The Revenge of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Estelyn Telcontar]

(Disclaimer: This is a satire, a spoof on the multitude of Mary Sue stories within the realm of Tolkien. Any similarities to existing fan fictions or RPGs is purely coincidental, though not quite unintentional. Due to the nature of the story, the laws of Middle-earth realism will be … bent … slightly.)

The Revenge of the Entish Bow

(Publisher's note:
This most unusual document can now finally be read - after thousands of years of intensive linguistic labour just to translate the title from the original Entish, modern computer technology has made it possible to transcribe it into modern English. We would like to apologize in advance for any inaccuracies and inconsistencies; the scope of this project has been enormous, requiring the efforts of many scholars.)


The Manuscript

Prologue


A strange, low-pitched, disturbing scream issued from the filthy hut. The young girl, poised amidst the trees to run away, stood still. Though she had seen only eight summers, she was exceedingly courageous and compassionate. By no means could she leave a helpless creature to its fate!

She leaped back to the hovel which harboured the unusual cry and tearing aside the rough mats which concealed the opening that served as a door, she glanced about the dark room. Despite the overwhelmingly prevalent odour of its orc inhabitants, no living creature was evident. But she could not have imagined such a strange sound! Once again, she looked in every corner.

An almost imperceptible noise caused her to spin around; only a huge wooden bow stood there, propped up next to a pile of filthy skins that obviously served as a bed. Shivers ran down her spine as she heard a hollow voice call, "Help me!"

"But who is there?" she asked. "Where are you hidden?"

"The bow!" came the answer.

Her brow furrowed as she looked more closely. Not even a very small creature could have hidden behind the bow!

"Pick me up!" The voice sounded strangely wooden.

Hesitantly at first, she grasped the bow. It felt warm and vibrant in her hand, and mush less heavy than its size would have led her to presume. As she held it, words came unbidden into her mind: "I am alive - take me away from this torturous place!"

And whilst she thought, "How can this be? It is impossible!" the thoughts were answered in her mind: "Run first! I will tell more hereafter!"

Harsh voices and loud steps approached the hut. She spun around, leaped through the door opening and dodged hundreds of fierce orcs with raised swords. Only her slight stature and exceeding nimbleness enabled her to escape to the nearby woods, where she disappeared from their sight.


Chapter 1

The tall, willow-slender elven maiden leaped onto the back of her noble black steed. Her long golden hair rippled down to her waist, waving in the breeze as she rode. A huge wooden bow and a quiver of arrows were strapped to her back. No saddle was needed; she was one with her horse, a unity of gracefulness that would have pleased the eye, had there been an observer to see it. Though she rode as fast as the wind, she heard the sound of following hoofbeats. More than one horseman was behind her; she could detect the sound of five – nay, seven – nay, nine horses with her delicately pointed ears.

“Noro lim, Falafel, noro lim!” she whispered to the horse. Falafel galloped even faster, passing the trees by the wayside like a vision in the night. And still, the pursuers drew nearer.

“Will there never be an end to this chase?” she thought. “Must I ever leave the safety of my home because I am stalked by these… these… suitors?”

There! Ahead of her lay the river – on its far side she would surely find a refuge. There lay the hidden farm called “The Last Home-Grown Cows.” Never would the noble princes who sought her follow to such a rural recluse. Water splashed as Falafel swiftly crossed the shallow ford. She sighed deeply, relieved to be in safety. Then she paused and turned.

Her pursuers stopped at the other side of the river, gazing at her in wonder and desire. “Come back! Stay! Do not leave!” they called to her.

She lifted her proud chin to the side, allowing them a view of her magnificent [Several letters of the following word are blurred in the original; it could be either “profile” or “bosom”. Considering the heroic nature of the story and the moral nobility of its characters, we have assumed the former to be correct.] profile.

Her voice rang out with the clarity of early-morning church bells: “If you want me, come and claim me!” Then she leaned forward, and the dust of Falafel’s galloping hooves obscured her from their sight.

The woods grew denser; soon there was no longer a path to be seen. Falafel slowed to a walk while his rider peered ahead with furrowed brows. She had never been to the Hidden Farm; no maps showed its location and instructions for finding it were invariably whispered. “Whither should I turn?” she thought. The trees surrounding her seemed to whisper – suddenly she was startled by a voice behind her:

“Despair not, mistress!”

“Oh, it is you!” She breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing the familiar voice of her trusty bow.

“The trees have spoken to me of a way; I will guide you.”


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


Peaceful quietude pervaded the atmosphere of the Hidden Farm; even the mooing, baaing and neighing of the animals seemed subdued and dignified. Merisuwyniel breathed deeply, regretting it immediately as she realized that the proximity of barns and stables produced smells which were unfortunately not subdued. She wrinkled her dainty nose without slowing in her determined stride. She would not fail in the task which had been assigned to her!

Soon her strong fingers were pulling energetically and rhythmically; her efforts were rewarded with a stream of frothy white liquid. So intensive was her concentration that she failed to notice the presence of an observer.

Tall, dark-haired and strikingly handsome he stood, his dark eyes taking in the details of her appearance appreciatively. His eyes rested approvingly upon her two large, shapely [The document is torn here; after lengthy consultation, we have filled in with a contextually appropriate word.] hands. “Can they do more than merely produce milk?” he wondered. As quietly and light-footedly as he had come, he disappeared again.



(Here ends the manuscript that was found. We do not know if further fragments will be discovered and if so, whether they can be translated. However, the trees in Fangorn Forest still whisper the story of Merisuwyniel, and if we listen closely, we can hear it… )

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

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel awoke with a start – she had the feeling that someone had spoken to her, but as her lovely violet eyes searched the room in the pale light of early dawn, she saw no one. Her head sank back to her pillow before she realized that the bow, which was propped up next to her bed, was humming softly and vibrating slightly. She stretched her hand out to touch it, and felt its thoughts pouring into her mind.

It is time!

Time for what? the maiden was puzzled.

Today is your forty-second birthday. This is a number of great significance for your life, the universe and everything. You are almost of age according to Elven standards and can now help me to accomplish the quest which I have planned for many years.

Which quest? she queried.

Do you remember when you found me and saved me from my oppressors? They cut me, a living Ent, to make weapons and other objects for their foul purposes. I must search for them to be avenged on behalf of the whole person I once was. I cannot do this task without help – will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly! If not, I must find a new master or mistress to enable me to fulfil my purpose.

Merisuwyniel considered the bow’s request. Until this time, she had experienced many adventures on her own behalf, and the Entish Bow had been a true and loyal friend, never missing its mark, whether foe or prey. It seemed reasonable to help it carry out a mission so important.

I will help you, though I do not know the way, she answered courageously. How shall we accomplish this?

We need to prepare well, searching maps for the locations of orc strongholds and collecting provisions for a long journey. It would be well to find companions who will travel with us, especially if they are acquainted with the paths in the wild and the use of weapons. Peoples of many races congregate here at the Elven Farm. Choose well, for we know not what dangers we shall have to face to accomplish our quest.

With determination in her heart, Merisuwyniel arose. After brushing her waist-length, rippling golden hair to its usual silken sheen, she bravely faced the first decision of the early morning. What should she wear to a quest? She chose carefully a forest green divided skirt, sturdy, practical and yet feminine, with a matching close-fitted velvet jacket. Long-shafted boots of fine black leather and a midnight-blue cloak, carried over her arm for the first, completed her attire. The adventure could begin!

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

[Rimbaud]

The half-Elven Lord Halfullion Gormlessar strode manfully from his chambers, scattering staff and other Elves as he passed. He buckled his belt around his waist as he went, one hand laid, apparently carelessly, upon the hilt of the great blade attached.

"Whither dost thou quest?" asked Scully, the scullery girl, appearing before him. He had always suspected her of secrets, and indeed this morning she appeared more furtive than ever, yet this was not the time. He wrinkled his brow at her puny form, shrinking before him, in some annoyance.

Knowing the Lord's character well, Scully merely curtsied at his abruptness and rephrased, "Where does the morning lead you, good sir?"

"I leave mourning to the women, Scully," he barked, and continued onwards, down the bright passageway and into the garden beyond the simple doors. Behind him, a fox-like gleam mouldered in Scully's eyes, but she turned wordlessly and made her way to the kitchens.

Indoors and out blended seamlessly, the natural lights and colours flawless in either. The garden was surrounded by a tall privet wall, positioned, as it was, on one of the higher outcrops within the valley. From here, through the topiaried gaps in the hedge, one could view all of the Elven community of the Last Grown Home Cows. This splendid vista attracted not Lord Gormlessar, however. He continued his brisk pace to the very centre of the oval space, where sat a marble fountain. The centrepiece was a large, beautifully detailed sculpture, bovine in form, with water flowing copiously from several places. The cool ripples and the gentle splashing soothed his troubled mind somewhat. He adjusted his codpiece and awaited the coming of fair Merisuwyniel.

* * * * * * *

Presently, she came, crying out in delight at the sight of him. She descended down the steps from the dwelling that they were installed in her hair flowing out behind her, as if it were a cloak in a breeze. Behind her the finely fluted columns of the House supported an ornate arch, bearing exquisite carvings of the Lords and Ladies of the Elven enclave. He smiled as he appreciated the contours of the architecture before him.

He noticed that she again held her great bow, from which she appeared inseparable, and again wondered at her love for it. A smile touched his lips as he noticed that, as she did on momentous occasions or when a quest was nigh, she bore a double number of arrows. Her two fine Elven quivers bore fifteen smooth shafts each, and he had no doubt that she was the deadliest aim he had ever encountered.

"Meri!" he exclaimed. "How wonderful to see you! You are as fair as summer itself."

"Why, thank you, oh my Lord Gormlessar," she replied coyly, approaching him and laying a hand on his broad shoulder. "To what do we owe the great pleasure of so early an awakening for thee?"

"Beg pardon, Meri?" he asked, running a hand through his superbly tended coiffure.

"Never mind, my love!" She laughed gaily. "Perhaps we can have some sport, this morn?"

"Aye, that sounds great," he said, a little uncertainly. The last time she had suggested sport he had ended up with an apple balanced on his head. Five times. The fourth time, he remembered, the bow had twitched in her hand, he could swear it seemed alive at times, and he had ended up with a scratch on his head. He was not fond of the sight of blood and didn't remember very much after that. Still he had ended up in bed at the nurse's quarters so all is well that ends well, he mused.

"Perhaps you could teach me how to wield a blade," she said lightly. He felt her eye roaming over the hilt and scabbard of his weapon and he knew she desired to hold it. A stab of jealousy flowed through him. "Such as yours," she finished.

"None but my hand can grip this sword," he said slowly. 'Or else the hand of a great warrior. Yet I will practise some swordplay with you here if you can find two wooden foils."

[ January 09, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Mithadan]

Many miles away, near the borders of the mighty forest, two lines of wolves ran silently along a ridge. There were twenty in all, nineteen of which bore riders; the dread Uruk-Hai. Swarthy they were, near man-tall and broad with mighty thews. They were armed with deadly weapons and their faces were grim and foul. Foul too was their odor and all animals fled before them lest they become overwhelmed by the stench.

The cavalry crested a hill and began to descend into a valley at the bottom of which lay a dark fortress of stone; Gol Dulldor. Coming into sight of their home, the Uruks broke out in song.

O we are the Uruks,
the mighty mighty Uruks,
and everywhere we go,
people want to know,
who we are,
where we come from.
Sound off!
1, 2.
Sound off!
3, 4.
Sound off!
1, 2, 3, 4!

Some of the Uruks, confused briefly by the higher mathematics, strayed from their paths and tumbled into a ditch beside the road. The troop halted and their Captain rolled his eyes as he rode back and waited until all returned to the road and were in order. As they resumed their course, he road to the fore of the columns upon his great wolf.

They slowed as they approached the great iron gate of the fastness and were challenged by a sentry. "Nurk golub gnash be-bop shu bam," cried the guard. The troop halted and the Captain rode forward slowly until his wolf stood panting before the sentry.

"Bugsquash," said the Captain in a growling tone. "Speak so that I can understand you! None of that chatspeak now!"

"Uh..." replied the sentry, quickly processing the Captain's request. "Password, Captain Gravlox, sir."

Gravlox spurred his wolf a step closer to Bugsquash. "If you know my name, why do you need a damn password?"

The guard looked down and drew upon the gound with a clawed toe. "Well, all the books say we're supposed to have a password, sir."

Gravlox sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Very well," he snarled. He cleared his throat and spoke the secret words. "The sixth shiek's sixth sheep's sick," he barked, spraying the guard with spit.

Wiping his face with a grimy arm, Bugsquash stepped aside. "You may pass," he intoned.

"Damn Sword and Sorcery books," growled the Captain as he led his men into the fortress. It had been a long time, but they were home...and Gravlox looked very unhappy.

[The Barrow-Wight]

The Half-elf and she-elf fell suddenly silent, he halfway drawing his mighty sword, she fully exposing her quivering arrows. Both listened to an unseen sound that soon became visible as the steady beat of a horse, far in the distance, but running with great speed through the woods encircling the Last Home-Grown Cows. Moments seemed like minutes, minutes like hours, and hours like days, and still the mighty stomping grew until elf ears, she- and half-he alike, twitched in frenzied curiosity. At last, they gained sight a great mane of black hair rising above the top of a nearby hill.

“There is one of the Mearas, no doubt,” said Halfullion, “of the likes of Falafel and Baklava, or I’m a dwarf.”

The mane approached closer and the whole beast seemingly sprung from the ground as it crested the hill, stopping to paw gallantly in the setting sunlight.

