sign. And upon that Sign in glorious letters of fire and ice was writ…

“Next Throne Room Please -->”

They turned and beheld another door, even more magnificent than before. The Muzak swelled again. The Deepship was drawn forward again. The sound of harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion yet another Theme, like unto the first, only more stirring.

Without haste, they opened the great doors before them and beheld a Great Light. They fell to their faces.

The Great Muzak swelled with great profundity and became triumphant. It achieved a poignancy unutterable in these poor houses of Time.

It ceased and a great silence fell as if the Muzak had never been. And the Upthecreekwithoutapaddleship waited.

…and waited.

Finally, Reaperneep dared to look up. He beheld greater shining thrones upon a greater dais on the far side of a greater pillared hall. He stood and trotted forward. He continued on and on until he vanished in the light.

And lo! Long seemed the time until his return. But, return he did.

He strode up to where the Expectantship lay huddled on the floor.

“I have found a Token upon one of the Thrones,” he announced grandly. He handed something to Merisuwyniel.

Merisuwyniel took it up and looked at it. “It seems to be a sheet of…notebook…paper…”

She opened the sheet and read those words that echo loud through the ages.

“Out to Lunch.”

“WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!!!” screamed Leninia.

[Diamond18]

Somewhere, out there, in an unidentifiable hall in an unidentifiable palace in Valleyum (that I can identify, thank goodness) someone was having lunch.

That someone was Prada, known by the Elves of Muddled-Mirth as El Beer Breath the Fair Enough, and known to the Hobbits of the Mire as Snow White Applebottom the Plump and Fair Enough. By the Dwarves of Muddled-Mirth she was known and Snow White the Lazyassed. Some also call her Fanny, or She of the Ten Thousand Shoes. She was, at that moment in time, dining on rice and codfish, with a goblet of fine imported Mire beer and a side of lamb liver. This she would follow up with a fine imported chocolate cake with strawberry pie filling on the side.

As she sat on her fanny with her niftily clad feet propped upon a pillow, she called out to her husband, “Manny, stop making that racket and come to lunch, your codfish is getting cold and your ’ard liquor is getting soft.”

Her husband, Manuël Sàntana, Lord of the Breath of ’Ard Liquor, did not cease in his racket, for he knew that ’ard liquor could not get soft. And he preferred his codfish cold. “Coming,” he said insincerely, as he played upon his guitar, known as TícTàc the Magnificently In Tune. TícTàc was renowned throughout Valleyum, and many Elven musicians far away on the shores of Muddled-Mirth swore by the Ever Lovin’ Guitar Strap of Manuël Sàntana and dreamed of one day collaborating with the Master of Muzak. Even in the deepest woods of Workmud, poets dreamed of one day setting their lyrics to the ever lovin’ strummin’ of Manuël Sàntana. Also there was the chance of getting drunk on ’ard liquor, a drink so strong it puts ’Mudwater to shame.

Manuël and Prada were alone in the unidentifiable hall save for the Seven Dwarves, Prada’s special guests from Muddled-Mirth. It was not widely known in Muddled-Mirth that there were actually Dwarves living in Velour, but Manuël had granted them a special status due to some kind of bond they had formed with Prada once upon a time. No one really like to talk about that incident, as how Prada had ended up in Muddled-Mirth, hiding from a wicked witch, and getting kissed by a handsome Elven Prince, was a delicate issue in the Sàntana household. Or rather, Unidentifiable Hallhold.

The Dwarves were dancing and shaking their posteriors to the ever lovin’ racket Manuël made upon his guitar. But I will not elaborate further on that, since no one wants a detailed description of dancing dwarves.

In upon this happy homey scene, burst a messenger. “My Lord, my Lady,” he said, hastily bowing. “There is a bizarre and dangerous looking ragtag bunch of malcontents requesting a conference with you. One of them says he’s a big fan of your muzak, my lord. Will you see them or shall I throw them out on their posteriors?”

“In good time, in good time,” said Manuël. “A fan, eh? Well, we can at least hear what they have to say before we throw them out. Tell them we shall see them after lunch.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

And so it came to pass that the ceremonial gong was sounded to summon the Kings and Queens of the Velour to a Great Conference. (Yes, though multiple kings and queens of a land are a reason for war in this world, boys and girls, in fantasy stories it works! And amazingly well with brethren and sistern, even… ) And the sound of it was heard throughout Valleyum, and the resounding echo of grumbling, irritation at the interruption of other pleasures, or curious gossip was heard in answer.

And lo! they came from the beaches and bars and there was much stashing away of serf-flets and much tying of diaphanous scarves over itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikinis to meet the minimal dress-code and much donning of fishnet muscle shirts likewise. At the entrance of the Great Conference Hall they paused to adorn their feet with the ceremonial flíp-flets, in accordance with the warning runes that were writ above the doorway. (Translator’s note: The ruins of these runes were found in the ruins of Valleyum in recent times; they have been reconstructed and their contents can now be repeated. In the Common Tongue they read: “No shirt, no shoes, no service” )

They took their places at the circular table that signified their equality, though they were fully aware of the fact that some of them were more equal than others. The most equal of them came last – Manuël and Prada ascended the ceremonial staircase at one end of the Hall. While waiting for them, some of the Velour whose physical attributes proclaimed them to be male or a reasonable facsimile thereof began to sing a playful chorus of “We’re Kings of the Round Table”. Interestingly, it blended in perfect counterpoint with the three-part harmony rendering of “Good Vibrations” (the national anthem of Valleyum) from the female side of the table – well, it is to be assumed that it was sung by the females, since no self-respecting, fully-functional male could sing that high.

Manuël winced almost imperceptibly, but his benign expression showed that he could tolerate the musical taste of the lower – um, equal on a different level – colleagues. He stood majestically and patiently, waiting for them to arise for his ceremonial introductory speech. His patience was needed, but after much clearing of throats and some clinking of spoons against glasses, they were finally inclined to give him their only minimally divided attention.

“My brethren and sistern,” he began pompously, “we are assembled here this day to…”

“Aw, come on, Manny,” T-M Ulmo protested. “Speak normally and get down to business. The waves won’t wait all day, you know.”

There were assenting nods all around the table, and much shuffling of feet to indicate the wish to continue proceedings in a sitting position.

“Oh, all right,” he capitulated. Much relieved, they sank into their comfortable lounging chairs and sipped their favourite refreshing Cok-tailz. “Well, like, it’s like this,” he continued. “A bunch of weirdos from Muddled-Mirth has, like, sailed over here, and it looks like they, like, want something from us. I know we have a non-interference policy required of us by the Prime Directive, but we can at least listen to them before, like, sending them back, right?”

“Sounds cool,” “OK with me,” “Yeah,” and some assenting murmurings answered his, like, question. After all, even serf-fletting got boring once in awhile, and new kidz on the block were not an everyday occurrence.

Two lovely young Maya twins, Pollí-Esther and Pollí-Unsaturated, opened the doors and ushered in the Flotsam’nJetsamShip. The Questers hardly dared to look up, fully expecting to be blinded by so much royal brilliance, and when they did, their jaws dropped, for before them was assembled a wealth of suntans and blond-streaked hair and lean-muscled bodies such as had never been seen in eastern lands, yet no shining light surrounded them, though the dark-shaded glasses they wore seemed to have been made for that purpose.

Merisuwyniel stepped forward almost shyly, not quite knowing how to address this awe-inspiring group; yet drawing upon the wisdom and diplomatic skill of generations of Elves, she began. “Four-score and seven years ago- ” Flustered, she stopped. Wrong generation, she admonished her inner Elves. “My Lords and Ladies,” she began anew, fervently hoping that it did not matter to Valleyum etiquette if the males or females were addressed first. “We have come on a quest of great importance to Muddled-Mirth. We wish to remedy an unprecedented cruelty – the hewing and sundering of an Ent! We have done our best to reassemble all the parts that were separated, yet is the reunification beyond our skills, yea, beyond the skills of any who reside in Muddled-Mirth. Nevertheless I had messages from these shores, telling me to ask for aid here.”

She looked around at the ladies, searching for the familiar green face of her visions, but she could not find it. Expectantly, she waited for an answer, and her companions waited, speechless for once, with her.

[Kuruharan]

“How did that degenerate bum become Lord of the Breath of ‘Ard Liquor?” demanded Orogarn Two, a bit more loudly than might be considered prudent.

“Shhh,” hissed Merisuwyniel.

“I would think being degenerate might be of assistance,” mumbled Kuruharan in a much more subdued tone.

“Duuuude,” intoned Manuël Sàntana, “chill out!! I was chosen because, like, I was, like, the awsomest dude on the block!”

“Oh, very nice,” said Orogarn Two, clearly unimpressed. “And how do you figure that, eh?”