“Well, master longbeard,” laughed Merisuwyniel, “I hope you don’t try to ride him, for I fear he may object.”

Though blinded by the glaring rising sun, it soon became apparent to the Half-elf that no Mearas had entered the farm. Instead, silhouetted against the glowing midday orb was a Man, almost as tall as he, but thinner, and with much bigger hair. The Man approached the two gaping people and politely closed their mouths with the index finger of each of his hands.

“Greetings,” he said. “Is this where one might find the Keeper of the Cows?”

Merisuwyniel was the first to break out of her amazed stupor, and quickly notched an arrow to her living bow. The Man before her was one of most handsome she had ever seen, but also the most strangely clothed. His feet were clad in soft, blue suede, and his trousers were similarly colored but made of a woven fabric that appeared supple yet strong. Above a wide leather belt he wore a short sleeved, green shirt with the image of a great sword woven across his chest. He had no hat, but instead let his massive amount of feathered, dark-brown hair blow freely in the wind.

The stranger stared directly into her eyes and she began to feel odd, as if this were a dream and she need only close her eyes to return to blissful sleep.

This was no dream!

“Your name, stranger!” she shouted, breaking whatever spell had overcome her. “One does not… um… gallop to the Hidden Valley Ranch dressing in such a strange manner!”

“One does, apparently,” muttered Halfullion.

The stranger’s eyes grew wide and he dropped to one knee, looking in reverence at the bow Merisuwyniel held in her shaking hands.

“The Ent that was Broken!” he whispered.

“How do you know of such things?” she demanded. “Tell us now who you are and why you are here or you will surely perish.”

He looked into her eyes and told his tale.

“I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, son of Garn Eight, son of Garn Seven, son of Kevin, son of Garn Six,…”

“Will this go on long?” asked Halffullion.

“Only 77 generations more,” said the panting stranger who had forgotten to breath during his broken line of begots. “My journey has been long, so I will give you the short version.”

He paused for effect.

“I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed!”

He paused again for effect, but again got no reaction.

“And I have returned!”

Nothing

“ Seek for the Ent that was broken:
With the Cow Keeper it dwells;
There shall nonsense be spoken
More wicked than Dulldor-spells.
There shall be a token dwarf
A half-elf, elf, wizard and man,
For Isildur's cousin shall waken,
And form a big-hair 80’s band.”

“That’s lovely,” sighed Meriswyniel. “What does it mean.”

Orogarn Two stood.

“I have no idea. Have you seen a brown, leather wallet?”

[ January 09, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Diamond18]

Meanwhile, in a small gazebo in a quiet and peaceful section of the Farm, a young woman sat alone, sipping warm buttermilk from a silver goblet. The sun fell upon her head of red-gold curls, and they glowed as if the light of the Similars, or Stones of Feeblenor, had once again returned to Middle-earth. She sighed, and her thoughts returned to that day so long ago...it was like yesterday. But it wasn't yesterday. It was long ago, of course. She took another swig of buttermilk, and pushed the thoughts away.

"Pimpiowyn! Oh, Pimpi! Pimpi my love!"

Pimpiowyn rolled her stunningly large sapphire blue eyes, and wrapped her hand around a small pendant hanging against her red velvet bodice. Pimpi wore red as often as possible, as that was something those infernally beautiful she-elves never wore. A reassuring warmth emanated from the pedant, and she felt ready. "Yes, darling?"

A graceful figure bounded into the gazebo and did a triple loop, then struck a pose, his toes pointed delicately. He reached up and adjusted a grey satan bow that perched attractively atop his head. The sunlight shone down upon his silky cascade of grey-brown hair, and also upon the grey-brown fur of the small field mouse that perched atop his shoulder. Or rather, hung on for dear life. A small black cat with one white whisker tiptoed up the steps behind him and rubbed itself in and out between his legs.

"Ah, there you are, Pimpi my dear. I have been searching all over for a glimpse of thy lovely, globular face," spoke the wood-elf Vogonwë Brownbark in a liquid voice.

"I prefer, 'round', darling," Pimpi replied with a sigh. As she spoke, the cat left Vogonwë and jumped up on Pimpiowyn’s lap, and began to help itself to her buttermilk.

"Berugheera!" Vogonwë said disapprovingly. "Hisss, khak kak ick ick reooow." The small animal slunk down guiltily, and licked its paws under Pimpiowyn's chair.

Pimpiowyn fished a black hair out of her buttermilk and took another sip. "You didn't bring anything to eat with you, did you?" she inquired.

"No, I'm afraid not, Pimpi my love," said Vogonwë regretfully. "But, darling, I have come to tell you something!"

"You are going back to Workmud to live with your father?" Pimpi asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No," Vogonwë shook his head gracefully, nearly knocking the mouse off of his shoulder with a swish of his hair. The mouse hung on. "Do you remember when I asked you for three hairs from your golden head, and you gave me one?"

"Yes; it was only yesterday," Pimpi said, brushing cat hairs from her red velvet frock.

"I have composed a poem in honor of your beautiful hair, my dear, and ode to the follicles on you head. Would you like to hear it?"

"I have a feeling that I'm going to," Pimpi said, downing the last of her buttermilk. She licked the edge of the goblet and then ran her tongue around her full red lips. Vogonwë struck yet another pose and flipped his hair over his shoulder. The mouse went flying out of the gazebo and landed on the grass. He cleared his throat, and began to recite:

"This hair so golden, almost red,
Used to be lodged in your head.
When it was there, amongst your other hairs,
It looked very nice with the clothes you wear.
You plucked it from your scalp, tore it from your head,
And now this golden reddish hair is dead.
Its life was fleeting, it ended with yesterday's meeting,
When you plucked that hair and ended its life with a tear.
Why did you do this? Why is this hair now dead?
Because I asked you, 'tis true. I asked you to do this, I asked you.
And you consented to kill this hair for my pleasure, and out it came.
It doesn't have a name, but is that any excuse it to maim?
Love is such a strange game.
I love this hair that came from your head, I love this hair though it is dead,
And its death I caused, I know with shame, but that doesn't matter much.
Because I love you and would do anything to have a memento of you,
For you will soon be as dead as this hair from your head,
Who will be to blame for that? Not I, I hope. I would be a dope,
To cause the death of the one I love above all others,
Above all mountains, hills and towers, you're prettier than flowers.
Which also die in their turn. Oh when will they ever learn?
And so I sing this song to you, to you whose eyes are really blue.
And your hair, I hold so near my heart, and hope that we shall never part,
Even when you yourself depart."

Vogonwë paused expectantly. He was met with silence, as Pimpi had found a biscuit in her pocket, and was devouring it with a dainty air. "Do you like it?"

"Oh...yeth, darwing," she replied.

They heard the whinnying of a horse in the distance, in the direction of the Fountain Garden. "What could that be?" Vogonwë wondered out loud. "Could it be a visitor from Workmud? Perhaps my father has sent me a letter, or a message, or something. But no, that does not sound like the whinny of a Workmud steed."

"Why don't you go find out?" Pimpi suggested.

"I shall," Vogonwë agreed, twirling upon his toe. He walked down the steps and scooped up the little mouse. "Squeaky eep eep," he said. The mouse squeaked in reply that it was all right, and Vogonwë set it upon his shoulder.

The cat tiptoed out from beneath the chair, and as the trio left, Vogonwë turned around and called back in his clear voice, "Pimpiowyn, what rhymes with 'whinny'?"

"Skinny, mini, ninny and tinny," Pimpi replied.

"Thank you!" he lifted a well-manicured hand and waved goodbye with a graceful flick of his wrist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the biscuit was gone and all the crumbs plucked from the folds of her clothes and devoured as well (indeed, when there was not one crumb left, not even one too small for a mouse) Pimpi left the gazebo. She walked across the lush grass and entered a small grove. She approached a pair of headstones, and knelt tenderly in front of them. Above one was the statue of a Man in the Armor of the Mike, seated upon a rearing horse. Above the other was a plump and jolly looking hobbitlass, though uncommonly tall.

Pimpi tenderly reached out and removed some pigeon droppings from the engraved words on the headstones, and let her large blue eyes survey the epitaph.

Here lies Éohorse son of Needahorse
Valiant Man of the Mike.
Bravely he fought the Orc horde,
And breathed his last upon the picnic blanket.

Here lies Pipsissewa Took
Fairest Flower of the Shire.
Long of limb and fat of face,
A Hobbit with uncommon grace.

"I will avenge you someday, Mama and Papa," Pimpi whispered. "I will hunt down the Orcs that survived the Elven raid, and I will kill them...or at least stand by and watch someone else kill them."

She again reached for the pendant, the Head of Lopitoff, the noble steed of Éohorse. But she paused before she touched it, and wiped her fingers upon the grass. When they were clean enough to grasp the golden horsehead, she recalled the words of Lord Roneld as he presented her the pendant many years ago. It seemed like yesterday...but it wasn’t yesterday...it was a long time ago...

"The power of the Elves can shrink a horse's head, but only you have the power to wear it."

"And wear it I shall," Pimpi spoke aloud to the graves of her parents. "It is mine to wear, like my red velvet cloak trimmed with black silk."

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

A breath of wind stirred into whispers the leafy groves athwart the road as Baklava, the mighty steed of Lord Earnur Etceteron, kicked its dust heavenward to settle on the sable raiment of his mighty master.
The horse was somewhat bored, as would be any of his great line, given a long day of ambling passage through some of the greenest, leafiest and, well, most repetitive landscape in all Middle-earth; for such was the manner of Lord Etceteron's errantry: ever since defeating the grey wizard in a trial of smoke-ring blowing, his technique had been to wander aimlessly around the countryside until some random and unlikely chance should happen to direct him to adventure. This was remarkably convenient for the master, but for the horse it was a trial of drudgery unheard of in the proud herds from which he sprang. Even the regular encouters with Orc-bands that he and his master had experienced of late failed to pique his equine interest: even the largest and fiercest all too quickly fell to his master's blade, leaving him without even the opportunity of issuing a satisfying kick or two. Baklava often toyed with the idea of throwing Earnur the Simple and kicking his head in, if only to relieve the boredom; but honour was honour and this Man had caught him fairly, whilst his mind had been occupied by thoughts of his favourite mare. Women were indeed trouble, for now he was burdened with this tobacco-stained, Miruvor-sodden fool, albeit that his harness sat as lightly as thistledown.

Meanwhile, astride the great Lord of horses, and blissfully unaware of his rebellious thoughts, Earnur himself was occupying his manly hands with the manly deed of manfully smoking his manly ebony pipe. Between manly puffs, he would pause to blow smoke rings of great intricacy and beauty, although of a deeply masculine and heroic fashion. Reaching back into one of his inky saddlebags, he extracted a blacked silver flask of Elven make, and took from it a manly swig of whatever manly spirit was to be found therein, before replacing it neatly with a single flick of his manly wrist. Many were the rumours of what mystic potions of invincibility Lord Etceteron imbibed from this flask: some said it was Miruvor that he kept therein; others that it was some foul Orcish draught, captured from a hapless raiding party; others still that it was the very distilled essence of life itself. Naturally most of these rumours were absolute codswallop. In sooth Lord Earnur cared little what was in the flask, save that it warmed him against the chill in the air hereabouts, as well as that in Harad and Khand.

His humour improved by this draught, Earnur the Mighty knocked out the sooty bowl of his pipe on a jet-black boot-heel, whilst his steel-grey eyes raked the road ahead for sign of foes. He saw none, but this failed to surprise him, as any robber bands with sense knew him at two miles' distance and made themselves scarce. Most of those who failed to do this had ceased to be robber bands soon after, enduring the inevitable demotion to hapless corpses that befell all who stood against him. The rest lived in unfashionable parts of the Wild, where no hero of taste was like to fare, and had thus not encountered him as yet.

Lest there be any such folk near the road this day, Earnur allowed his steel-sinewed yet elegant hand to stray towards the hilt of the great, razor-edged sword Wylkynsion that hung from his saddle. Mighty were the tales of this blade, whose fame was almost, but not quite, as great as that of the mighty hero who wielded it. Forged by the Dark Elf Eol it had been, though none save its master knew it; after long practice on other famous blades had honed his skill to an edge as keen as those of his creations, of which this alone had survived into the current age of the world. Only this morning he had been accosted by Orcs whilst preparing his breakfast. Two of them there had been, huge and surly, yet one sweep of this mighty blade had severed all three necks with a single manly blow, and four Orcish bodies had stained the glade with their blood. Earnur liked not to be pestered with enemies before breakfast, especially five such foul-smelling foes as these. He took another swig from his flask, satisfied that no enemy was there to be seen and straightened his lean, strong body, although Baklava detected the scent of soiled breeches and the faint, receding sound of running feet.

As he re-filled his pipe, Lord Etceteron's manly eye detected something strange at which his manly curiosity began to stir: ahead the road forged on, and yet to his right was also the faint image, seeming painted on the air, of a bend curving round and away towards the river he had crossed earlier that day. On a whim (and because such things usually led to a good fight that he invariably won) Earnur turned Baklava's proud head toward this bonny, bonny road and kicked him on, unwittingly drawing another inch closer to skull-crushing agony. As he rode, he sang to himself in his manly baritone a ballad written for him by the greatest bard in all Minas Tirith:

Black, his gloves of finest mole,
Black, his codpiece made of metal.
His horse is blacker than a hole,
His pot is blacker than his kettle...