“By the Valleyfornia way, dude!” replied Sàntana. “By plebiscite!”

“What?” snapped Orogarn Two. “Are you proposing that you come from some sort of anarcho-syndicalist commune?”

“Like, totally, dude!” said Sàntana. “When my Old Man cooked up this new gig for us, we had, like, a competition to see who would rock out the most. I promised the peeps that if I was chosen I’d, like, keep running Muzak non-stop, the surf would always be up, and everyone could, like, lie around on the beach and drink strawberry margaritas day and night. Then everyone went and marked their super-secret decoder ring ballots. I won in a landslide, no hanging chads or nothing! So mellow out dude!”

“What?” cried Orogarn Two. “You weren’t crowned or anointed or…something?”

“Nope,” replied Manuël with a grin. “But I’m The Man, man!”

“Listen,” said Orogarn Two earnestly, “a bunch of people stuffing pieces of paper into a box is no basis for a system of government! Supreme executive power derives from the Mandate of Emu, not some farcical counting ceremony!”

“Chill out, man” said Sàntana.

Orogarn Two paid no attention. “You can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just because a bunch of misguided surfers with visions of utopian debaucheries dancing in their heads put checkmarks beside your name.”

“Duuude...” said Manuël.

“I mean,” continued Orogarn Two, completely unfazed, “if I went round saying I was premier just because I convinced a bunch of chumps to stand in line to shove some papers into a tin, they’d put me away!”

“Hey, man,” said Manuël Sàntana, becoming just ever so slightly flustered, “you’re, like, crimping my style, man! Just chill out, man!”

As if to emphasize his point, he raised TícTàc and played a mellow bit of Muzak.

“See, man,” said Manuël. “Just take it easy, man. Like, go with the flow!”

Orogarn Two turned to Merisuwyniel, “I begin to think our cause is hopeless!”

“I don’t think this conversation is being very constructive,” said Merisuwyniel.

[Rimbaud]

“I’ll show you constructive,” exclaimed Hal, unexpectedly, and with a grandiose flourish, produced a very small black leather case.

Oh no, thought Merisuwyniel, another ‘his guitar is very small’ type running joke. How tiresome.

Fortuitously, this was not the case, for with fingers defter than those of the be-pickled-peppered Peter Piper, Hal opened the case, and swiftly constructed from the items therein an ornate but serviceable guitar. He strummed the instrument, introduced as Wailur, as if experimentally, as Manuel watched sceptically, and although the sound was not the soaring joy his host’s fretwork, it was not unpleasant.

“Dude,” said Manuel appreciatively. “Let’s, like, jam.”

“I already do,” said Hal, suspiciously.

“Just play, and maybe we’ll get what we need,” hissed Pimpi, in what she had hoped would be an inaudible whisper to their hosts.

Prada smiled fashionably. “Get on with it.”
And so the quarter-elf and the legend played their instruments together, and the music of Wailur and TicTac rose to the ceiling in a minty-fresh cacophony.
Then the voice of the Wailur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, but all played by incontinent weasels, and like unto countless choirs of 80s hair-band singers singing with ‘words’, began to fashion the theme of Hal and Manuel to a great bloody din; and a sound arose of endless interchanging discords woven in some sort of musical purgatory that passed beyond hearing (oh hell, yes) into the depths and rarely troubling the heights, and the places of the ears of the so afflicted were filled to overflowing, and the ghastliness and the echo of the aural mayhem went out into the Void, and it was not void.

The valorous Velour were dolorous.

“Alan McGee’s on the phone,” said Polli-Esther fibrously, as she pocked her plastic-enhanced features around the door.

“Seriously, no one will get that,” said Hal, ceasing and desisting, “but I’m guessing you’re going to leave it in anyway.”

Damn right.

In the sickening silence that followed the last shocking twang of the Wailur, Merisuwyniel adjusted her superbly crafted hair, and asked Prada what she used on her hair, to make it so sleek, soft and shiny.

“In fact,” said Merisuwyniel, “I could even say it was three times as shiny as hair with other products.”

“How on earth could you quantify that?” butted in Orogarn Two. The Gateskeeper whipped out an odd pocket instrument, with many buttons and runes scribed upon it.

“It’s a P’Ann-Tene,” said Prada, softly.

“Pound ten?” screamed Manuel querulously. “And you so totally like, complain, about my board wax?”

“Your board wanes, dude-dear,” replied Prada airily.

“Oooh, good one,” said Pimpi.

At this point a particularly well-built fellow entered, without knocking and looked slowly at each person in the room. The room was far from empty and this took some considerable time and there was much shuffling of feet. Still, the imposing bulk of the man, allied to one glowing red eye and a Mr Valleyum belt, quietened any potential rebellions, like an SUV through a pack of baby seals.

“The Reunitership?” he asked in a deep Teutonic voice.

“What the Muddled-Mirth is a Teuton?” asked Vogonwe quietly.

“Um, yes,” answered Merisuwyniel firmly, turning to face the dramatic entrance.

“I am the Governator,” said her interlocutor equally firmly, with the same rich accent. “My word is law here.”

“Um,” said Manuel tentatively. “Du-ude…”

“Do not dude me,” ordered the Governator, terminating Manuel’s sentence callously. “I am the law. Democratically.”

“Sweet,” subsided Santana.

“Now,” said the Governator turning his baleful red-eyed glare back to the fair Elven princess. “You wish the power to reunite the mighty bow? Such unions are not possible throughout the rest of Muddled-Mirth, but here in Valleyum anything can be reunited.”

“Good,” said Merisuwyniel. “I’m all for things being, er, reunited.” She felt like she had only the most tenuous grasp of the conversation by this point.

Hal had completed the repackaging of Wailur, and now addressed himself to their formidable challenger.
“So you’re the boss? Or they are? And who has the power? And will you be able to fix it, and moreover, will you actually do so? And will any of us die? And what’s the fastest land mammal?”

“Yes, no, me, yes, possibly, probably and the cheetah,” answered the Governator reasonably, before turning sharply on his heel.

“Come and see me up in Cleverly Bills, my mansion,” he said over his shoulder. “Ignore these cretins, we only use them for tourism. Their lies are true lies, and I feel like some sort of nursery policeman…”

“Kindergarten…” began Hal.

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Merisuwyniel, before the Governator spoke over her.

“…and basically until the end of days I am stuck here, unable to terminate their contracts.”

“Du-ude…”, said Manuel, looking irate. “We only accept you here on sufferance. This goes too far.” And he lifted Tictac and struck such a chord that lightning flew from the head of the guitar, blue and wild, and struck the Governator who crumpled twitching to the floor, acrid smoke seeping from his huge frame. The red-eye fixed on the great wound on his back, in a highly improbable manoeuvre. Liquid bubbled from the cut, which was small but producing a considerable amount of steam.

“Oozing nine millimetres,” said the Governator. “But, I’ll be back.”

“Never thought he’d say that,” said Hal, turning away from the corpse. “Now can we get on with the reuniting stuff?”

“Come, sit,” beckoned Prada, and they fashioned themselves in a semi-circle facing their fairest hosts.

Manuel had remained standing, and now he spoke again. “Few have ever come hither through greater tenuousness or on an errand more absurd. We must discuss this at length.”

Thus was the Council of Valleyum Entertaining New Travellers Requesting Insight (COVENTRI) begun, and shortly thereafter they all felt like they had been sent there. They were interrupted only by a small flat-faced dog, which waddled in and spoke to them. “Wot, no puns?” he said, pugnaciously.

[The Saucepan Man]

Throughout the audience with the Velour, Soregum had kept his cloak and cowl tightly wrapped around him. Given his previous employment history, he couldn’t afford to take any risks. And so he lurked silently behind his companions, trying to find a convenient shadow to conceal himself in. Unfortunately, in the Blessed Realm of the Light-Fittings, shadows were in short supply.

“Hey, who’s the dude in the black cloak?” said Mantoes.

“You should like know, man,” quipped Tickle-Me Ulmo.

“Du-ude!” they chimed together as they gave each other a high five.

Meanwhile, all eyes in the Uh-oh-ship turned nervously to the prone figure of Grrralph.

“Er …” began Merisuwyniel.

“No, the other dude in the black cloak,” interrupted Mantoes, taking out a small white paper tube and setting light to the end of it. An aromatic scent filled the air as he puffed on it.

The Non-black-cloaked-ship began studiously to examine each other’s apparel in confusion.

“No, that dude in the black cloak. Like, the little guy hiding at the back,” continued Mantoes, pointing at Soregum and passing the white tube to T-M Ulmo.

“Who? Oh him. That’s just Soregum,” said Merisu, as the poor Halfling began to back towards the door to the chamber.

“Hey little fella. Why don‘t you like introduce yourself,” said Manuël Sántana languidly.