Suddenly his voice trailed off, which irritated Baklava, as he had been about to reach the bit about his jet-black steed. Ahead was a homely-looking farmstead: a sure sign that he would be required to rescue some simple family of farmers from the attentions of a group of wandering mercenaries, which usually led to free food and beer (little did he know that the nearest such group had heard of his coming three days earlier and scarpered pronto). As Lord Etceteron gripped the mighty hilt of the sword Wylkynsion he heard its noble voice in his mind: Wot in Eru's name d'yew want, yer bleedin' great raspberry? I was 'avin' a luvly dream abaht a rapier. She had a bootiful scabbard on 'er, 'nall.
"Silence, my blade!" roared Earnur manfully. "We know not what subtle foes await us yonder; and even now methinks I hear their speech! We had best not alert them over soon!"

Indeed, as the echoes of his great voice died away amid Wylkynsion's grumbling that it spoke only directly to Earnur's mind anyway, it was possible to detect the sounds of conversation ahead, as though of two men and a woman. Looks like yer classic damsel-in-distress caper, mate said the sword again. Remember wot yew got last time? And she 'ad a luvverly dagger 'nall. Right cutie was that little tickler.

With this, Earnur urged Baklava on, soon seeing ahead the small group that he had overheard: two men, both handsome, one with the most impressively blow-dried hair that he had ever seen, the other cast in a similar ruggedly manly mould to himself. And with them stood the most beauteous maid whom ever he had encountered, willow-slender and with flowing silken hair. In a clear and musical voice she was explaining that no, she hadn't seen a wallet anywhere around here lately. "So they seek to relieve this flower of her gold, do they?" muttered the great warrior, raising aloft his gleaming weapon ('Ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go! sang the sword Wylkynsion). "Then they shall have more than they bargained for this day."

His mind filled with the ancient war-chant of his blade (You're goin' 'ome in a bleedin' ambulance, it sang), Lord Earnur swung elegantly from his saddle and approached the group. "Ho, there, varlets!" he called manfully. "What mean you so to accost a lady, and to thus demand her goods? Desist or thou shalt answer with thy bodies. For I am Earnur, which men call Etceteron; and this blade I wield is none other than the sword Wylkynsion, whose edge cuts all things. What say you of wallets now, Sirs?"

His challenge made, Earnur stood foursquare, proudly brandishing his great blade and awaiting whatever might befall, whilst in his mind the voice of Wylkynsion sang on:
Come 'n' 'ave a go if ya think yer 'ard enuff!. Battle, it would appear, was about to be joined.

[ January 10, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Rimbaud]

"What ho," said Halfullion's mind to itself. It rarely got reply on such instances of internalised communication, yet had never ceased in its endeavours. "What ho, some rapscallion is claiming that I am a knight of the errant variety. We must do something about this...strapping...young whippersnapper."

"Pardon?" asked the Lord Etceteron, his blade faltering somewhat in the face of such undisguised moronity.

Realising he had vocalised his inner turmoil with some sheepish shame, Halfullion took an instinctive step backwards, and drew L'En'Viey Piennhas with something of a roar.

All were startled by Halfullion's apparent coughing fit, and Mersuwyniel went so far as to clap her Hero on the back with one of her sublimely dainty hands. However, the laughter that echoed around the garden was that of Etceteron, and he was looking directly at Halfullion's famous sword, now wavering a mere matter of inches before him.

With great scorn, the invading warrior shouted "This? This is the mighty sword L'En'Viey Piennhas, desired by all men and women alike?"

His scorn appeared justified, for the blade was short, indeed barely longer than a vegetable paring knife. "I will not fight you, sir! Arm yourself!" He looked about the garden, and spotted the two wooden practice foils, leaning against the marbled fountain. "I see you have been working out, Sir," he boomed anew. "It is not like the real thing, though, Sir! Indeed, doing it this way you may well go blind. Splinters and such, you see."

"I'll show you splinters, Sir," growled Halfullion ominously. He waggled his undersized sword of great repute for effect. Merisuwyniel disguised a smile, and instead gazed adoringly upon the mighty Lord Gormlessar, now revealed in all his wrath. She could not help an admiring glance or two at the fine figure of Etceteron, so forcibly come to their attention was he.

Halfullion squeezed his face in concentration and suddenly, with a blinding flash, his noble blade was a clear three feet long. Had Etceteron not so nimbly avoided the expanding weapon, he would surely have been skewered, as had his last, unfortunate, riding companion Keb Ab Fordinneragen. "Hah!" shouted Lord Gormlessar. "Now, Sir, let's have at you!"

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

"Hold!" came a clear and penetrating voice. The two swordsmen ceased the wary circling and turned their eyes to the fair Merisuwyniel. She lifted up one clear, smooth, pale, dainty, well-manicured, ashen, ashy, blanched, colorless, complexionless, doughy, lurid, pallid, paly, wan, waxen, delicate hand and the garden fell silent, even the birds in the tree. A slight humming could be heard coming from the two great swords as they sought to rear at each other.

"Your sense is weak, old friend, you should not have come," she said to the newcomer. Then she smiled, and looked squarely at the knight from the corner of her eye, which is a tricky feat, even if you toe the line. "Thank you for answering the call, Sir knight!"

"Er..." replied Etceteron, grandiosely.

Halfullion, realising that the Elf had the situation under control, lowered his blade fully.
"You know me, Mistress?" asked the Lord Etceteron.

Halfullion spoke for both himself and the bemused, on looking Orogarn Two, when he spake thus: "What new devilry is this? Dost thou know this vile and verminous vagabond, fair lady?"

[ January 11, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Indeed I do, Mylord,“ Merisuwyniel replied, “But it seems that he does not recognize me. Fie upon the weak memories of human males!”

“Um, when did we meet?” Etceteron gazed at her with a puzzled expression. “Certainly I could not have forgotten a damsel of such face and form!”

“Remember the archery contest at the tournament of knights in Gondola many years ago?” she asked. “A young esquire competed with you for the title, besting you so resoundingly that you resolved never to use a bow again, doubting your own abilities.”

“Yes, I remember, but where were you?” Etceteron was still puzzled.

“I was that esquire!” she exclaimed dramatically.

“You?! It cannot be.” He peered more closely at the mighty bow she carried. “Although I think I recognize the bow. It was such a plain, crude weapon – mine was much more beautiful, made of black wood and wonderfully carved.”

The bow vibrated dangerously, and Merisuwyniel laid a soothing hand upon it. “Trust not appearances,” she warned, “for they can be deceptive. Earnur, though we were rivals then, we were friends as well. You have been summoned for a Purpose!”

Turning to Orogarn Two, she spoke melodiously: “You have come here seeking the answer to a riddle. It shall be given to you in due time. Perhaps you too have been drawn by powers beyond our knowledge, since you have seen what others have not. Whether you shall also find the wallet that was lost, I cannot tell.”

She faced all three heroes, standing proudly and gracefully, and proclaimed, “Here, at the Farm of Roneld, all shall be made clear to you. In two days a council shall be held; there you shall learn of the Ent that was broken and the task that awaits those who are brave enough to undertake it.”

[ January 11, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë skipped across the Elven Farm and nimbly bounded up the flight of 99 steps that led up to the Bovine Garden. As he crested the rise, he saw fair Merisuwyniel standing tall and shapely in the sunlight, facing Lord Gormlessar and two strange (yet handsome) looking Men. But it was not the humanoid forms that drew his attention. There, standing to the side, was a jet-black steed of the deepest, richest, inkiest ebony hue.

“Forsooth!” he cried, and all four creatures turned to look at him. “Here must be the Horse That Was Whinnying!” He advanced upon the group and declared, “I was struck by inspiration a moment ago, and then I picked myself up off the ground and composed a poem:

“A tinny whinny whistled through the farm,
The whinny was not mini, but a biggie whinny.
A biggie tinny whinny it was—”

“That is quite enough!” Halfullion interrupted hastily.

Vogonwë was quite used to this kind of treatment, and he ceased speaking without ado. He approached the impressive looking black horse and greeted it with a whinny. “Breeeeheheeeee,” he said, and then proceeded to huff and snort, toss his head and paw at the ground.

Etceteron looked on with one manly black eyebrow arched in a manly fashion. He was a little befuddled as he watched the strange looking Elf consort merrily with his horse. Baklava likes 'im better than yo-ou, Wylkynsion taunted.

Vogonwë pirouetted and turned to Etceteron. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the master of this noble, albeit rather grumpy, jet-black steed?”

Etceteron paused to arch his other manly eyebrow, and then replied, “I am the master to whom you speak. And you...thou strangely coifed Elf?”

Vogonwë adjusted his bow proudly and said, “I am Vogonwë Brownbark, son of Geppettuil of Workmud, third cousin thrice removed of Throngduil, King of Workmud.”

Etceteron started in surprise, and pointed a manly finger at Vogonwë. “You are the Log That Was Rotting!” he cried. “I have heard the tale of the log that Geppettuil carved into a little wooden boy, and of the little wooden boy who was brought to life by the Blue Faerie. Are you the Vogonwë Brownbark the legends speak of?”

Vogonwë drew a circle in the dirt on the stones with a slippered toe, and replied, “A’yup.”

“How extraordinary,” Etceteron marveled, walking in a circle around the wood-elf.

“He moves quite well for a piece of wood,” Merisuwyniel offered sweetly. “Vogonwë, you will have to show our guests your horse mounting skills.”

“Hmmm...” Etceteron was preoccupied. “I have acquired a bit of herbal knowledge in my time, and am quite good with brews, if you take my meaning. Let me endeavor to guess: she used a mix of toadstools (or puffballs perhaps), yarrow, fennel seed, aloe vera...something...and a pinch of fairy dust? I hear that mint is a good substitution for fairy dust.”

Orogon Two spoke up, “Whatever else, it must have included dill weed. Nothing packs the punch that dill weed does.”

Lord Gormlessar yawned.

Vogonwë, for perhaps the first time in his life, was speechless. Even his mouse looked uncomfortable (though the cat was unperturbed). Vogonwë cast his gaze about helplessly, and Merisuwyniel caught it with her lovely, pallid hand.

“Good sirs, have you yet seen Master Brownbark’s excellent horse? Vogonwë?”

Vogonwë split the air with a shrill whinny, which cause Orogorn Two and Etceteron to look at him as if he were foaming at the mouth. Vogonwë paused and thumped his chest a couple times, coughing uncomfortably. The fit passed, and then there was heard an answering whinny.

A tall, noble horse came trotting into the Bovine Garden, tossing its long, silky grey-brown mane joyously. Taut, well formed horsy muscles rippled underneath the smooth, grey-brown hide. Such a beast was Pasdedeux, Mare of the Mearas, second cousin twice removed of Arod. And as she came, Baklava perked up noticeably.

Pasdedeux stopped a goodly distance from Vogonwë, and turned her hindquarters to the company. Baklava snorted and shook his mane in a stallionly sort of way.

Vogonwë then proceeded to awe and bore the company, as he mounted his horse with an amazing series of three backward summersaults and, as if that weren’t enough, an inverted pas de chat up onto the horse’s back. “Voíla! And, if I had wanted her to start running the instant I landed upon her back, I would have whistled whilst doing the inverted pas de chat,” he said proudly.

Merisuwyniel clapped, Etceteron stroked his manly chin in a manly way, and Orogorn Two wondered if the wood-elf would know where his wallet was. Baklava wished to speak to the comely mare, but forebear such action in front of the lady's freakishly bilingual master.

Lord Gormlessar yawned.

At that very moment, fair and bonny Pimpiowyn of the red-gold curls entered the Garden, munching contentedly on an apple. Vogonwë flipped himself nimbly from Pasdedeux, and greeted her, “Pimpi, my love, you have just missed a most excellent mount on my part. It was the best one I have done in a week.”

Pimpi paused as she noticed the strange (yet handsome) newcomers. She took instant notice of Orogorn Two’s impressive hair and Etceteron’s manly eyebrows. “Who are they?” she asked bluntly.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, darling,” Vogonwë told her.

Merisuwyniel made the necessary introductions, and repeated the excellent news about the Council of Roneld. Vogonwë and Pimpi were about to react to the declaration, but Vogonwë suddenly became aware of a shadow passing before the sun.

“Ai, ai!” he exclaimed.

Etceteron arched his manly brows simultaneously, and Orogorn Two inquired, “What do your Elf eyes see, Vogonwë?”

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Kuruharan]

"Look! Up in the sky," cried Vogonwë.

"It’s a bird," shouted Merisuwyniel.

"Hmm," mused Vogonwë, "I think that it might be some vile creature of the Enemy. Those wings look awfully scaly from this distance."

"You know," interjected Earnur, "I think he’s right. Look at that wing structure. I’d say that it is actually a…"

"BALROG!" screeched Halfullion.

"What?! Don’t be ridiculous," objected Earnur. "Balrogs don’t have wings!"

"And even if they do, they can’t fly," put in Orogarn Two.

"What do you two know about these sky-high matters?" scoffed Halfullion. "You’re just two insignificant wanderers, while I am the great Lord Gormlessar!"

"I’ll tell you what I know about the matter," explained Orogarn Two. "Since I come from high Numenorian ancestry I had the benefit of an excellent education. I can assure you that while there is some ambiguity on the matter of whether balrogs actually have wings, the vast weight of scholarly opinion is that even if they do, they cannot fly. As a matter of fact, I once read an excellent article on this very matter by the renowned Cardolanian scholar Dr. Barro…"

"Blah, blah, blah," interrupted Halfullion. "I’ll tell you how I know that balrogs have wings! I fought a duel with one once. Or at least, I would have fought a duel with him if the cowardly bugger had shown up. Be that as it may, I still have more personal experience with balrogs than you and I say that balrogs have wings."