With a nod from Manuël, the Nîlon twins manoeuvred Soregum forward towards the front of the group until he stood quaking before the mightily bronzed Lords and Ladies of the West Coast.

“I dig the black threads, dude. But why don’t you like lose them so we can see you like for real.” said Prada, her voice rising at the end of the sentence as if she were asking a question.

Slowly, Soregum removed his cloak and hood. The Velour stared. Soregum’s cheeks flushed red. The Velour carried on staring. Soregum cheeks carried on flushing red. The Velour still stared. Soregum’s cheeks were by now a bright shade of crimson and dangerously approaching meltdown. The white tube, which had been slowly making its way round the Round Table had reached Manuël. As he took a drag on it, he started to chuckle.

“Man, what is that!” he giggled.

One by one, each of the Velour began to snigger, until the whole Chamber was filled with the melodious, if rather cruel, sound of their mirth. Most of the Titter-ship joined in too and Orogarn Two was soon on the floor, convulsed with fits of laughter.

“I am a H-h-h-obbit, s-sir!” stammered Soregum as his cheeks engaged shutdown mode and he turned a shade whiter than Leninia‘s palest foundation. Hoots of merriment rang out

“A Huhuhuhobbit?” guffawed Manuël, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Awesome!” sniggered Mantoes.

“Rad!” giggled Nír-Vana.

“Cool!” chortled T-M Ulmo.

“Far out!“ laughed Prada.

“Cowabunga!” roared Tulk Hogan.

Immediately, the laughter stopped and the Velour all turned to him disdainfully.

“Ew. That’s like so Second Age, Tulk.” said Prada. “You can be such a retard!”

“So amigo, like what’s a Huhuhuhobbit got to do with my Council?” asked Manuël, starting to chuckle once more.

“He’s a Hobbit, and so am I.” said Pimpiowyn, stepping forward defiantly. “Well half of me is anyway.”

She would not stand by while her mother’s race was held up to ridicule. And she felt rather sorry for Soregum too. Vogonwë fumed silently.

“Oh, so that’s what a Hobbit like looks like,” said Mantoes. “ Way cool!”

“Yea, I think that I like sang about them,” added Nír-Vana, the Maiden of Grûnge.

“No wonder they live in a place called the Mire”, quipped T-M Ulmo.

“Du-ude!” he and Mantoes sang out together as they high fived again.

“Ew. It’s so like short!” sneered Estë-Lynn.

“Omigod, and so fat!” added Chanessa contemptuously.

“Like gross. Just look at those teeth,” chipped in Vairsacë, screwing up her pretty Velour nose.

Soregum earnestly scanned the floor of the Chamber for any hint that it might swallow him up. Then, his hands trembling, he reached for his pipe and tried to fire it up.

“Hey, hobbit dude,” Prada said sharply and pointed at a no smoking sign on the wall. Soregum stared speechlessly from the sign to Prada to the smoking white tube, which had now reached Tulk Hogan.

“Man, Yawanna. That’s like great gear you grow in your garden,” said Tulk, as he puffed on it. “Like totally tubular, man.”

“Hey, where is Yawanna?” said Manuël, belatedly noticing her absence.

“Search me,” answered Prada. “Nír-Vana?”

“How should I know?” replied the Maiden of Grûnge. “I’m not my sister’s keeper.”

“Hey, like the Breadhead’s missing too, man,” said Mantoes.

“Yea, where’s Häulié?” added T-M Ulmo.

“The Dweeb’s probably in his workshop, trying to make some more of those little dudes with the beards,” replied Mantoes. “He’s so like lame.”

“Oh man, you mean Dwarfs. Remember them? Man, they were like hardcore,” said T-M Ulmo. “But so gross. He sure made them with the ugly-stick, man.”

“Dwarves!” Kuruharan muttered angrily under his breath, his beard bristling, as the Velour duo once more high fived with a resounding “Du-ude!”

[Mithadan]

At that moment, the door swung open with a sonorous groan. A tall, mighty thewed, figure trudged in, pausing only for a moment to oil the hinges of the door, which closed silently behind him. He wore a black leather apron which was soiled from his great and momentous toils, and a great belt swung on his hips in which were hung tools inumerable. Hammers, he carried, and wrenches great and small. Spanners and screwdrivers, tape measures, awls, drills, saws and many others besides, and about each of his mighty wrists were great rolls of silver, glowing duct tape. Over his eyes was a visor made of some magical clear material. Before him ran two odd little persons, each of whom carried what appeared to be a golden plate hanging from a string.

"I thought they were mithical..." whispered Merisu in awe.

"What manner of beings are these?" asked Orogarn.

"They are..." began Merisu. But before she could finish, each of the little persons drew forth from their belts a metal hammer which they used to strike the plates.

GONG

The room shook with the noise. As the tone faded, the figures bowed and retreated to the door.

"They are Gongs," answered Merisu. "Or Gongers, some call them. Long ago, it is said they were Elves who dedicated themselves to serving their master. They are now bent with their labors and..."

"Strange..." interjected Kuruharan.

"Yes," finished Merisu. "They are strange. And deaf."

The tall figure approached the table at which the Velour were seated. Mantoes grinned and cried out, "Woot, woot! Geek alert!" The great one, for clearly he was one of the Velour scowled, but did not reply. Instead, he nodded to Manuël. "Haulië..." muttered Manuël by way of greeting.

"I am sorry I am late," said Haulië. "I was working on my punchlist. Item number 4,678,242, in fact. I was fixing the plumbing of the great waterfall of the Holy Mountain..."

"You fixed the shower, how sweet of you!" piped Prada.

"... which you broke while snowboarding down the glacier," continued Haulië. "Next I will begin work on the great fjord whose walls you crumbled while sailboarding."

"Cool," replied Manuël as he examined his fingernails. They were all there.

"I came as quickly as I could once I received the summons," continued the legendary carpenter of the Velour. "What is happening?"

Tickle-me-Ulmo rose and gestured at the Itship. "These," he said with a sniff. "Were washed up on our shores. Which reminds me, add removal of the wreckage of their ship to your punchlist." Haulië pulled a voluminous scroll from under his apron and unwound it, which took the better part of a half hour. Then he scribbled some runes on it before rolling it back up. "I'll get to it in about 27 years," he replied. "Go on waterboy."

"They requested an audience which we oh so graciously have granted them," continued the dripping wet Lord. "They request that we fix some tree or other."

"I don't do trees," answered Haulië. "That's my wife's gig. So if there's nothing more..." He turned and made as if to go.

"Not a tree," piped up Pimpiowyn. "An Ent. We have come to ask you... great... wonderous... dudes..." Prada cleared her throat. "...and dudettes to re-unify a broken Ent."

"Well, that's still not my job," replied Haulië. "After I made the Dwarves we amended our Charter to clarify that I am not to mess around with making or fixing living things. An Ent would be within Yawanna's jurisdiction. Where is she anyway?"

"Like, last I saw her, she was communing with a tree, dude," said Tulk Hogan. "Why don't you throw her a vine?"

Haulië sighed. "Very well." He reached under his apron again and withdrew the thinnest, lightest, shiniest Cell-antir the Itship had ever seen. Gateskeeper's eyes bulged. "A T-2000!" he whispered. "Full color screen, messaging, net access, video, speakers with woofers, tweeters, sub-woofers..." Kuruharan kicked him and Gateskeeper fell silent as Haulië dialed.

A beep was heard, then a voice spoke. "This is Yawanna," it said. "I can't answer your osanwë right now. I'm busy... (tee hee, stop it) ... I'm occupied... (Shhh I'm recording)... I'm... uh, negotiating with Melvin about my new role as Queen of Muddled Mirth. Please leave a message and maybe I'll call." A second beep was heard, then a moment's silence which was broken by a few snickers.

"Duuude," laughed Manuël. "You've been dissed. Yawanna's dumped you like dirty laundry and hooked up with Mel again."

The Cell-antir fell from Haulië's nerveless hands. Kuruharan leapt forward and attempted to pick it up, but a miniature bolt of lightning shot from its screen and burned his hand. "Ow!" cried the Dwarf. "I was only going to pick it up for him..." Vogonwë and Orogarn exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. But then, Haulië's face turned bright red and he roared in anger. Seizing a huge hammer from his belt, he swung it about his head and brought it down on the floor before the council table with a mighty crash. Cracks appeared, then a portion of the floor fell in with a rush like the imaginary wings of a Balfrog. Flames leapt up from the newly opened fissure.

"Dude," Manuel intoned with a serious look on his face. "You better add that to your punchlist too." But Haulië ignored him.

"Mogul has gone too far!" he shouted. "He has come even unto Valleyum and soiled the sands of this shore. We must hunt him down and rescue Yawanna!"

"We agreed not to mess around with Muddled Mirth," Mantoes replied. "And next week is our annual clambake and beer-fest! Besides, I'm not sure Yawanna wants to be rescued."

"Of course she wants to be rescued," cried Haulië. "She loves me! Besides, who would want to hang with Mogul? I will go to Muddled Mirth myself if none will aid me."

This pronouncement threw the council into chaos, with some crying that Mogul must be stopped and others saying that the surf was up and who cares about a few trees, Elves, Men and Dwarves anyway. It may be that this debate would have gone on for some time, but the council was once again interrupted. Two Elves rushed in with wide eyes and impeccably coiffed hair.

"My Lords and Ladies," cried the first Elf as he raced forward. "There is... AUUUGGGHHHH!..." He screamed for a long time as he fell into the fissure that had opened on the floor.

"Pity," murmured Prada. "We really should put up a 'wet floor' or 'caution' sign or something."

The second Elf stopped just before the fissure. "My Lords and Ladies," he cried. "There is a great army or Orcs, Trolls, Elephants and Loyers encamped upon the plain before the Hill of Fish. They carry banners bearing the mark of the Red Nostril. They have sent this message." He tossed a scroll over the fissure to Manuël.

He read it aloud. "Greetings my boring brethren. Melvin Bluenote, also known as Mogul Bildur, sends his regards. I would like to offer Valleyum a covenant of peace and future trade with my realm in Muddled Mirth. In exchange, I ask only for a trifle that has caught my fancy. A little token of your friendship. I would like something returned to me that was stolen by a certain Elf, known as Merisuwyniel. Just some shards, pieces, fragments of wood that once were an Ent. In exchange you shall have my gratitude and friendship. If not, well I've come to party!"

Manuël slumped back into his chair. He pronounced a single word of great power and portent: "Bummer!"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

And lo, all eyes turned to Merisuwyniel, both of the Velour and of the WeHaveNoIdeaWhatThisIsAllAboutShip. She stood tall and straight, her cheeks flushed most becomingly with righteous anger, dramatically clasping the Entish Bow to her heaving bosom. [Truth be told, though the Bow feared for its once and future life, it relished those moments, as my cherished readers can well imagine!]

“Never!” she cried out, and repeated it for emphasis, “Never!”

“What did she say?” Chanessa stage-whispered.

“Dunno,” Estë-Lynn replied. “Sounded to me like ‘Verily I come, I come to you’.”

Merisu was getting into the spirit of the occasion and raised the arm that held the Bow, shaking it defiantly. “Mogûl, if you want it, come and claim it!”

“Ummm, isn’t that what he just did?” Vairsacë commented pragmatically.

Taken aback ever so slightly, the Elven maiden tried again. “By Vinaigrettiel my deceased evil but repentant mother and Gravlox the Fair-Enough-In-My-Eyes, you shall have neither the Bow nor me!” With these words, she fled from the Lofty Halls of the Velour and was seen there never again.

[Rimbaud]

Which left the Flounderingship, well, floundering. Feet shuffled, fingernails were inspected, and some took the chance to enjoy the fine art that adorned the walls. Seemingly, the favoured style was a splurge of paint and colour, perfected by – Hal peered to read the scrawl on the nearest – Jak’s Son, Pillock.

“I suppose,” he ventured, “That we should, um, be supportive and walk out, you know?”

“Nay,” said Manuël, sounding rather grand for once, although it didn’t last. “We should, you know, like, find a solution and appease Mogul.”

“Appeasement, eh?” said Hauliê. “Don’t much like the sound of that.”

And like a childhood failure on the hopscotch board, they were back to square one.

“Let me get this straight,” said Soregum. “Merisu has the bow, Mogûl wants it and we face certain annihilation if we demur from producing it. Seems clear to me.”

“We can’t abandon Merisu,” said Orogarn Two. “This mission ain't over until Pimpi sings.”

"Hey!" exclaimed a short sort-of-hobbity-human.

Hal’s mind cast itself back to memories of Merisu’s heaving bosom and concurred. “We must provide support,” he muttered.

“It’s us that, like, will get it in the neck, if you all leave!” exclaimed Vairsacë, somewhat plaintively. “If you hightail it outta here now, we’ll have to come after you for our own sakes.”

“Can’t you mount a valiant but ultimately fruitless defence?” asked Hal. “It would be jolly spiffing if you did.”

“Fruitless defence is the last resort of the valiant,” countered Haulië.

“And it ain’t got nothing like that in our contracts,” cried Mantoes.

“There’s, um, some small print,” murmured the Gateskeeper. “In a microdot hidden in the ‘V’ of Velour. We tendered the software package.”

“Word,” said Vairsacë.

“That’s it,” said Gateskeeper.

“No, I mean, just, you know, ‘word’,” said Vairsacë hurriedly. “Like, ‘word up, we’re in a jam’.”

“Ah.”

“We have two options,” said Hal, pompously. “Either we decide to support Merisu’s bounceless, er, boundless, um, problems…or we muck in with these chaps and fight a brave fight.”

The door slammed behind them, as the LikeWhatevership departed in a flurry of a hurry, leaving some seriously un-chilled out Velour in their wake.

[Kuruharan]

The Gallowship fled down the escalator, past the plot hole, and out the Mall. They continued fleeing pell mell until they reached an indefinite point and flopped down.

Chrysopylax pointed toward a hill looming in the distance. “Excuse me,” he said. “I believe that is the enemy right over there.”

"DOH!!!"

There were thousands of them spread all about the base of the hill.

“Verily,” muttered Orogarn Two. “When my people tried this stunt the earth was changéd from a plane into a sphere. Is it not time for the earth to be changéd into a banana shape or something?”

“Eucatastrophes can never happen the same way twice,” opined Kuruharan.

“It wouldn’t be exactly the same way,” retorted Orogarn Two.

“It would be the same principle,” rejoined Kuruharan.

“Pipe down,” snarled Merisuwyneil. “Look in the center of the camp! It looks like there is some sort of prisoner being tortured there!”

The distance was too great to see clearly, but it appeared that some figure with shockingly blonde hair was bound and surrounded by other figures who seemed to be going over his body with ostrich feathers and hitting him with wet noodles.

“My darling…” murmured Merisuwyniel.

“What?” said Orogarn Two.

“err…Nothing,” said Merisuwyniel.

“Milady,” shrilled a voice. “There is nothing else for it but to launch a desperate frontal assault to rescue yon prisoner and avenge the honor of this pathetic land!”

“B-b-but, that might get us killed!” whined Pimpi.

“Almost certainly,” agreed Reaperneep ecstatically.

“But then,” mused Merisuwyniel, “the Ent-that-was-Broken would fall into the clutches of Môgul Bildûr, dooming Muddled Mirth for all eternity.”

“So?” said Reaperneep. “We’ll have met with a glorious death in battle!”

“If Môgul conquers the world, the Halls of Mantoes would be his as well,” replied Merisuwyniel. “Even in death we could not escape him.”

“Well, actually, I think that would be more of a problem for you,” said Orogarn Two with a certain smugness.

“What about me?” asked Kuruharan.

“Uhhh…” said Orogarn Two.

Suddenly the air was shattered by the savage battle cries of the orcs.

“LOL! u R lAMeERZ11!!! WE ROoLZzE!1!”

A regiment of the savage creatures sprang into view.

“U iZ giViN Uz EnT (sP?) or loL11 u r gIon dy!!111”

Merisuwyniel blinked uncomprehendingly at their attackers. “What?”

“ALl YouR bASE r BELong tO uZ LOL11!!!!11”

“Oh dear,” sighed Vogonwë. “I suppose this probably means that somebody set up us the bomb.”

A little to the side, Chrysophylax muttered something to Kuruharan. “I think it might be about time to use the Whistle. It would lend some meaning to post number 215.”

“What about post number 243?” asked Kuruharan.

“I think all hoped is lost,” answered Chrysophylax.

Without further ado, Kuruharan pulled out one small bundle he had acquired in post 215. Out of the bundle he pulled a little whistle. He set the whistle to his lips and blew a mighty blast. There was no sound and nothing happened. “Are you sure it worked?” asked the dragon. “No,” answered Kuruharan. “Quick, lemme up! We may need to make a quick exit from the story!” Just as the dwarf was climbing to his accustomed position, a dull rumble was heard in the distance.

Then came the horn.

“Oh, wait…” muttered Kuruharan. “I should have thought of this sooner…what if he’s been banned here too?”

“Too late,” hissed the dragon as an earthshaking barking erupted from somewhere nearby. The orcs stopped dead in their tracks.

“WhAz DaT!!!///?”

The orcs abruptly discovered that “DaT” was the sound of a pack of monstrously oversized, vicious, and bloodthirsty hounds who pounced upon them from above and went charging on toward the enemy camp, leaving a trail of gore and shattered limbs in their wake.