"That’s absurd," snapped Earnur. "How in the world can you argue that your non-observance of a balrog makes you the definitive authority on what balrogs look like?!"

"Because my sword agrees with me!" retorted Halfullion, brandishing his weapon for effect.

"You’re not the only one to have a mystic sword from the dawn of Time!" roared Earnur Etceteron, pulling his sword Wylkynsion from its sheath.

Thus challenged, Halfullion’s sword swelled to a truly intimidating size.

"Don't be a fool!" Wylkynsion squealed. "His sword is bigger than me!"

"Size doesn’t matter! It’s how you use it!" shouted Earnur, lost in the excitement of the moment.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please," said Merisuwyniel, who, for some reason, had been forgotten in this heroic bout of manliness. "This entire discussion is irrelevant. As you could see, if you would only cast your eyes ten feet above you, this creature is clearly a dragon."

"HA!" said Earnur triumphantly. "Just as I said!"

"Actually," interposed Vogonwë, "I think that I am the one who brought up the possibility."

"What are you implying?" growled Etceteron.

"Well, I bet a balrog could beat this dragon in battle any day of the week," shouted Halfullion, trying to regain control of the situation.

By this point the dragon had placidly landed. If anyone had been thinking clearly at the moment they would have noticed that there was something different about this dragon. Not only was it not descending in blazing wrath, but it was also laden with large bundles. An even odder thing was that a well-dressed and hooded dwarf climbed down from the dragon and walked sedately toward where everyone was shouting at each other.

"Excuse me," the dwarf said.

"Eekk, where did you come from?" shrilled Pimpi in alarm.

"Erebor," answered the dwarf.

"That is not exactly what I meant," said Pimpi.

"Stand aside, civilians," bawled Halfullion. "I must dispose of yon vile worm!"

"What! Kill my pet?" said the dwarf in an alarmed tone of voice. "I’d really rather that you would not."

"Y-your pet?" stammered Orogarn Two.

"This has been a bizarre day," Merisuwyniel announced to the sky.

"Yes, my pet," said the dwarf. He pulled his hood from his head and for the first time everyone got a good look at him. He had neatly brushed light brown hair and beard, and twinkling blue-gray eyes. His clothes were very sharp. He wore a cloak of the deepest crimson with silver fringe. Under that he wore a full length coat of dark blue with gold embroidery along the edge. His tunic was as red as a cherry, with more gold embroidery. He wore a gold belt with an axe thrust into it, and his boots were impeccably polished. On a gold chain around his neck he wore a large golden dragon pendent.

"Kuruharan is my name. I’m a famous world-wandering adventurer who makes a humble living selling the trophies of my many adventures."

"In other words, you’re a traveling salesman," said Orogarn Two.

"Well…I…but…uh," sputtered the dwarf. "Allow me to introduce you to my associate," he said rather hurriedly.

"Chrysophylax Dives is my name," said the dragon. "I am a noble dragon of ancient and imperial lineage who now works with this magnificent…"

"Hark!" cried Vogonwë.

"Harken to what?" asked Chrysophylax, after a moment of awkward silence.

"Harwk, Hack, Hurk, Gag, Hora, Hualp, Spitooie!" said Vogonwë. A tremendous hairball went ‘splat’ on the ground.

"Eeeeewwwww!" groaned Merisuwyniel, Halfullion, Orogarn Two, Earnur, and Chrysophylax.

"Not again!" moaned Pimpi.

"Good grief!" exclaimed Kuruharan, eyeing the large hairball with some distaste. "My dear fellow, it’s lucky for you that I came along. I happen to be the only dwarf that I know of who is in possession of the rare and wondrous cure for your unfortunate affliction." The dwarf pulled a strange looking bottle out from somewhere in his robes.

"What is it?" asked Vogonwë, in a strange mixture of hope and trepidation.

"What is it? Um…revealing the ingredients would ruin the effect, so let’s just call it hair off the cat that bit you," said Kuruharan hastily. "I can give it to you for the low, low price of one-hundred pieces of gold."

"One-hundred! Forget it!" cried Vogonwë. "Hurgk, Buragmuh,…maybe I should reconsider." He promptly handed over the money.

"As a matter of fact, I’m sure I have something for each and every one of you," said the dwarf, going and unloading his bundles. "I have memorial urns and lockets here, for those annoying times when orcs kill off all your relatives. With these you will be able to keep the charred remains of your dearly departed with you at all times."

"Really?!" said Pimpi excitedly.

"And for you milady," Kuruharan said to Merisuwyniel. "Since you are obviously a member of the elite class of Elven shieldmaidens…," Kuruharan trailed off as he was rummaging through a large sack. What he pulled out was nothing less than a small forge.

"How is this thing going to help me?" asked a skeptical Merisuwyniel.

"Why this thing has more uses than the incarnate mind can possibly conceive!" enthused Kuruharan. "Just think of it! What could you do if the domineering, patriarchal swine try for one minute to infringe on your rights as a proud Elven shieldmaiden? With this port-a-forge you can publicly melt down your chainmail bra, that’s what you can do! Or if some poor, little girl’s cute, little pony needs shoeing, you can just whip out the port-a-forge and, hey presto, another good deed to make you feel all warm and squishy. And you gentlemen," continued Kuruharan to the three heroes, who were starting to feel somewhat neglected in this long-running sales-pitch. It was a feeling that Halfullion in particular was not used to. "For those of you who are interested in empire building, I have a certain plot of land that is just begging to have somebody come and found a kingdom on it. It has the perfect defensive attribute. Nobody wants to go there. And you’ll never be short of water. But if that is not to your taste, I have hundreds of potent talismans, charms, weapons, and cooking utensils that are perfect for any adventure. Take this little object for instance." Kuruharan pulled a metal spatula out of his pile. "This mystical object was given to me by a Wood-elf warrior. I had just pulled him free from a massive spider-web, after killing the giant spider that intended to have him for dinner. ‘This thing has always brought me luck,’ he said as he gave me the spatula. Yes sir, those were his dying words! ‘This thing has always brought me luck!’ Now who could resist owning an heirloom of such proven value? But don’t just take my word for it. Come, look at my goods and tell me what I can interest you in."

[ January 11, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Still aghast that he had stammered, an action completely foreign to him and until this moment unimagined, Orogarn Two strode forward and introduced himself to dragon and Dwarf, leaving the also newly arrived Earnur ungreeted but not forgotten.

“I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, son of Garn Eight, son of Garn Seven, son of Kevin, son of Garn Six,…”

“Please jump to the end,” suggested Halfullion, rolling his eyes.

“Of course,” answered Orogarn Two, seemingly unhurt by the interruption. “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed!”

He looked hard into Dwarvish eyes, but not a spark of recognition made itself visible. A similar gazing into dragonish orbs left him equally unknown. Sullenly, he continued.

“Have you, in the course of your journeys, perhaps, maybe, come upon a wallet of impressive size and more so the content? It went missing while wandering, and I fear I may have been burgled.”

[Kuruharan]

The dwarf suddenly felt frantically around his robes. "Whew! It's still there!" he announced after concluding his search.

"Yes, now, wallet...Let me see." Kuruharan went through various bags pulling out a number of wallets. "Do any of these look familiar? Although, I personally would not hold out much hope. These such are not the legendary wallets that great noblemen such as yourself bear. However, if you feel like you need to make do with something until you reclaim your own, some of these have interesting pasts, and I could let them go cheap."

Unbeknownst to the company, Chrysophylax slunk off to investigate the interesting horses that somebody negligently left standing by the fountain...

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

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë pulled the stopper out of the curious looking bottle of Hair Off the Cat that Bit You, and sniffed at it daintily. “Hmmm...smells...minty...but with a touch of hazelnut,” he commented.

Pimpi held her breath as she watched him take a sip. She half expected him to spit it out or clutch at his throat with screams of burning pain and torment, so odd and suspicious did the Dwarf and his dragon appear to her. They smacked of...adventures...

Vogonwë smacked his lips together and took another sip. “It’s really quite good!” he declared. “Tastes like the special tea the Blue Faerie made when I visited her hidden enclave as a young lad. Fresh, and...minty.”

“Can I try some?” Pimpi requested, overcoming her suspicions at the suggestion of a tasty drink.

“No! I mean, uh, no darling. You don’t have that same...uh...problem that I do. It might be harmful for one of your excellent health,” Vogonwë said nervously, clutching the bottle to the grey-brown fabric of his shirt.

“Oh,” Pimpi said with a sigh, and turned her dewy sapphire eyes on him with a bat of her eyelashes.

Vogonwë was strangely unmoved by the pitiful expression in those lovely eyes, and he replaced the stopper on the bottle. He was beginning to contemplate what words rhymed with minty, hazelnut, and fresh, when the little black cat began to paw at his leg.

“Berugheera has hairballs,” Pimpi said.

“Hissssss, mreeeeeow,” Vogonwë said to the cat, and it slunk away with an injured expression.

Pimpi was going to express her shocked horror and displeasure at his behavior, but something diverted her attention. Namely, the fact that her half-eaten apple was beginning to brown. This bothered her immensely, and with a wrinkle of her little button nose, she tossed the fruit over her shoulder into the gurgling water of the fountain.

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

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion yawned langorously and wondered briefly whether he had enough clean laundry for a long trip. Thinking of his saddlebags brought his great steed Tofu to his mind. It was at this point that a connection between the smell of roasting horse and absent Giant Wyrm was made in his underemployed grey matter.

“By gum!” he exclaimed, and dashed off, thoroughly confusing the merchant Dwarf who had produced several packs of the required masticatory substance from his voluminous robes, seemingly now unwanted. Merisuwyniel watched the Lord Gormlessar make his dramatic egress with a pang of envy at his wondrous hair, only enhanced by the swift passage of wind through its finely tuned locks.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Barely out of breath, Halfullion came upon a scene that could only be described by a long descriptive passage. Being in something of a hurry to save his horse, he skipped it and addressed the large diner, who had already consumed one of The Last Grown Homely Cows finest equine residents, Dehdmete.

“Cease, fell beast,” he started bravely. “These fine examples of horse-hood are for riding and company, not luncheon. Hast thou no manners?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” grumbled the dragon, turning a baleful eye upon the tall Knight. “They do not seem to feed larger quests adequately here. Or at all, if it could be said.”

Halfullion was a thoughtful chap and noticed the bale. “Dear Chrysophylax…um…Mr. Dives, you seem to have a bale on your eye.”

“Hay, you’re right,” said the dragon, surprised. “Thanks!”

“Don’t mention it,” said Halfullion. “Now, I suggest that if you fly over to the great dining hall yonder,” and he pointed, “you shall find a more suitable repast.”

“Those heights look particularly wuthering,” said the dragon doubtfully.

“Beg pardon?” pleaded Halfullion with some bemusement. “You mean weathered?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you again,” said Chrysophylax, and took off in the direction so pointed.

Now thinking about lunch, Halfullion decided to suggest it to the gathering Company. He made his way back, to the udder side of the bovine fountain. He discovered the others still deep in converse, not without certain confusion and lack of coherence. He sensed Merisuyniel becoming impatient. He hoped she would not become disgruntled; he infinitely preferred her fully gruntled, and oft-times wished he could supply her with the gruntle she needed, so as never to become disgruntled again.

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

His suggestion about lunch had gone down very well with Merisuwyniel, who was fond of eating out, herself. Their gracious host at The Last of the Home Grown Cows, Lord MacDoneld had supplied them all with a most happy meal, but the seated diners, outside in the Bovine Garden, where tables had been brought, were puzzled to see that Halfullion was not eating with them.

“What ails thee, sir?” asked Orogarn Two, eyes as piercing as ever.

“Ah, Tofu carries all the nutrition I require,” replied Halfullion politely. He couldn’t quite reach the great steed’s saddlebags and so had to clamber upon a soapbox to facilitate the process of obtaining lunch. When he had fetched his provisions, he did indeed sit down with them all, and a hearty and enjoyable luncheon was had.

[Child of the 7th Age]

In one of the soggier deltas of the Entwash, a tall and stooping figure with ashen green hair shuffled slowly towards the well that stood behind his hut. Pettygast reached out with a tired hand to clutch the frayed rope and gently let the bucket downward, then hoisted it back up again. Perhaps the cold, sparkling waters would wash away his memories and ease the pain that assaulted his mind.

The ladle of water was fresh and sweet, but did little to assuage his doubts or fears. For the past one hundred and sixty-seven nights, he had witnessed the same vision parading before his eyes in the depths of sleep. Every evening, an image came strong and clear at the deepest hour of dreaming, haunting his mind and offering little possibilty of relief.

Before him stood a large storage cupboard filled with all manner of wooden utensils, tools, and furniture. Spoons, bowls, broken chair legs and broom handles, arrows, and cups--he could not even name all the paraphernalia which was excitedly jumping up and down on the shelves. And always the same cry rose up to his ear, "Heeelp us! Save ussss! Avenge usss!"

Pettygast shuddered. He had no idea what any of that meant. But the meaning of the next scene was utterly clear, and even more disheartening.

Pettygast could see himself stepping onto the Good Ship Lollipop which was about to set sail to the Place Beyond the Great Rift and the Bent Seas which no one can get to but where everyone wants to go. This was truly something that his heart desired. Yet, just before that ship hoisted sail and turned about, the majestic figure of the Fruit-Giver stood before him and barred the entry with her body, throwing a bucket of rotten apples and peaches down on his head.

"You may not journey West, Pettygast. Not until each and every piece has been reassembled. For you owe this duty to the Ents, since you have long been designated as their guardian, and have done nothing whatsoever to assist them, neither in their hunt for the Entwives nor in any other thing."