The horn sounded again, very near, and it shook the Don’tknowwhatthey’vestartedship to the ground. A figure of glittering scarlet and white flashed past at blinding speed, blasting deafening (but merry) notes on his horn. A few seconds later a group of stout fellows in pigtails and short red jackets went running past, wheezing and gasping like they were having a collective coronary.

“What in the name of my gem-encrusted toenail clippers was that?” demanded Leninia.

“Hornme the Foxhunter and his Magnificent Steed Har-har,” answered Kuruharan. He has hunted every thing from the Swine of Aha to the Bingos of Down Below.”

“But has he chased Electrons to and fro?” asked Pimpi.

“But I thought the Velour would not aid us,” said Merisuwyniel.

“He’s…different,” said Kuruharan. “Let’s go watch.”

The trail of shredded internal organs provided them with ample guidance to their destination. On a little knoll, a short distance from the appalling carnage (that I could not possibly describe on a family site) sat Hornme and Har-har themselves. Har-har was an incomparably dazzling specimen of cream-colored horseflesh (Merisuwyniel instantly wanted to go give him a good rubdown, the lucky stallion…). Seen at close range, the Messyship discovered that Hornme wore a funny little black cap, a gloriously scarlet jacket, shining white trousers, and impeccably shined jackboots. Under one arm he held a vicious looking riding crop and with his other hand he held a pair of golden field glasses. One could tell by looking at him that he contained all the haughtiness befitting his rank and station. He would speak with such noble disdain to every one, carry his nose so high (that the field glasses could more accurately be described as a periscope), strain his voice to such a pitch, assume so imperious an air, and gallop about with so much loftiness and pride (to say nothing of lack of regard for anybody else’s life or limb) that anyone who had the honor of addressing him would be seized by an irresistible urge to thrash him. His native power and his dogs invariably prevented such an outcome. He was also outrageously handsome so that most women were immoderately desirous to get their hands on him (at least until he opened his mouth). In his own eyes, he appeared to be the paragon of beauty. As can easily be imagined, his fellow Velour found him to be beyond insufferable and they’d packed him off to Muddled Mirth at the earliest available opportunity. Alas, those in Muddled Mirth had taken an ill view of his devastation of the land and wildlife and had recently sent him packing back to Valleyfornia. His attendants lay strewn about the feet of Har-har, all gasping fit to burst.

“Good show!!” he squawked at the top of his voice. “Rip out that large intestine!!”

The Gallowship looked upon the slaughter.

“I say, fellow,” bawled Hornme, rapping Orogarn Two on the top of his head with the riding crop. “Be a good chap and keep hold of Har-har while I go to inspect the damage!” With one final whack to the noggin punctuate the point, Hornme bounded out of the saddle and strode off into the mess. Har-har remained with a most disdainful air about his new handler. In the midst of the rout, the forces of Môgul finally remembered they had aerophants that would take them out of the range of these demented dogs and their deranged keeper. The ponderous pachyderms were packed with a polyglot parcel of pugnacious Dumbarians, orcs, and Loyers, all eager to escape the dogs and wreck ruin upon their assailants from on high. The surviving aerophants took to the sky and sped with winged speed upon the Gallowship.

“NOW WHAT?!!!” cried Merisuwyneil.

“Here,” yelled Kuruharan. “I picked these up in the Seventh Age.” He pulled a pair of long metal tubes and large stands out from the back of the wagon carrying the Ent-that-was-Broken. He set them up so that the tubes pointed toward the sky. He grabbed Vogonwë and shoved a smaller tube-shaped thing into the half-elf’s hands. “Jam these into the back end of the guns!” commanded Kuruharan.

“What’s a gun?” said Vogonwë.

“Just do it!” yelled Kuruharan, pulling out a funny looking helmet and goggles from his robes and putting them on his head. The ill-sorted pair readied their unbelievably anachronistic devices. Finally, they both grabbed a length of cord from the back of their respective thingies.

“READY!” cried Kuruharan. “FIRE!!”

[Diamond18]

And lo!

Nothing happened.

“Well, this is anticlimactic!” Vogonwë complained, ripping off his goggles. “I’ve recited poetry with more lethal power than this thingie!”

Kuruharan ripped off his goggles in an unconscious imitation of the half-elf. A short, unconscious, imitation.

Pimpi rushed up with a glass of water and splashed it on the dwarf’s face whilst Vogonwë knelt to slap his hairy cheeks. “Who- wha- where?” he sputtered, regaining consciousness.

“You fainted from fear and frustration,” Vogonwë informed him helpfully, giving him another slap.

“I don’t remember that,” Kuruharan protested. “One moment I was ripping my goggles off and the next--”

“Nevermind that,” Pimpi pointed at the sky, “It’s chaos and anachronism up there, do something!”

“Right!” the damp dwarf exclaimed. He and Vogonwë reloaded the weapon and disengaged the safety lock, and lo!

With a mighty ka-blooey the thingie exploded into the Valleyum air, striking down one of the aerophants in a glorious and gruesome display of flinging flesh and spurting blood clouds of destruction and Doom!

“Oooooooh... explosion!” Vogonwë’s human half reacted with laconic admiration, while his elven half quietly and privately began composing a poem expounding the beauty of red skies.

“Yippy-ki-yay,” Kuru uttered jauntily, in a short, unconscious imitation of a man who dies hard, harder, and with a vengeance.

A moment later, blood and gore from the kill landed upon the Itshippers and their jubilant moods were somewhat dampened.

[Rimbaud]

The enemy then began a new and fearsome assault. Large, bright blue balls began bouncing from their ranks towards the Parodyship, whence they were fended off with stave and club. Upon contact with our heroes arsenal of weapons, they popped languidly, showering them with a mixture of home fertiliser and vinegar that was probably meant to be explosive, but was in fact rather a good salad dressing, and handy for use on compost.

The enemy moved forward smoothly, although with some minor pixellation, and a few jerky movements. The blue balls varied in size, bouncing almost comically towards them.

“This is too much,” said Hal. “We’ve stayed with the story because of the great history of REB and the humour and excitement of the first instalments. But this is just vapid, generated dross cooked up to satisfy the lowest common denominator.”

Yet no sooner had this fairly ridiculous little speech concluded, then more battles were upon them, complete with sweeping camera shots.

A huge red-faced warrior was upon Hal, and Orogarn Two stepped up to aid him. Their blades a blur so fast that they appeared to hum with some fierce power, they commenced a deadly dance, of skill, feint and counter-feint. Several others stopped their half-hearted slaughtering to watch. Operatic music soared above the scene as the combatants, um, combatasised,

It was breathtaking and dramatic. “Actually, this is quite good,” said Vogonwe.

“Doesn’t justify the stultified plot!” shouted Hal through the maelstrom of hacking and slashing. It did look good though, as they battled on a high ridge with the panorama of Valleyum spread beyond them.

“Watsa all theees?” asked a huge bouncy ally, bounding up to them with improbable ears. “I’msa Ha-Ha Sinks! I is here to…”

The enemy and the Parodyship ceased their battles and turned all their attention on the newcomer, who quicker than you could say, “when is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!” was pasted liberally on the ground (and stamped on). After giving each other nods and slapping their enemies on the back, battle resumed, if slightly more good-naturedly.

The battle swung this way and that, until Hal noticed that the enemy were magically regenerating out of huge skulls set in the cliff walls. “Get the generators!” he cried and Kuruharan threw throwing axe after throwing axe, while the others, wizards and archers and fighting women, protected him.

Thus was the gauntlet thrown down, and the battle raged among the over-described Itship and the truly opaque and casually explained forces of darkness.

[The Saucepan Man]

As soon as the battle had commenced, Soregum had lost no time in finding a comfortable vantage point on a nearby hill from which to view the proceedings.

“Er - fighting’s not really my thing,” he explained to a quizzical Hal as the limp haired handyman drilled his way through a column of Orcs and nailed a couple of Trolls for good measure.

“Coward!” cried a rampaging Reaperneep, leaping happily from one adversary to another, his tiny but (appropriately) rapier-sharp rapier introducing them all to an assorted selection of their internal organs.

“So what is your thing?” enquired Orogarn Two, overjoyed at the opportunity to revive Grundor’s ancient feud with Dumbar at the expense of a troop of red-clad and rouge-faced Dumbarian warriors.

Soregum did not answer (judging it imprudent to explain that it might not be in his best interests to join in the slaughter of his Master’s army), but instead took out a pouch of Old Toothrot and charged his pipe. Resting his hairy and fungally challenged feet upon a still unconscious Grrralph, he sat back to enjoy the spectacle.