"Go now to the Last Home Grown Cows, and seek for the Ent that was broken. Only then may you earn the forgiveness of the Mighty and come at last to the place where no one can get to but where everyone wants to go."

Pettygast signed. He could no longer fight the vision. He seized his staff of living wood, in the shape of a young sapling, and stood upon the hillside, calling out loudly to the winds, "Hee-haw, Hee-haw," as was his usual custom. Within minutes, his faithful donkey Hummus appeared, and he mounted on her back, riding off at a fearful pace into the blackness of the night.

[ January 13, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The guests had enjoyed the hospitality of the Elven Farm for two days, visiting the stables, the barns, the coops, the pens and all of the other delightful sights the enclave had to offer. On the morning of the third day, after a heartening breakfast (two for Pimpiowyn, who arose early so as to have time for an extra meal), they heard the melodious sound of a cow-bell summoning them to the council of Roneld.

They met in the gazebo where their host awaited them. The lovely Merisuwyniel, dressed festively as behooved the occasion in a royal blue divided skirt (practical, yet feminine) with a white ruffled blouse, was herself quite unruffled. She sat next to Roneld with one strong yet delicate hand resting lightly on the bow propped up next to her.

Those who had not yet met the ruler of the Hidden Valley Ranch were impressed by his imposing appearance. Orogarn Two gazed at the mithril circlet on his brow with a twinge of jealousy, wishing that he too could have a kingdom of his own and wear such royal insignia. Earnur wished to ask him the secret of his perpetually arched (very manly) eyebrows, whilst Halfullion noted in amazement a highly unusual accessory – small, round pieces of darkened glass held before Roneld’s eyes with a most cunning device made of wire.

Pimpiowyn wondered if there might perchance be pockets in Roneld’s flowing robes and if so, whether any of them might possibly contain food. Vogonwë, seated next to her, was not thinking of their host at all, but trying to find a rhyme for ‘gazebo’ in order to compose an epic poem about the occasion.

Kuruharan patted the wallet in his pocket, pleased with the first income of the day, from the sale of those ‘speck-tackles’, as their inventor had called them, to Roneld. Chrysophylax laid curled up around the gazebo; everyone pretended not to notice him, since no one cared to send that unsummoned guest away.

Roneld cleared his throat impressively before speaking welcoming words to the assembled company, which included many more illustrious persons, such as the Elf Gloryfinder, afterwards ignominiously forgotten.

“You have come with questions,” Roneld addressed them. “Here they shall be answered.”

Vogonwë turned a puzzled gaze to Pimpiowyn and whispered, “Did we have a question, darling?”

“Shhh!” she admonished him. “Just listen.”

“Orogarn Two,” Roneld continued, “you have come from afar seeking to resolve a riddle. Please tell us what it is.”

Orogarn Two stood and recited:

Seek for the Ent that was broken:
With the Cow Keeper it dwells;
There shall nonsense be spoken
More wicked than Dulldor-spells.
There shall be a token dwarf
A half-elf, elf, wizard and man,
For Isildur's cousin shall waken,
And form a big-hair 80’s band.

“I will consult the Book of Malbeth for the answer,” Roneld suggested, paging through a large volume that lay on the coffee table before him. “Let me see…s, seek, seek for…here it is!

Seek for the chip that was broken,
In Microsoft it dwells;
There shall passwords be spoken
More cryptic than Apple’s spells.

“No, I am sorry – wrong Age!” He continued paging, finally closing the book regretfully. “I cannot find this riddle; we shall have to seek the solution ourselves.”

Halfullion sprang to his feet, eager to show his superior understanding of the poetic word. “The interpretation is actually quite obvious: The Cow Keeper is Roneld, the races spoken of are represented here – except for a wizard, but who wants one of them meddling in our affairs?”

“I am Isildur’s cousin, 84 times removed,” Orogarn Two interrupted, happy to have a reason for proclaiming his lineage.

“But what is the Ent that was broken?” Earnur shouted, not wanting to be left out.

Kuruharan watched the proceedings silently, since he could see no possibility for profit so far.

All eyes turned to Merisuwyniel, who blushed becomingly at being the centre of interest. She arose gracefully and told the assembled company the astounding story of an Ent, old and venerable, cruelly hewn by orcs for its wood, made into weapons and other objects for their foul purposes. When she finished, she sat down, waiting expectantly for their reactions.

They stared in stunned and shocked silence, except for Vogonwë, who was fishing for a piece of paper in his pockets, in order to jot down “bent” as a rhyme for “Ent” before he could forgot it. Pimpiowyn was the first to speak.

“But what does this have to do with us?”

“Bring forth the Ent that was broken!” Roneld spoke commandingly to Merisuwyniel.

She laid her mighty bow on the coffee table, strangely loth to release it from her gentle grip.

“This bow was part of that Ent and indeed is still alive, seeking to be reunited with the other parts of its original Entity and to revenge itself upon its oppressors,” Roneld proclaimed.

“What, that plain old wooden bow, that looks like it belongs to some peasant?” Etceteron exclaimed disdainfully.

A humming sound began, growing ever louder and louder until it was almost unbearable. Suddenly a mighty voice chanted slowly and deliberately:

i dont know enuff 2 b
here but i dont care u c
wots a maiar???/ plz tell me
c u l8er ppl!!!

“Who dares to utter that dreadful language here, among the learned?” thundered Roneld. "Every time it is spoken, a skwerl dies!"

All stared at the bow in amazement.

“Let us hope that none will ever speak it here again,” Merisuwyniel answered. “I will do what is necessary to hinder the onslaught of the Black Tongue. Yet the important question is, what can we do to aid the Entish Bow in its quest for reunification and revenge?”

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

[Rimbaud]

"The bow is...entient?" breathed Halfullion, standing to stare at the finely carved wood. "I can scarcely believe it. So this is the root of the matter."

Merisuwyniel grasped the Bow protectively. "Sit down, my liege," she said firmly. "Don't let this discussion branch out."

Halfullion knew that with him, her bark was worse than her bite, but still he sat, somewhat demurely. She smiled prettily at him.

The Dwarf merchant growled suddenly. "If the Bow is the problem, let us rid ourselves of it!" And with a great cry he swung his axe high into the sky and looked for all the world as if he would smote the great weapon as it lay on the table before him.

"Hold!" came a ringing tone, and Halfullion had bounded back to his feet, his sword out, as if to prove a receiver for Kuruharan's assault upon the curved horn before them. "Get thee hence, Dwarf. This bow requires more courtesy."

"I am no chicken," muttered Kuruharan, but he withdrew. Halfullion again returned to his seat and an uneasy silence fell upon the Council. The air was warm and soothing against their skins, and slowly, the relaxation of the valley seeped into them, and the tension dissipated. Yet still, Halfullion felt the eye of Lord Roneld, the chief agent of the Elves in this place, upon him. Finally, the mood between them snapped, as Roneld leaned forward to stare straight at Halfullion. The great Knight felt beads of sweat form on his broad and manly forehead as the Lord seemed to gaze into his very soul. The black lenses of the Elf's ocular contraption concealed the eyes, hiding all trace of emotion.

"It seems you have been living two lives, Mr Gormlessar," said Roneld slowly and deliberately. "In one life, you are Lord Halfullion Gormlessar, the Elf-Stoned, a mighty warrior, a Hero, whose deeds excite rumour wherever your great name is spread. In the other, you are Halfull, a philandering, womanising drun..."

Lord Gormlessar hastily cut him off. "This is no time for this discussion!" he hissed. Lord Roneld showed no sign of anger at being so rudely interrupted and merely inclined his head impassively, and sat back in his great chair. Halfullion began to breath again, although he could feel questioning eyes upon him. He smiled around at the assembled, relying on his inherent charisma.

At this point, an odd thing happened. The Dwarf Kuruharan returned bearing several plump and squawking hens. Halfullion sighed. It was Pimpi who laughed the hardest, however, realising that Halfullion's earlier comment had been hilariously misunderstood. A great wave of laughter rippled around the table, leaving mirthful tears in its wake. Halfullion slapped the table so hard that he hurt the palm of his hand. Even Roneld smiled, showing appreciation, even for such paltry humour.

The moment passed, however, and Roneld called the Council to order. "Merisuwyniel is correct," he said. 'The question of this Bow must be resolved now, by these assembled."

"I am half-Elven," suggested Halfullion. "And fair Merisuwyniel is completely that way. Perhaps we are the best to tend to it, we are strong."

"Nay, Sir Gormlessar," interjected Orogarn Two. "Roneld is correct. We must reform or destroy this great item, or else it will become the curse of all of us."

Merisuwyniel frowned but said nothing.

"What then do you suggest?" asked Lord Etceteron, off-hand.

Confused by Etceteron's talking appendage, Orogarn Two took a minute to reply. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "It would take magic beyond us gathered to return it to its owner unscathed. And I know not how to destroy such a great item. My insight, granted me" and he gripped the stone around his neck "tells me that fire will not scorch it."

"No fire we can create..." breathed Merisuwyniel, the sparks of an idea forming.

Halfullion brusquely blew out the candle of her idea. "If you are thinking of trekking to Mordor, you're insane. There is no light there," he said, darkly.

[Diamond18]

There was silence. Leaves would have undoubtedly drifted to the ground in a dramatic fashion, if there had been any trees in the immediate vicinity of the gazebo. As it was, a few scales loosened from Chrysophylax’s hide as he shifted his large derrière.

Pimpi spoke up in a small voice; "Um...before we start thinking about Mordor...are you sure this really has anything to do with me? Because I couldn’t help but notice that in Orogorn Two’s little ditty there was no mention of hobbits, or half-hobbits. Half-things, if you will."

Roneld replied, "It seems that you are living two lives, Pimpiowyn—"

"Are you going to say that to everyone?" Halfullion wondered, interrupting him in a most un-knightly fashion.

Roneld's eyebrows twitched disapprovingly, but he continued, "On the one hand, you are a carefree hobbit living your life in complacency amongst the cows. And you help your elf-friend write out his...poetry. On the other, you are the daughter of Éohorse, a Valiant Man of the Mike, and it is your duty to avenge his death. Did you not take an oath to kill or observe the killing of the Orcs who slew your parents?"

"Oh," Pimpi said, "We’re going to kill Orcs?"

"Naturally; one does not simply call a Council and not resolve to kills Orcs. One's conscience would not let one sleep," Roneld told her.

Pimpi smiled. "In that case, I will go on this mission...quest...thing... Even if I have been left out of the lists, as so often happens."

Vogonwë was jotting something down onto his wrist, and he replied absently, "If Pimpi’s going I’ll come along, or you’d have to tie me up in a sack to keep me away...a black knapsack woven out of hay...in May...." He began to move his pen with an inspired excitement, and Pimpi had to stop him before he harmed a vein.

Roneld looked around at the rest of the assembly. "Great! We have at least two people willing to aide Merisuwyniel’s bow. But exactly how is yet to be decided. Such things are usually resolved by a journey of some sort, as the power of the Elven-cows can not re-forge living things. So, where are you going?"

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

Pettygast's donkey had run fiercely for 1.3 leagues and had then slowed down to his normal plodding pace. In fact, he now dragged his feet even more than he usually did. Hummus placed one hoof in front of the other quite deliberately, as if she was determined to bear the wizard as slowly as possible. Pettygast sighed and wondered if the dumb creature was somehow in league with the Shadow. He wouldn't put anything past the beast.

Then the great headache came, like an arrow through the dark, and with it a piercing vision of all that was happening. They were squabbing. The silly fools at the meeting were squabbling with each other. He expected them to come to blows at any second.

Ah, no, this was not the way. Could they not hear the little cups and broken chair legs crying? Reassemble us. Make us whole again. Burning that poor Bow would achieve nothing, and even kiling the Orcs would do but half a job. The Bow was but one tiny part of a magical whole, and even if it should perish, the broomsticks and spoons and matchsticks would unite, and again put forth their ceaseless clamor. Every single splinter must be laid bare and rescued.

Drastic situations call for drastic means. Pettygast knew he really shouldn't do what he was considering doing. This was one of those matters carefully spelled out in the fine print of his contract.

If Fruit-Giver saw this, or, even worse, Hurler of Lightning Bolts, he would be in hot water. But the Mighty were far away in the Place beyond the Great Rift and the Bent Seas which no one can get to but where everyone wants to go. What did they know of the perils that he faced out here in the darkness?

As a feeling of frustration theatened to overcome him, he reached for his trusted sapling and sat down on top of it, bidding his donkey Hummus do the same. Then he told the staff to lift off into the air, with the speed and power of a great eagle. If it ran true and straight, he would be there in but a few moments. The green sapling took off true and straight in the exact opposite direction that he had told it to go.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Kuruharan]

A mysterious noise of muted clucking and squawking began to disturb the company. At first they tried to ignore it, but it continued to grow louder.

'BUCK-AAAWWWWW!' *Thwack*

Suddenly, a shapeless white mass plopped itself squarely in front of them. Even more alarming, it immediately jumped up and started charging about the gazebo like a headless chicken.

"Ah-ha!" cried Halfullion. "A crazed beast of the enemy sent to slay me! Have at thee!"
He drew his sword with a dramatic flare and took a vicious swing at the peculiar assailant. Unfortunately, the result was a little unexpected. Due to some inexplicable idiosyncrasy of the wondrous blade, it had shrunk down to about two inches in length and all Lord Gormlessar accomplished with his mighty swing was losing his balance and ending up in a heap on the floor. "Momentary set-back!" he cried to reassure Merisuwyniel, who no doubt was beside herself in worry and consternation at seeing the plight of her fallen beau.

"Pawh-hawh-hawh-hawh!!" howled Merisuwyniel.

"Come back here varmint!" yelled Kuruharan, surging into the gazebo axe in hand, in pursuit of the unknown attacker.

Lord Roneld had leapt from his seat and had been trying to restore order by hopping about and flapping his arms like a deranged flamingo. However, the charging Kuruharan tripped over the arising Halfullion, went flying into Lord Roneld, and the two of them bounced out of the gazebo and crashed down on the ground.

"Time for the real hero to show his skill!" cried Earnur, hoping desperately that Merisuwyniel was watching. Out came the dread blade Wylkynsion. "Let me at 'em!" At 'em went Wylkynsion. Alas, the thing zigged when Earnur was anticipating a zag. The dread blade Wylkynsion ended up buried to the hilt in Lord Roneld's chair.

"Idiot!"

The rest of the company was so fascinated by the close passes that disaster was making at their heads that they could scarcely move, or maybe it was the violent spasms of laughter which held them immobilized.

It was good fortune that the thing made a tactical miscalculation in choosing Halfullion to be the next thing that it ran over.

"Got ya!" Halfullion cried in triumph. Surely Merisuwyniel would be impressed now. She certainly was.

"Ha-ha, ho-ho it seems to be...hee hee hee, some type of barnyard fowl!" she gasped.

"Humph! Could be that you are right," Halfullion snorted. "The reason why it was running about like a chicken with it's head cut off is, that it was a chicken with it's head cut off. Oh well, I still get hero points for catching the beast!"

"And if you'll hand it to me," said a slightly disheveled Kuruharan, "it can go join it's friends in the chicken fry that Chrysophylax is cooking up."

"Good idea!" cried Pimpi who instantly dashed off to where Chrysophylax sat exercising his culinary skills.

"But we just ate," objected Merisuwyniel.

"And after all that exercise we need to replenish our strength," replied Kuruharan.

"Hmm, yon dwarf may be right. My belly growls like an angry puma," said Halfullion.

"Ooof, oy, hup," grunted Earnur in his attempts to free his blade. "We can continue planning over fried chicken. Ah, there!" he said as Wylkynsion started to come free.

"'Bout time!"

Seeing that everyone save for her and her two gallants had already gone to eat (with the exception of Lord Roneld who was still flopped unconscious on the ground) she relented. "All right, but really we must get some business done!" she said in an adorably, pouty way as they moved off.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Birdland]

A small fox, passing by on business of his own, stopped for several minutes and sniffed. Finally finding the discarded chicken head, he sat crunching it thoughtfully while observing the not-so-secret council/BBQ from the shelter of the bushes.

“Ummagumma! What next? Several species of Elves, Men, Half-Men, Half-Halflings, and Dwarves, Gathered Together in a Gazebo and Grooving with a Stick? There’s something mighty queer behind this.”

He was quite right, but he never found out any more about it, since he immediately dashed off to sell what he did know to the highest bidder.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

After hours of wrangling with his sapling, Pettygast finally got the blasted thing pointed in the general direction of Elven Farm. As he angled in for his landing, he looked down with remembered fondness at the familiar face of the small fox who munched contentedly on the discarded chicken head, a sly and knowing grin plastered on her face.

With a splat, his staff descended in the middle of the council/BBQ, throwing the donkey Hummus some ways over to the side. The wizard looked about in complete panic: Elves, Men, Half-Men, Half-Halflings, and Dwarves. There was no way he could possibly remember all these names. Hopefully, since he was only a cameo wizard, no one would seriously expect him to be a whiz at names. Or at anything else, for that matter.

Best get his message out of the way. Perhaps, then he could go get a plate of chicken and keep his mouth closed for the remainder of the session. That is closed except for the chewing part.

With a flourish, he bowed low before the assembled horde who were frankly paying little attention to him. He tried pounding on the table with his sapling staff, which seemed to have but little effect.

"Ahem!" He cleared his throat and again strove to command their attention, but with only limited success. Still, a few of the folk were listening. Mainly, it was those who were waiting in the buffet line who hadn't managed to fill their plates yet.

"You there, with your mouths full, and those waiting still for chicken dinners, I have a message to deliver from the Mighty Fruit-Giver. She would say thus to you: 'In your passion and your fury for the entient bow, forget not that others still await on the shelf. Forget not the cries of the poor broom handles, and chair legs. Nor the spoons, or forks or even the broken bowls. For these too clamor for revenge, and to be reunited with their brother, the great Entish bow.'"

And at this point a thing of wonder occurred. And all who saw it dropped their plates. For the Entish bow let out a mighty groan, and a single tear dropped down to the ground to mingle with the sacred white sand. Nor could any say how that sand had appeared from nowhere for surely it was from the Place beyond the Great Rift and the Bent Seas where no one can get to but everyone wants to go, and indeed was not native to Elven Farm.

Pimpi set down her chicken leg and fixed a luscious eye on the wizard. "So will you come along with us on this quest thingie to uncover the guilty Orcs."

"Nay, for my own task lies in another direction." Here Pettygast sighed deeply. "I must search the bazaars and the rummage bins of Middle-earth until every splinter of this Ent be lain bare, and these pieces I shall bring to you. For somehow and someway, they must be reassembled."

"Yet still, if some day in bitter need, you think that you require my skills, I will surely strive to come."

Sir Gormlessar spluttered out a protest, "Here, here, this is not reasonable. For how shall we call to you from the other end of the world?"

"Gormlessar, you of small faith and even smaller mind, doubt not that I will come when called. Just sit tight and range forth your fea in the manner of the Mighty. The call to which I answer is the same one that will draw Hummus, my gentle beast, to my side." Then he raised his hand to his mouth and hallooed "HeeHaw, HeeHaw", and the donkey instantly reappeared.

He retired to the buffet line and helped himself to a piece of chicken, and found a modest place to eat, for truly he wished only to keep quiet now and think on what others would say.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The mighty Lord Earnur Etceteron was feeling distinctly confused. In the past few days a lot of very peculiar things seemed to have happened very quickly, and only now did he feel that he had sufficient grasp of the situation to sum up his manly confusion. Putting down a paper plate half-filled with half-eaten chicken, he looked squarely at the bizarre newcomer in the slightly awkward manner of one restrained from speech by the demands of mastication. "Mfff mm mmff mm..." he ventured, accompanying this intellectual sally with violent gesticulation in the vain opinion that this would stave off further conversation until his mouth was in a fit state to join it. In this intent he failed miserably, as Pettygast was already far progressed in the buffet queue by the time he could swallow, and besides there were other matters to attend to before the council could reach a conclusion.

To this end, the mighty Lord Etceteron addressed himself to the hugely complicated task of removing the mighty sword Wylkynsion from his host's once-valuable antique chair. His mouth by now clear of its fowling, he felt ready to venture yet more opinion on the matter: "Sorry," he said, forgetting his mythic status in his general confusion and embarrassment. "That happens from time to time." but inside his head bitter words were being spoken:
I'll 'ave yer fer that, yer flamin' great ponce! Oos 'and was 'oldin' me bleedin' 'ilts eh? Yours, yer pillock. All I said was that you could 'ave them girlie fairies wiv wun 'and be'ind yer back. Owww! Yer bugger! Mind me bleedin' quillions! I swear I'm gunna....

This conversation was cut mercifully short as the great blade tore free of the now decisively defeated chair, neatly depositing sword and bearer in a crumpled mess on the floor.

Mustering his routed dignity, Lord Etceteron placed his errant sword upon the great conference table. Although everyone was more concerned with queueing for dinner by this point, he felt compelled to draw attention to his manly decision:
"An 'tis needed, mine brand is at the service of this company." he intoned gravely; but the effect was marred by the brief debate about this decision that went on in his head once the valiant words had been spoken:

If you fink I'm doin' a job wiv that bunch of muppets you've anuvva fink comin', Sunshine.

"Yet their quest promises great glory, O my blade."

Great glory?! That bleedin' 'ippy 'oo just turned up's lookin' arahnd a load uv bleedin' jumble sales! It'll be like that job we pulled up in Forochel where 'arf the bleedin' company went doolally an' we 'ad ter be rescued by them bleedin' snowmen!

"Yet verily 'tis a noble enterprise. And thou art but a sword. The decision is mine."

Oh yeah? We'll see about that. I won't draw. Ye'll 'ave ter use a bleedin' extendin' potato knife like that uvver berk.

"Oh go on. There'll be fighting...erm...eth."

Chance ter give someone a good kickin'?

"We may be called upon to vanquish many foes, yes"

Awright, mate; yerron. This goes tits up, mind, and I'll 'ave yer guts fer garters.

"Then we are decided." he thought. Then he cried "I shall undertake this quest, though it lead through the foulest bring-and-buy sales in all Middle-earth. Yea though it bring us unto the dreaded Closing-Down Sale of Souls, or the Charity Shop of Doom, nevertheless shall I do my part. Behold! I swear these things upon my naked weapon, and so pledge myself to this great cause!"

This mighty vow having been greeted with the approval it merited (there was some half-hearted jolly-gooding from the front of the lunch queue, where the proximity of food had inspired a spirit of charity. At the other end, the great pledge of Lord Etceteron went entirely unnoticed in the shoving), Earnur retrieved his flask, pipe and tobacco pouch from various sable pockets about his nighted garments and began his lunch in earnest. He had been gasping for a shot of whatever he'd last filled the flask with since the meeting had begun, and his unwonted antics during its course had only put an edge on his thirst. Stuffing his bowl with rough shag, Lord Earnur settled down to blow smoke rings and drink hard liquor until order might be restored. He'd had a lot of close shaves while carrying the sword Wylkynsion, he mused, but this seemed the closest yet. Still, a nice sharpen and polish would mollify the blade.

Wot's "mollify" mean? asked Wylkynsion, clearly affected by the word despite its ignorance of its meaning; and with that Lord Etceteron began to while away the long minutes before he could again legitimately claim everyone's attention in improving the word power of his offensive weapon.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

After a few dainty nibbles on a chicken wing (yes, they did have wings, although they did not fly) Merisuwyniel’s bird-like appetite was satisfied. She looked around the assembled company of handsome, yet blundering, heroes and other persons, all of whom seemed more interested in filling their plates than finding a solution for the problem at hand. No immediate course of action was to be expected from them.

Quietly she stole away, fully intending to bring it back when she was finished with it. Gracefully and purposefully she strode to the stable. Falafel whinnied a greeting as she approached, nuzzling her pocket in anticipation of the apple she had stowed there. She stroked his mane absently, then impulsively swung herself onto his back. One word, whispered into his ear, and they galloped out of the stable.

Her long blond tresses flowed behind her like a banner as she headed for the fields surrounding Elven Farm. Falafel needed neither saddle nor bridle, for they were as one, sensing each other’s wishes and knowing each other’s thoughts. Soon they reached the forest path, slowing slightly as the trees grew closer. A slight motion in the shadows commanded Merisuwyniel’s attention, and her sharp Elven eyes discerned a fox trotting away.

Quick! Fit an arrow to me! she felt the bow command.

But why? she wondered. This creature is neither foe nor prey.

But it is up to mischief, came the answer. I can see it in its face. And I say to you, though the fox does not endanger us now, it will bring peril to our mission if we let it live. It is as bad as an Orc, and deserves death.

Deserves it?! Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. On the other hand, some that live deserve life, and some that die deserve death. Woe is me – what ever shall I do? There was a brief interruption as Falafel, who misinterpreted her thoughts, stopped suddenly. Realizing in shame that he had fallen into the pitfall of a homophone, he resumed his pace. Merisuwyniel’s train of thought was not derailed by such a minor stop. It’s such a cute little animal and couldn’t possibly do anything harmful to us. My heart tells me that we may meet again and it may have some part to play in our story. Then again, it may not…

The bow vibrated dangerously, but it could not take action by itself and fell silent sullenly. Falafel turned his steps back to the Farm, galloping once more just to give his mistress the pleasure of feeling her hair blowing in the wind. When they reached the stable, Merisuwyniel leaped to the ground, took fond leave of Falafel and strode back in the direction of the gazebo, hoping that the others had finished their repast by now.

[ January 14, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

The rest of the company was hardly aware of Vogonwë's presence this entire time, as he had retreated into a world located in the left side of his brain, if it was to be found in his brain at all.

Once he got his plate of chicken, he sat alone with the plate on one knee, and a piece of paper on his other (Pimpi had been so kind as to fetch a ream for him). He began by transcribing the notes upon his hand and wrist onto the scroll, and then fresh words began to pour from the left side of his mind (if they poured from his mind at all).

In one hand he held a pen, and in the other he gracefully gripped the bottle of Hair Off the Cat that Bit You. Every now and then he would pause from his feverish scribbling to take a sip from the curious little bottle, but he allowed his chicken to become cold. Pimpi came by and tried to engage him in conversation, but he hardly paid any attention to her, save to ask for a few sticky rhymes. So she helped herself to his chicken, and left again without his noticing.

This would be the greatest poem he had ever composed, he thought with heady enthusiasm. He could envision the name already: The Lay of the Entish Bow and The Hunting of the Orcs, Fit the First: The Council/BBQ of Roneld. The motivation and various particulars of the Quest were unimportant to him beyond their potential for epic verse. Even the arrival of the Wizard was of little consequence, except that he was delighted to realize that Pettygast the Green Wizard rhymed nicely with A Repast of Chicken Gizzards.