The Entish Bow purred with delight as Merisuwyniel fired off one shot after another from a seemingly endless supply of arrows. Her violet eyes flashed as she paused momentarily to brush a stray auburn hair back into place and wipe a tiny speck of blood from her otherwise spotless face. Pimpiowyn stood proudly beside her, covered from head to foot in gore, relishing the opportunity to put her recently acquired shieldmaidening skills into action at last. Hush was silent no more as it contended loudly with any enemy who dared approach Merisu. Nearby, the Gateskeeper was fiddling with the controls on his staff (a cluster of buttons marked, respectively, with a circle, a square, a triangle and a cross). Every so often, random missiles (lightning bolts, arrows, a hail of bullets and, inexplicably, a bouquet of pink carnations) shot out from his staff and hit an Orc or a Troll, upon which they exploded in a shower of red and green pixels and quickly faded without trace. Leninia moved like a shadow through the fallen, dispatching the enemy wounded with the lethal tip of her umbrella, taking care not to break any of her well-manicured (and equally lethal) nails in the process.

Kuruharan stood to one side, busy drawing up odds on which member of the Battle-ship would score the most kills and raking in bets from the docile and gullible locals. Chrysophylax circled overhead barbequing any enemies who showed an interest in the Dwarf’s impromptu bookmaking enterprise.

Vogonwë, meanwhile, had warmed to his role of Master Elf Gunner and was training his fire on a second attack Aerophaunt as it swept in ballistas blazing. A resounding blast rang out over the battlefield and the mighty flying pachyderm and its crew were no more. Or rather, they were many more - only smaller and less cohesive.

“That only counts as one!” cried Kuruharan. He had placed rather long odds on the Half-Elf coming top in the headcount stakes, and was now rather regretting entrusting the mighty weapon of the Velour to him.

“Astounding,” thought a baffled Soregum to himself as he puffed on his pipe while the frenzied action carried on apace all round. “These guys really seem to enjoy this sort of thing.”

But his thoughts were cut short as the remains of the disassembled Aerophaunt fell down about him. As he scrambled for cover, he was dimly aware of a flock of winged shapes far in the distance but fast approaching.

“The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!” he cried predictably, but then fell forward as an unidentifiable, but hefty, chunk of Aerophaunt landed on top of him and darkness engulfed him.

The Eagles, meanwhile, passed high overhead as they flew towards the Council Chamber of the Velour, glancing only with passing interest at the proceedings below.

The Slaughter-ship pressed on. But, though they toiled diligently and characteristically in seeking to eliminate everything in sight, there seemed to be no end to Môgul’s hordes. The Dread Developer’s loyers had not been idle. As soon as the army had reached Valleyum, a small detachment had been despatched to the Pad of Mantoes, where they had busied themselves slapping requisition orders drawn up under the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat on the bewildered Elvish officials. The custodians of the Pad were powerless to resist, as the paperwork was all in proper order, and had proceeded to release the resident Orcs from their Holding Pens. And so, every time an Orc died on the field of battle, he was immediately processed and sent back out to fight once more, slightly dazed and confused but otherwise none the worse for wear. The skulls in the cliff walls from which they emerged were an extra touch added by Greedhog, who had often regretted that his early artistic promise had been overshadowed by his loyering duties.

Meanwhile, Kuruharan had noticed that Hornme the Foxhunter’s participation in the conflict was somewhat lacking. The red-coated Velou sat perched on a hunting stick swigging from a hip-flask, as his hounds feasted on fricasseed Aerophaunt flesh. Puzzled, Kuruharan once more drew out the Mighty Whistle from Post 215 and blew silently on it. Nothing happened. He blew again, and again, and again until he was red in the face.

“I say old chap,” Hornme shouted over to him. “Would you mind not making that dreadful racket?“

“But what about the battle … your hounds … blood … teeth … guts … ?!!?“ stammered Kuruharan, for once at a loss for words.

“Sorry old bean, nothing I can do,” replied the Foxhunter holding up an official looking piece of paper. “The loyers have served a hunting ban. The paperwork is all in order, don‘t you know. It‘s not really my place to intervene anyway, so I am off for a spot of afternoon tea and crumpets. Best of luck and all that. Toodlepip!”

And so the tide of the battle swiftly began to turn against the Ebb-ship and before long they found themselves hemmed in on all sides by a seemingly (and, as it happened, literally) endless supply of enemies.

“Well it looks like the game is up,” said Merisu, a beautifully tragic expression suffusing her face. “It’s been nice knowing you all. Thank you for your help. I am sorry that it has come to this.”

“But you can’t give up,” protested Pimpi. “You are a shieldmaiden. And shieldmaidens never give up. They keep on going against the odds until a Deus Ex Machina turns up to rescue them. That’s just the way it is - isn’t it?”

“The only Deus Ex Machina around here passed overhead about an hour ago,” said Kuruharan grimly.

“Is this really the end?” asked Soregum, who had just recovered from one near death experience and was understandably miffed to now find himself faced with another.

“End? No, little one, the journey doesn’t end here,” replied the Gateskeeper in a kindly tone. “Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain turns all to silver glass and rolls back. And then you see it …”

“What, Gateskeeper? See what?”

“White shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

“We’ve already seen that,” observed Orogarn Two. “Back in Post 228. When we arrived here in Valleyum.”

“Oh yes,” muttered the Gateskeeper, his beatific expression dissolving. “We’re done for, then.”

*******************************

And so the Backs-to-the-Wall-ship steeled themselves and readied their weapons for the enemy’s final blow. But the dark horde did not advance. Instead, the massed Men, Orcs and Trolls stopped and gazed about themselves in fear and awe. And then, slowly, they began to withdraw.

“Haha! I knew we would prevail!” cried a jubilant Reaperneep.

But no sooner had he spoken than four great Trolls began to beat out a rhythm on their drums and the enemy’s ranks began to part, with the exception of two particularly confused Orcs who were suffering the effects of a succession of hasty reincarnations. Bemused, their eyes rolled up as their foreheads each gave way to black pseudopodial spikes, which then promptly retracted. As the two Orcs slumped lifelessly (albeit only temporarily so) to the ground, a dark nebulous cloud behind them slowly resolved itself into the figure of a man. An incredibly handsome man, clad in black leather trousers and a leather jacket left open at the front to reveal an astonishingly manful chest. He ran a perfectly manicured hand through his mass of luxuriant raven hair and winked devilishly at the Gawp-ship.

Without exception, and against their better judgment, the female members of the It-ship found themselves going weak at the knees, while the remaining companions, to a man, were lost in admiration for this fine specimen of masculinity. Only Soregum was immune to the effect. He was weak at the knees too, but that was because he was only too aware of the identity of the charismatic stranger and was terrified out of his wits.

As raucous Orcish voices struck up a hypnotic chant in time with the rhythm of the Troll’s drums, the darkly angelic man began to sing.

Please allow me to introduce myself
A Velou of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long year
Laid many a realm to waste

I was ’round when the Elven folk
First came to Valleyum’s gate
Made damn sure that Feeblenor
Saw the light and sealed his fate

M’yeah

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around ol’ Dairyland
When I saw it was a land for a change
Built up towns, malls and factories
’Til Yawanna screamed in vain

I charged a fee
Brought prosperity
While the deals were made
And the taxes paid

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah
Ah, what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, oh yeah

I watched dismayed
As the Velour played
While you toiled through the years
Thinking that they cared

I shouted out
“Who split the Entish boughs?”
When after all
It was Mantoes’ vows

Let me please introduce myself
A Velou of wealth and taste
And I salute you Entish Questors
Who have led me a merry chase

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

Just as every light has a shadow
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Melvin
And I’m in need of no restraint

So now you’ve met me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
If you do, we all can profit
And save Muddled-Mirth from waste

M’yeah

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is just the nature of my game

The Orcs were now in full swing with their chanting as Môgul (for it was he) conjured a gleaming obsidian Fender Spellcaster out of nowhere and played a gratuitously unrestrained guitar solo before continuing with his song. The tale had been going for seven pages now without him having the opportunity of a musical number and he was enjoying himself.

Tell me Merisu, what’s my name
Tell me Pimpi, can ya guess my name
Tell me Vogy, what’s my name
Join me now, there’s no shame

Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo

Oh, yeah
What’s my name
Tell me, Leni, what’s my name
Tell me, Gatesy, what’s my name

Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo

As the Orcish chants faded, Môgul sauntered impudently up to Merisu and, taking her hand, planted a kiss on it.

“We meet at last, my dear,” he said in a suitably sinister and clichéd manner. “And how delightful you are in the flesh.”

And with that, an amazing thing happened. Merisu’s cheeks flushed bright red, her hair fell dishevelled about her shoulders and she began to perspire. Her companions would not have believed it, had they had sufficient wit to notice. But each of them was bewitched, seeing in this man the perfect being, each according to their fancy. Kuruharan saw the astute businessman whose ability to turn a profit knew no bounds, while Leninia was once more the young and naïve groupie transfixed by the rock legend that she perceived. The Gateskeeper could only begin to guess at the power which lay behind his dark sorcery, while Vogonwë marvelled at the beauty of his poetry. Orogarn Two, meanwhile, was lost in admiration for the manliness of the man and was busy wondering just how he managed to keep his hair in such good condition. Each member of the Dumb-struck-ship fell instantly for him, with the exception of Grrralph, who was snoring loudly, and Soregum, who was once again trying (and failing) to merge unseen into the background.

“My dear Entish Questors, how enchanting it is to meet you all, old friends and new,” continued Môgul addressing the enthralled companions, who were oblivious to his villainous clichés hearing only the persuasive oratory of a master wordsmith. “It’s wonderful to see you here. It’s certainly a thrill. You’re such a lovely audience, I’d like to take you home with me. I’d love to take you home. But first, to business. You have met my breth/sist-ren and had the opportunity to see them for the uncaring fools that they are. I would hazard a guess that they were not too interested in your Quest. Am I right?”

As one, the Taken-In-ship nodded dumbly.

“As I thought. Do you really think that they give a flying flet what happens to Muddled-Mirth? Of course they don’t. They have not taken any interest in it for the past six millennia, so why would they start now? There is only one Velou who has the best interests of Muddled-Mirth at heart, and you are fortunate enough to have met him before it is too late. And now you each have a wonderful opportunity before you. For together, we can build a parodic paradise in Mirth. An unashamedly uncanonical Utopia where you can fulfil your wildest dreams. Think what splendour and riches await you if you will only relinquish the Entish parts and join with me.”

And as the Dread Developer continued to enthral them with his words, the companions’ thoughts drifted away and visions were conjured up in their minds of that which they each desired the most.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Orogarn Two, son of… [oh, go back and read it on the first pages of this story – I can’t be bothered to repeat it all now!] anyway, the Heir Incumbent to the Proctorship of Grundor could not take his eyes off the epitome of manhood that stood before him. He had been feeling rather manly as the last of the three Heroes in the Questship, but not even Halfullion, Earnur and himself all in one could have competed with this splendid specimen. When Melvin beckoned to him to approach, he could not have withstood though he were as strong as he deemed himself at times. That shapely, masculine yet well-groomed hand held out a letter to him. He recognized his father’s handwriting and took it, too amazed to question its origin.

He turned it over and broke the familiar seal, that of the Royal House of Grundor - seven shining teeth and a white toothbrush on a black background, yet without the crown of the King. But lo! what was this? A golden crown adorned the seal! Too puzzled to wonder how a seal could be multi-coloured, he unfolded the paper without checking it for the watermark of authenticity.

He began to read:

Hail, King Orogarn the First!

His head reeled. What could this mean? Grundor had no king, Grundor needed no king, his father had often told him. He had asked, “How many hundreds of years must a Proctor gamble to become King?” And his father had answered, “Few years, perhaps, in other places of less dental hygiene. In the City of Pearly Whites ten thousand years of brushing, flossing and bleaching would not suffice.”

He continued reading:


You may indeed wonder at the title I give you, yet I only pass on what was given by the Wight City’s Council. Our family has been requested to take the kingship of Grundor, since it does not look like a king even exists, let alone will ever return to rule. Since I think more highly of you than of myself, I have decided that you should be the one to become king, and I, who am accustomed to the role of Proctor, will continue to carry the burden of hum-drum responsibilities for you.

There is but one condition – you must come back immediately, or this offer will no longer be valid. Leave your childish questing; there are others who can carry on with that, but you are the only one who can rule the realm.

Your bank account has been expanded without a limit, so that all necessary resources are at your command. Oh, and do you remember little “Neigh-o-whinny”, as you called the neighbour girl who went to school with you? She had a horsey face, you said, and a ponytail, and braces, and spectacles, and freckles. Well, she was away at a fancy boarding school somewhere out East, and now she has returned, looking drop-dead gorgeous and whispering to her friends that she will marry no one but you. I think you will find that it is worth your while to come back home. Please hurry!

Your affectionate father

PS - By the way, the new motto of our house is now "Once a King in Grundor, always a King in Grundor!"


Orogarn (forget Two – now he was Number One!) looked up, his eyes glazed with wonder and desire. He could envision himself, standing on the ramparts of Minus Teeth, his arm tenderly laid around the slender waist of a beautiful maiden, fairer even than Merisuwyniel on a good day, though he had not imagined that to be possible. A light breeze arose and blew, and their hair, raven waves and golden tresses, streamed out mingling in the air. And tooth decay vanished, and smiles were unveiled, and whiteness leaped forth; and the toothpaste tubes shone like silver, and in all the bathrooms of the City men sang despite the foam that welled up in their mouths from what brandname they could not tell.

Without realizing what he did, Orogarn walked slowly toward Môgul. His sword he dropped ignominiously into the dirt, not heeding the excellent quality of its blade nor the nobility of its lineage. He no longer needed it. From somewhere in the background, the strains of Grundor’s national anthem sounded triumphantly. He was on his way home.

[Kuruharan]

Kuruharan passed into a vision, his spirit forsaking his mortal body (which went kerplop on the ground).

It seemed to the dwarf that he traveled with winged speed (but this was ridiculous as he, like Balfrogs, had no wings). Kuruharan could not see where he went because he was surrounded by darkness.

Slowly, tiny lights began flickering before his eyes. They rapidly grew nearer. As he grew closer to the lights, they began to spread out below him. It looked like someone had spilled a great chest of gold and jewels and had left them sparkling in the void. In his vision, he swooped down to take a closer look. As he drew near, he recognized what he saw. It was the neon lights flashing from the signboards of millions of casinos, resorts, mansions, villas, bingo halls, and gardens. It seemed they spread to cover the entire earth. He saw teeming throngs of pleasure seekers swarming the casinos. There seemed to be no end to them. Humans, halflings, elves, and orcs crowded around the gaming tables pouring their money into the coffers of the dwarves. In all the casinos, the dwarves happily fleeced the masses. In the mansions and gardens that covered the world, the dwarves merrily cavorted and played. In his vision, Kuruharan traveled deep beneath the earth where millions of workers toiled in the strip mines to gain their meager wages, all under the watch of strict dwarven masters. Everywhere the same symbol blazed forth. A red twisting dragon (who seemed mighty familiar) bearing a gold and silver “K” rune.

In his vision, Kuruharan surged upward, out of the earth and toward great mountains that shimmered in the distance. Kuruharan knew where he was. He was flying toward the mountains where of old was the Kingdom of Hazard-boom. All was restored, more glorious than it ever was before. On and beneath the earth were pleasure palaces beyond all hope of counting. Kuruharan swept up toward the peaks. Atop the highest place sat a mighty tower that stretched far above the earth. Upon the flashing neon sign were the words, “The Tower of Sûkers-doom.” In the topmost condo was a throne room that put even the Great Hall of the Velour to shame. On one side was a great arena where Chrysophylax devoured defaulting debtors. On the dais was a throne. On the throne, Kuruharan saw himself. The joyful sound of falling money eternally rang throughout the room. The sound drove Kuruharan into ecstasy. Somewhere behind the throne, something dark and unpleasant was lurking. But it was so hard to pay attention to such distressing things when one was listening to the sounds of making money.

All of this could be his if he would just…

…do nothing at all. That was all that was required. Just do nothing at all.

[Diamond18]

Next Mogul beckoned to Vogonwë Brownbark, son of Geppetuil the Elven-partyking, third cousin of Thranduil, Thrice Removed. Far from the boughs of Workmud had Vogonwë traveled, in passive voice. When he was but a wee elf-lad, he would never have dreamed of finding himself one day standing on the shores of Valleyum, face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour (as Mogul did seem to him at that moment). But there he was, undeniably standing there. And there was Mogul. And by all appearances, this surely was Valleyum.

He would have continued to marvel at these facts if a vision had not appeared to him then. But it did, so he didn’t.

He saw himself no longer standing on the shores of Valleyum (face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour) but rather he was riding through the boughs of Workmud on a gallant steed the color of wet sand. A steed with a twinkle of immense intelligence and dry wit behind its almond shaped eyes. The horse tossed its flowing mane and snorted, rearing onto its hind legs and pawing at the air majestically. Vogonwë’s own luxuriant gray-brown hair flowed behind him in the non-existent forest breeze, and he tossed his head as the horse reared. His locks danced about his head yet fell back into place impeccably.

“Whoa, Nelly,” said he, and his mount dropped its hooves to the fertile Workmud loam, snorting and pawing like a truly gallant steed. There before him gawked a gaggle of fine Workmudian lasses, who somehow found his luscious locks and skittish horse all very manly, or elvenly, or whatever.

“Oh Vogy,” one sighed, “recite us some poetry!”