Vogonwë took yet another sip of the delicious minty hazelnut liquid, and noted for a fleeting moment that though the bottle was small and he had been imbibing generously for two days, it was not yet even half empty. This thought only flitted through his mind for a moment, for he was soon trying to come up with a rhyme for Wylkynsion, and all other matters were forgot.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Lord Roneld observed the barbeque queue and sighed. Why did business lunches always end like this? The plates were fuller than the heads, and soon the digestive process would rob the gathering of its last remnant of decisive energy. He had to take action soon.

What should he do with this motley crew of half-elves, half-heroes and half-halflings, to say nothing of the dragon?! His allies were not getting thinner! How could he rid himself of them before they ate him out of house and farm and wrecked his furniture with their blundering weapons? Slowly a thought evolved, an idea that gave his eyes a slightly malicious gleam, though none could see it through the black circles perched on either side of his nose. The thought grew and culminated in one word: Mother-in-law!

He noted Merisuwyniel’s return and beckoned her to him. A few whispered words, and she lifted her lovely soprano voice in one clear tone, rising in height and strength until it reached a voluminous high C. The drinking glasses on the table shattered, everyone looked up from their plates in astonishment, and Roneld finally had their undivided attention. Unfortunately, his satisfaction was marred by the fact that his darkened eyeglasses were also shattered, so that he had to proceed without them.

“Friends, Rohans, countrymen, lend me your ears! You shall have them back anon. This noble Entish bow requires help on a quest fraught with great danger. Sides may be split by weapons or laughter before this adventure is over. I dare not command any of you, but I ask: Who will go with fair Merisuwyniel and the bow on a mission of revenge and recovery?”

Lord Halfullion Gormlessar hesitated not an instant before stepping to her side, proclaiming, “You have my sword!”

Earnur Etceteron dashed over and exclaimed, “Hey, I already offered her mine!”

Orogarn Two shrugged and said, “Well, even if you don’t have my wallet, I can go with you. The prophecy must be good for something.”

Pimpiowyn piped up, “I will join the company to avenge my parents.”

Vogonwë snapped out of his poetic reverie as all eyes focused on him and absently added, “Um, yes, me too.”

Kuruharan had been silently calculating the possibilities for lucrative endeavours and spoke up, “You have my dragon, but only on a leasing basis.”

“Speak for yourself,” Chrysophylax growled. “What’s in it for me?”

“Well,” said Pettygast, “someone has to scour the Shire, Rohan and Gondor for more pieces of the Ent That Was Broken, so that will be my mission.”

“Wonderful!” Roneld called out, secretly relieved. “There will be seven of you travelling, eight if we include the wizard, nine if we count the dragon, ten if we consider the bow sentient, fourteen with the horses – no, fifteen, I forgot the donkey.”

’Ere, wot about me? Wylkynsion interjected, but only Etceteron heard him.

Roneld continued, “You shall be called the Multiple, Choice Questers!”

Excitement rose high as all thronged to the buffet one more time to make sure that they were adequately provided with nourishment before leaving. Then the gazebo emptied and the company dispersed to pack their bags.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

When they regathered with their various paraphernalia and mounts, Roneld stood at the gate with his family and personnel to make sure they all left – um, to bid them farewell. Merisuwyniel and Halfullion led the group on Falafel and Tofu, with Earnur close behind them astride Baklava. Vogonwë had mounted Pasdedeux by means of a double somersault followed by a twist, while Pimpiowen had been helped up behind him more conventionally. Kuruharan walked beside Chrysophylax, since the dragon was not to fly for the time being. Pettygast sat on Hummus, staff in hand. The only member of their company without a beast of burden was Orogarn Two.

Vogonwë was the first to notice. “Pray tell, where is your equine companion?” he asked.

The man lifted his head proudly and declaimed, “Orogarn Two has no horse, Orogarn Two needs no horse!”

Pimpi had noticed something else. “Just where are we going?” she asked. “Does anyone know?”

All eyes turned to Merisuwyniel, who turned and looked to Roneld.

“You will travel to Topfloorien, the Elven Highrise Apartflet Complex,” he answered. There shall you receive aid from my kindred. Indeed, happy were the days when we visited them for the great festivities of our people. In memory of our own journeys, my children shall sing you an Elven song to speed you on your way.”

As they rode and walked out of the gate, the lovely strains of music wafted toward them:

Ó ver Theriveran dthruth ewoodsto
grand mothë rshouse wego…

[Diamond18]

As they left the Elven Farm, the singing of the Elf-children faded away, and it was silent except for the tweeting of the birds and the sound of bugs buzzing. Vogonwë sighed as he thought of his cat and mouse, who had to be left behind. He hoped they would be all right. He was sure they would be. After all, they had each other. They would be fine.

Seated on the back of Pasdedeux, Pimpiowyn had a good view of the fletching on Vogonwë’s arrows. She felt a surge of pride as she thought about how her love was the deadliest aim with hand thrown arrows in all of Middle-earth. His arrows always hit their mark, even if he closed his eyes and tossed them over his shoulder. And not only that, but he could throw them at the unparalleled rate of sixty arrows per minute. He had been named the Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud one hundred years in a row.

She glanced around at the others of the company, and smiled with satisfaction. The Orcs would have no chance in the face of such fearsome heroes and heroines. Merisuwyniel was stunningly beautiful, and very well dressed, with the Entish Bow across her back. The Wizard lent a studious air to the gathering, with his great drooping mustaches and long green beard. Orogarn Two’s hair was looking particularly impressive today, as he jogged along next to the horses. Lord Gormlessar was, well, the same as always. Lord Etceteron was looking manly as he rode upon Baklava, beside her and Vogonwë on Pasdedeux. He was manfully drinking from a very manly looking flask, and Baklava was trotting gallantly onward, hoping that Pasdedeux was noticing him. Even the mercenary Dwarf looked dwarfly and heroic as he strode beside the big, honkin’ dragon.

Vogonwë broke the silence by clearing his throat a couple times. He took a few sips from his bottle, and then said, “I have composed a poem in honor of this setting forth. Would you like to hear it?”

“No, indeed,” Lord Gormlessar replied shortly. The others waited for a moment, fearing a pun, but none was forthcoming.

“Now, now,” Merisuwyniel said, as she was feeling especially generous, “such an occasion as this merits the recitation of a poem. We are setting out on a grand adventure, and we must do it in style. You may proceed, Master Brownbark.”

Etceteron swallowed down whatever manly substance he was imbibing and said, “Ah, poetry, the very song of the human, or, er, elven soul.” Eh, yer a bleedin’ sap’s wot you are, Wylkynsion grumbled from its sheath. Ah’ll tell you wot sinks to th’ sahl uv a swahd, Ah will. A luvly shahp— But Etceteron ignored it with a manful swig of liquid.

Pimpi closed her eyes and steeled herself for the ordeal, giving Vogonwë a reassuring pat on the back. Then she wrapped her fingers around the Head of Lopitoff, and retreated to a happy place.

Vogonwë again cleared his throat and took a taste of his own medicine, and then he intoned grandiosely: “I will sing for you the The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs, Fit the First: The Council/BBQ of Roneld. Ahem, hroom, harrum. Yes...

Lord McDoneld had a Farm,
And in that Farm he had a Gazebo,
A Gaze-i-e-i-ebo.
And in that Gazebo he had a Council,
The Council of Roneld McDoneld.

Roneld was there, with receding hair,
And many other creatures sat in other chairs,
Elves and Men and then some, and all were very handsome.
And then there were two others who were very winsome;
The fairest maids in all the land, fair of face and pale of hand,
Merisuwyniel ornaments her seat like a finial,
And Pimpiowyn’s eyes are as blue as the skies.
And then there was a Dwarf with his Dragon, and that makes everyone.

The Elven-maid brought forth and laid,
A Bow upon the table, and she did this very able.
The Bow was made of an Ent, that was bent and broken,
And then words were spoken that chilled the bones,
As they were uttered in mimsiest tones.
The words came from the Ent that was bent,
And they were terrible to hear, and filled the people with fear,
To hear them spoken so near.

“The bow is gone bad or mad, and something must be done,
Yet it may not be fun,” said Lord Roneld as the Bow they beheld.
“We shall have to either destroy it, then, or put it back together again.
Yet all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put an Ent back together again.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” said the Dwarf with a roar,
As he hopped to the floor, his ax ready for the chore.
Up leapt Gormlessar, and stopped the aggressor,
With a word of command he drew his sword in his hand.
“Get thee hence, and be nice to Ents!” he ordered.
There was a moment of suspense, and the air was tense,
And then the Dwarf left.

Roneld turned his bespectacled eyes upon Gormlessar,
And looked on him with the gaze of an oppressor.
A contest of wills then provided some thrills,
But the moment was soon past, and then things happened fast.

The Dwarf brought poultry into the mix,
And provided a comic fix,
And it seemed like all seriousness was nixed.
But then the situation was fixed.

“What’ll we do, when our options are few?” Roneld returned to the subject at hand.
“For a resolution there is a demand.”

The discussion went on, and on, and on, and on.
The matter of Orcs came on strong,
And Roneld said they would kill them, anon.
And Pimpiowyn sang out in song,
“I shall kill Orcs till they’re gone!”

A then thus spoke Vogonwë, “If Pimpiowyn is to go that perilous way,
I shall go too, or you’ll have to tie me up in a knapsack of hay to keep my away,
So try if you may, but still I won’t stay, and I’ll come anyway. See if I don’t!”

Roneld rejoiced at the things that were voiced,
And then suddenly the Council was hoist,
By an invader of strange bodily form,
A decapitated chicken, the plot did thicken,
As the heroes chased it around the Gazebo.
The Gaze-i-e-i-ebo.
With a squawk squawk here and a thwack thwack there,
Here a squawk, there a thawk, everywhere a squawk thwack,
The heroes attacked the flurrying fowl with a hack and a smack,
While the others with laughter did howl.

Gormlessar’s sword became lesser in size,
And as he fell to the floor, Etceteron did arise,
He took the debonair sword Wylkynsion in his hand,
And struck the chair Roneld was kindly sitting on, oh man.

After the bird was caught, and the Council was naught,
They retired for a repast of chicken gizzards.
When arrived Pettygast the Green Wizard.
He spoke to them riddles, of cup, plates, and fiddles,
And the Fruit-giver was mentioned in there somewhere.

Then Earnur the Fair, of manly black hair,
Drew his sword from the chair, with a manly air,
And laid it upon the table, and this he did very able.
“This sword I will share,” he sought to declare,
“With everyone around this table.”

“Jolly good!” said the brood, while around the table they stood,
Eating their food, and they found it was good,
And eat all day, they would, if they could.

But Roneld had a better idea,
And Merisuwyniel sang an aria.
“Get to a flet,” Roneld said, “and there, I’ll bet, you’ll find help yet.”
And so out they set, to face the threat, after they’d et.

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox trudged through the halls of the keep at Gol Dulldor, having first sent the wolves to their pens and his lads to their homes (after depositing their loot in the treasury, of course). At the end of the hall was a tall arch which stood over a great red door. Several Orcs were busily painting it black. He passed through the doorway and bowed deeply.

"My lord," he intoned gravely.

A man dressed in black robes wearing a metal crown upon his head (bearing the mystical runes spelling "Maxwell House" on its blue aluminum) spun about in his Recaro chair. This was the evil Lord Sourone. "Gravlox!" he barked. "You've been afield nearly three months! Where have you been? Report!"

Gravlox bowed deeply. "My Lord," he said. "My troops and I have been far afield, have slain many Elves and Men, terrorized many maidens, fouled rivers, stolen goats, and gone through toll booths without paying, as was your wish."

"Yes, yes," replied Sourone as he toyed with a mystical set of silver balls that clicked against one another as they swung back and forth. "But what loot do you bring to fill my coffers?"

"Lots!" answered Gravlox. "Loads and ladles of loot, laden upon the laboring lads of my Lord! Bags of gold, silver and copper coins and the carberator from a VW Microbus. And we only lost one Orc to the swords of our foes!"

He's lying!came a voice seemingly out of nowhere.

"What?" said Sourone. "Who said that?"

He's lying! They ran out of food and ate Gorbachev the Fat. And they found the carberator in a pond! Ow! Gravlox had stamped his left foot hard upon the marble floor.

"Nothing, my lord," stammered Gravlox. "Twas just my foot...er...my wooden foot. You'll recall I was wounded in battle, sir, and I needed a foot. So your craftsmen made one for me out of wood, but it was enchanted by some foul magic of the Elves or someone."

Sourone looked over his bifocals at the Orc Captain. "You really should get that taken care of," he said. "Very well. "How long before you can sally forth again to bring terror to the hearts of the Free People? A month?"

"I leave tomorrow," Gravlox said hurriedly. "Your wish is my command!" With that he rushed out of the lushly appointed offices of the evil one. Once outside the door, he stamped his left foot again. "You shut up or I'll use you for kindling." As he walked towards his quarters, he heard the faint sound of giggling.

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

"Honey, I'm home!" called Gravlox, hoping beyond odds that there would be no answer.

"Gravlox?" came the reply. "Darling, where have you been? I've missed you. Kiss. Kiss"

Gravlox cringed, and if you have ever seen a female Orc, you know why. He hurriedly threw her a bag of coins and backed away towards his room. "Can't stay. In a hurry. Gotta go back out with my troops. Duty calls and all," he stuttered.

"Again?" said his wife as she counted the money and stashed it in her bodice. "At least say hi to little Gravy."

"Yar," answered Gravlox. He trudged down the hall to Gravlox, Jr.'s room or Gravy as he was known. The sound of scissors echoed in the hall as he approached the door. He poked his head in to the bright room, noting that his son had changed the curtains again (to lime green) and had begun using a new brand of deodorizer (minty fresh). "Hey, kid," he said.