He smiled (with gleaming white teeth) and opened his mouth to recite them some poetry, but of a sudden there came a commotion from his left, and his right. And behind! There was commotion all around! The elven lasses squealed and huddled together as vague yet menacing shapes advanced through the trees.

“Orcs!” Vogonwë exclaimed, making a face as if Orcs did smell mightily bad. (Which they do).

“Oh no!” screamed the lasses.

“Never fear,” he said, winking, and quick as a flash drew a handful of arrows from his quiver. Without hardly seeming to look, he hurled them in every direction, and lo! every one of them hit its mark, the blood curdling scream of an unlucky Orc signaling his success. Vogonwë’s hands moved at lightning speed, drawing arrows and flinging them into the woods, yet his head remained squarely upon his shoulders and he even had time to wink some more at the fine elven lasses.

When the last Orc was killed (for the foolish creatures kept coming even in the face of his awe inspiring arrow tossing) Vogonwë brushed one stray hair back down into place.

“No more orcs,” he proclaimed, and the lasses jumped and clapped and whooped and hollered.

“Poetry! Poetry!” they cried.

And then, he did recite them a poem. It was the most beautiful poem ever to be recited in the boughs of Workmud, or anywhere else for that matter. Even Vogonwë marveled at the words dripping from his tongue as if he were Midus and his drool liquid gold. Effortless rhymes came into his head and he wove an epic so beauteous, so moving, so lyrical, so dashing, that the fine elven lasses began to either swoon or throw items of their clothing at him (depending on their stamina).

The poem came to its triumphant conclusion just as another figure burst through the trees.

Lo!

It was Pimpiowyn, fairest of all the fine young lasses. She bounded gracefully into view, her golden curls flying about her head in a blaze of bouncing tresses, and her gigantic, almost animesque eyes (Vogonwë did not know what animesque meant anymore than he knew who Midus was, but such thoughts kept leaping to his head as if he were coining them himself) blazing with a fury so awful and terrifying that the elven lasses screamed louder than they had for any Orc. Pimpi brandished Hush above her head, her shapely young bosom heaving as she arched her back and hissed like a cat.

“Get away from my half-elf!” she cried, and fell upon the lasses in a rage. Chop, slash, gouge, slice, rip went Hush as Pimpi mowed through the half clad she-elves, screaming “He’s mine! Don’t even think it! If you want him, come and claim him!” and other such territorial declarations. Soon a waste of blood and gore replaced the group of lasses, and Pimpi stood triumphant in the carnage.

“Pimpi-love,” Vogonwë sniffed, moved. “I didn’t know you cared so much!”

Pimpi put away her sword and smiled prettily up at him. “Of course, Vogy-my-dear, I love you more than any other and no one shall ever come between us.”

Just as she said this, two more figures burst from the trees. One was instantly recognizable as O’Lando L’oreal Bloom, his distant cousin, and the other was a squat fellow in a cloak. Soregum!

They panted after Pimpi, exclaiming in unison, “We love you, Pimpiowyn, let us come between you!”

But Pimpi strode past them and put out a hand for Vogonwë to hoist her up onto the back of his gallant steed. She did not look towards them or even seem to hear them -- she took no notice of them whatsoever, as if they did not even exist. “Come, Vogy, my genius,” she said, “your father is throwing a massive party in honor of your mother coming back from the dead, and you are to recite a poem for her, so we must hasten before we are too late.”

“Gladly!” Vogonwë cried, his heart soaring. He lifted her up, light as a feather, and urged his horse forward as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Shall I practice my recitation as we ride?”

“Oh yes! I would love that!” said Pimpi with the utmost sincerity.

O’Lando and Soregum, meanwhile, were moaning and crying out for her attention and affection. Vogonwë waved gleefully to his cousin as he rode away, trampling Soregum deep into the fertile Workmud loam in the process. They galloped off into the sunset, Vogonwë chanting a stupendous ode as Pimpi sighed dreamily, their hair flowing out behind them, tangled together in the non-existent forest breeze.

And then, it was over, and Vogonwë found himself standing again upon the shores of Valleyum, face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour.

[Diamond18]

To Pimpiowyn Took, daughter of Pipsissewa Took and Éohorse Son of Needahorse (a valiant Man of the Mike) Mogul Bildur appeared to be a gigantic T-bone steak.

No, wait... that was not Mogul, that was the dinner laid before her in the hall she suddenly found herself in. Pimpi gasped as she lifted her eyes and looked about the room -- tables laden with scrumdillyumptious foodstuffs stood in rows, and the scents wafting from them were nothing short of heavenly. Meats, vegetables, fruits, puddings, pies, and candy bars littered the area, and all of it was hers, hers, all hers! She grabbed a knife and fork and began to carve away at her steak.

A door opened to her left, and the scent of freshly baked chocolate cake greeted her nostrils. She looked, and saw Vogonwë carrying a seven layer chocolate cake decorate with pink icing, strawberries, and cream. He huffed and puffed with the weight of the dessert as he rushed to deliver it.

“Delightful!” she cried.

“I’m so happy you like it,” said Vogonwë, setting the cake down next to her plate of steak. “I was a little worried that giving up poetry to become a Master Chef would leave me bored and dissatisfied, but that was before I realized that food preparation is an act of creative expression unrivaled by all other art forms.”

At first Pimpi worried that, as good as everything looked and smelled, Vogonwë would prove to be as talented a Chef as he was a poet. But as she mowed down her steak and set in upon the cake, she marveled at the perfection with which they were prepared.

“Do you like it?” Vogy asked anxiously, hovering over the crumbs solicitously. “If you like it I shall be ever so pleased and I will never bother with poetry again, who needs it anyway? I’ll spend all my days crafting dishes for your enjoyment!”

“I love it,” Pimpi mumbled around a mouthful of mashed potatoes (the creamiest mashed potatoes she’d ever mumbled around). “I never knew you were so good with food!”

“I wasn’t, not until Mogul taught me, anyway,” Vogonwë said. “He’s a far better cook than I, but he’s made me his protégé and I am ever so honored. And I’m happy you’re happy, darling, so happy that I’m going to go back to the kitchen and make spaghetti.”

“With meatballs?”

“Whatever your heart desires. We have endless supplies of food.”

“Delightful!” she cried, spitting bits of creamy mashed potato onto his shirt.

Vogonwë left, and Pimpi spent the next indefinite time period gorging herself on the goodies. She ate bacon and eggs, split pea soup with ham, chicken salad on croissants, roast beef sandwiches, pickles, glazed donuts, creamed filled donuts, jelly-filled donuts, donut holes, figgy pudding, cheese and crackers, baked yams, corn on the cob dripping with butter and crunchy with salt, Golden Delicious apples, seven layer salad, lasagna, pizza, chili, double fudge brownies, peanut butter, coffee cake, carrot cake, yellow cake, angel cake, pound cake, fruit cake, orange marmalade cake, cheese curds, French fries, potato chips, fish sticks, corn cakes, Caesar salad, bratwursts, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, baked beans, string beans, fava beans, a nice Chianti, focaccia bread, chocolate chip cookies, pickled beets, lembas, string cheese....

Etc. etc. etc.

Through all of this, Pimpi never felt uncomfortably full or even the least bit gassy. She ate and drank, ate and drank, ate and drank to her heart’s delight, and quick glances in the mirror showed her that she still looked lithe and graceful doing it. Periodically Vogonwë came in and asked her if everything was to her liking and took orders for whatever fancy struck her palate, but otherwise he did not make himself a nuisance, and never once tried to make his words rhyme.

Presently, she heard sounds of battle from outside. She paused and peeked out the window. There, she saw Merisuwyniel surrounded by dozens of foul orcs, dragons, and dwimmerlaiks, whatever those are. Merisu, though holding up her lopsided end of the fight admirably, was fair on her way to being soundly beaten. She put a hand to her head and cried, “Oh how I wish my faithful sidekick in shieldmaidenry were here to help me!” spitting bits of creamy mashed potato onto the orcs’ shirts.

Pimpi groped at her waist for Hush, and when her hand closed around the bejewelled hilt of her trusty dagger, she sprang forth from the dining hall onto the field of battle. With Pimpi now by her side, Merisu cried out in joy, and the two of them made short order of the bothersome foes. Pimpi moved with grace and agility, not hampered in any way by the amount of food she had stuffed into to her face.

After the foes were vanquished, Merisu approached Pimpi, admiration shining in her eyes. “Pimpiowyn, you have saved my life this day, and I am forever in your debt.”

“I am honored to serve by your side,” said Pimpi, glowing.

At that moment, Vogonwë appeared at her side, holding out a velvet pillow on which resided a plateful of shortbread cookies. “To celebrate your victory,” he said.

Stamped upon the cookies was the design of a (very handsome) nose.