"Daddykins!" cried Gravy. "Oh, I've soooo missed you. Hair Design School is soooo hard and I can never find anyone to practice on. My brothers captured this Elf for me and I'm trying out a new hairstyle. Oh, look!"

An Elf looked up at Gravlox. The whites of his eyes showed as he shook in fear and shame. His hair had been died pink and cut into a mohawk. "Kill me, please!" he whispered.

"Very nice, son," said the Orc Captain hurriedly. "Have fun!" He shut the door and walked into his room. It was going to be a long night...

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

On the road the silence that followed Vogonwë's recitation could only be described as "deafening". It was the sort of silence that only happens when the demands of courtesy and aesthetic taste have just collided violently, bringing about an awkwardness that is the conversational equivalent of gridlock. The silence was brooding and malevolent, and it lay like an unwashed horse-blanket over the company, broken only by a soft gurgling noise.

"Actually I quite liked it" said Earnur brightly, replacing the cap on his flask. The corner of one of his eyes looked distinctly moist so that, were it not for his rugged, manly reputation, one might even have thought him moved.

"As indeed you should," replied Vogonwë, preening noticeably as he swigged from his own bottle. "For it is my greatest work to date."

Immediately several pairs of eyes turned disbelievingly to Pimpiowyn for confirmation, becoming yet more incredulous when she nodded a dainty agreement. In her opinion Vogonwë's greatest poetical work had been a sonnet composed on a dead centipede, which had actually scanned for six lines before collapsing into verbal anarchy, but that only bettered this latest effort in its relative brevity.

"Oh yes," said Earnur. "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective."

"Erm..." replied the self-appointed Poet Laureate of Workmud, demonstrating once more his uncanny linguistic gift.

"Could you repeat that in Westron?" quoth Lord Gormlessar mightily. "Because it sounded like complete rubbish to me."

But no amount of perplexity could stop Lord Etceteron now. He had overcome the inertia of being completely alone in his appreciation of the staves and was rolling happily downhill toward the alligator pit of universal contempt with a beatific smile on his face. "Oh ... and er ... int'reshting rhythmick devishes too," he continued, "which seemed to counterpoint the...er...er...counterpoint the shurrealishm of the underlying methaphor of the ... er ... humanity ... Sorry, Eldarity ... of the poet's compassionate soul."

A suspicion began to dawn on a number of the listening public that Lord Etceteron might not be feeling entirely himself. His rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, sponge-tongued discourse was most unwonted in a hero, especially since his childlike enthusiasm seemed like to encourage the composition of further fits of the poem. There was a smattering of 'um's and a few 'er's by way of attempted interruption, but Earnur was beyond such petty restraints, with the end of his response in sight.

"...which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other, and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into ... into ... er ... whatever it was the poem was about!"

Lord Etceteron, Master of the Black Sword, concluded his critical analysis triumphantly and fell off his horse, which snorted disdainfully and surreptitiously tried to tread on him. After scrabbling for his flask and stowing it somewhere about his person, he rose and addressed Baklava in a series of snorts and whinnies, which, did he but know it, instructed the great black stallion to fetch him a cooper as his harpsichord was gravid. This vital intelligence passed on, Lord Etceteron made shift to mount and on the third attempt succeeded, his hand brushing the hilts of his blade as he flopped gracelessly into the saddle, facing backwards.

You plonker came a familiar voice, followed closely by a cascade of laughter that was part whetstone on blade, part death-rattle.

"What holds us thus in this place?" demanded Earnur, swinging elegantly round so that he faced once more in the direction of travel. "Come, we must be swift, lest want of speed should ... err ... render us ... erm ... late"

The company moved on in embarrassed silence, punctated only by an occasional stifled giggle. Truly this would be an arduous journey.

[ February 14, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Rimbaud]

It was a cold grey day near the end of one of the cold grey months predominant in that part of the world. The East Wind was streaming in from the West, sweeping all northwards, and seething in the dark locks of Halfullion’s hair like a breeze of irate hair-stylists. Ragged urchin clouds scudded around, Dickensianly.

The company took plenty gear of war, for their hope was in battle not in secrecy. Halfullion bore his mighty blade, of great repute, and also a small carved tin-whistle, of great power.

“Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills” he said, “and then let all the foes of Lord Gormlessar flee!” Putting it to his lips, he blew a shrill and painful shriek, and the echoes leapt personificationally from rock to rock, and in a sort of hyperbolic and entirely inaccurate sense, all that heard that voice in the wilderness sprang to their feet. Except those without feet who just sufficed with looking slightly more alert than they had been previously. Unless, of course, they were footless people (or those already afoot) who had already been looking especially alert at the time of the whistle blowing; it was difficult to judge with those sorts of folks whether or not the whistle had any effect. However, this paragraph digresses, and leaps from tone to tone like a drunken pianist with three hands, in a simile sort of way.

“Slow should you be to wind that…whistle again, Gormlessar,” said Pimpi, ‘until you stand once more on the Borders of The Strand and dire need is on you.”

“Maybe,” said Halfullion. “But I really like tin whistles.”

Everyone waited expectantly for the pun, the build-up having been so precise. Again, they were disappointed. “Maybe he’s losing it,” muttered Merisuwyniel hopefully.

At the Ford of Buicken, they left the Road, and turning southwards, went on by narrow paths north among the folded lands of origami. Their porpoise was to hold this course west of the Mountains for many miles, then report back to them. Their purpose was still a little murky. Well, indistinct anyway. A bit like a shadowy shadow, trying to be unobtrusive, their purpose hung around them like a garland around the neck of a god become bull. As the Greeks would have it.

[ January 17, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Kuruharan]

"Owwwww…," groaned Earnur, in a manly fashion. "Tone it down with the whistle!"

Kuruharan abruptly went over to Merisuwyniel.

"After that ghastly poetry exhibition, I fear that Chrysophylax and myself are going to require a cash advance in order to be able to proceed with this quest."

"Eh…?" said Merisuwyniel. Her beautiful face suddenly wore a puzzled expression. "Cash advance? Who said that you were going to be paid?"

"You did!" said Kuruharan. "Don’t you remember our agreement at the council where the deal was that we would go along on a leasing basis? At the time, out of the goodness of my heart, we did not require a deposit. Now, after discovering the hazardous nature of this merry frolic, I fear that our expenses have risen considerably. Chrysophylax insists on buying multiple sets of ear-plugs at the next way station. So, the required deposit is 1,500. You will, of course, be receiving a receipt."

"Fifteen-hundred?!" shrieked Merisuwyniel. "What about the expenses the rest of us are going to incur, partially on a similar investment in ear-plugs?! But we will also have motel bills, food, hay, weapon maintenance…"

"Well," interrupted Kuruharan, "if you’d just bought the port-a-forge before Lord Roneld purchased it you would not have that last problem."

"That is entirely beside the point. Furthermore, there is no way that any amount of ear-plugs is going to cost 1,500," expounded Merisuwyniel.

"Do you think that refusing us is really wise?" intoned Kuruharan. "I mean, do you think that it is easy keeping control of that dragon? He demands the finer things in life, and that includes the ability to block out atrocious poetry. I will not be the one who has to tell him that he can’t have any ear-plugs! You are the one who won’t pay us what you owe us. A trait that seems to be so typically Elven that it’s probably settled into your genetic code."

"This is not the time to discuss that!" snapped Merisuwyniel. "He’s your dragon you tell him!"

"Not me!" said a suddenly cringing Kuruharan. "I’ve seen this dragon eat twelve stout Easterling warriors in two seconds flat, their illogical, improbable armor and all. And he’s not in a good mood. Look at him!"

Merisuwyniel glanced over in the general direction of the dragon. Chrysophylax was stamping along in high dudgeon. He was muttering furiously about how a great dragon of imperial lineage should never have to walk along on the ground and generally be treated like a pack-mule. His head suddenly plunged into the bushes, emerging with the remains of several innocent woodland creatures that he proceeded to chomp furiously. After his snack he playfully let out a small burst of flame, catching some of the trees on fire.

"Surely you can see," said Kuruharan, "that at the very least, his continued fumings will result in an ecological disaster of catastrophic proportions! Being an upstanding, responsible, and tree-hugging Elf you cannot allow that to happen as long as you have money in your purse!"

"Ohh," cried Merisuwyniel, moved with pity for the poor woodland creatures and the poor trees. "Yes, somebody must stop him, but how? He is a dragon and all."

"You can pay us the money you owe us. Your duty as an Elf requires that you do no less! All the poor, innocent woodland creatures, and helpless trees are depending on you! As a matter of fact, all Elves everywhere are depending on you! You can’t let them down!"

Merisuwyniel was so torn between indignation, rage, grief, nervousness, and financial anxiety that she did not even notice that Chrysophylax had pulled out a violin, plopped himself down on the ground, and started playing very sentimental music at just the right pitch to cause the perfect amount of heart-tugging. It was a scene that looked exceedingly odd.

"You’re right!" cried Merisuwyniel. "I cannot allow an evil dragon to rampage about the woods, devouring innocent woodland creatures! It’s up to me to stop him!"

"Of course it is!" shouted Kuruharan excitedly.

"I have to uphold the honor of the Elves!" cried Merisuwyniel.

"And such lovely hands to do it with!" bellowed Kuruharan.

The violin music was rising to a crescendo.

"I have to do my duty!" howled Merisuwyniel, calling on the warrior blood of her fighting ancestors.

"You have to pay me the 1,500 you owe me!" bawled Kuruharan.

"Right!" screamed Merisuwyniel. "Here you go!" she screeched as she handed the dwarf her money pouch.

"And here’s your receipt!" cried Kuruharan. "Pleasure doing business with you!"

Kuruharan abruptly retired to his place in line and the violin music ceased.

"What in the name of the wart on Elendil’s left index finger was that all about?" asked Orogarn Two.

"The honor of the Eldar was satisfied!" said Merisuwyniel dourly. "That will teach that vile worm to mess with the delicate ecology of the woodlands!"

"Whatever," said Orogarn Two. "By the way, if you look back you can still see The Last Home-Grown Cows! Spectacular view!"

"Oh, this is going to be a very long quest," moaned Merisuwyniel, her horse stepping over the prone form of Earnur Etceteron who had fallen out of his saddle again.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two trotted effortlessly beside the frustrated elf-maiden wondering is she might have information on his missing wallet. Merisuwyniel had doled out the Dwarf’s extortion fee quite readily, and it was oobvious that she possessed a greater than average capacity for the conveyance of coin. No ordinary money pouch could contain so much as the Kuruharan had demanded, so either the lovely elf-girl had his wallet or she and he shopped at the same outlet stores. He decided to investigate.

Gripping his magic crystal in his left hand, he focused his thought on the elf-maiden and mentally projected himself toward her. His hand tightened as he made mental contact with the lass and, unbeknownst to him, his right arm swung freely, going high in front of him and then falling in a graceful arc to point directly behind him. With each dextrous stride, his arm rose and fell like a child on a swing.

“What in Middle-earth are you doing?” asked Earnur, manfully.

Orogarn Two was startled from his task and released the stone at his neck.

“What do you mean?” he asked innocently, thinking he had been caught at his planned mental manipulation of Merisuwyniel.

“Your arm. What was that floating business with your arm?”

“Floating business?”

“Yes,” said Halfullion, “I saw it, too. You arm was moving in the most peculiar manner, like a hobbit hanging from a tree.”

“Which arm?”

“The right,” answered Kuruharan. “Very odd.”

“My right arm? Swinging like a halfling with a low vocabulary? I’m sure I don’t know what you might mean. I was doing nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Yes you were,” interjected Vogonwë. “I saw it, too. Your right arm was dangling like a participle.”

“Like a wispy maiden in a Summer breeze,” smiled Halfullion.

“Like a chicken in a suit of armor,” added Kuruharan.

Everyone looked at the Dwarf in confusion, each imagining a metal-encased barnyard fowl and wondering what Kuruharan could possibly have meant.

“Enough! My arm is innocent!” Orogarn Two dropped back to the rear of the party to stifle further conversation.

Surprised that he had been caught attempting to use his stone, yet unable to understand what everyone had been talking about, Orogarn Two waited patiently until their attention was turned elsewhere. The elf-gal’s suspicious money-storing capabilities were still highly suspect, and at last he saw the chance to probe her mind again. His left hand rose to the crystal once more.

“You’re doing it again!” shouted Earnur, far ahead of him but looking back.

“What!?” yelled Orogarn Two, upset that his attention had again been distracted.

“The arm thing,” said the Dwarf.

“I saw it this time, too,” added Merisuwyniel. “That is very odd.”

“Creepy, if you ask me,” said the dragon, hovering above the conversation.

“I didn’t ask you,” shouted Orogarn Two angrily to the flying monster above him, “and I still don’t know what you all are talking about. I am just minding my own business and enjoying the fresh country air as we go along.”

“Looks to me like you were dancing,” said Kuruharan, smiling. “Are you a dancer, mister Orogarn?”

“No, I am not. And I am not Mister Orogarn! I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn…”

“Not again!” shouted Halfullion.

“What?! I am Orogarn Two, son of …”

“…. son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed!” said everyone in unison.

“Do not mock me!” screamed Orogarn Two. “I will not be mocked.”

He stopped running suddenly, allowing the riding group to move quickly ahead of him.”

“Do not mock!” laughed Earnur quietly.

“I heard that!” returned Orogarn Two, running again so as not to be left behind, right hand tucked carefully into his trouser pocket.

[ January 16, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel had ample opportunity to become more closely acquainted with her travelling companions in the long days that followed. Despite the phenomenal pace of their illustrious steeds, they did not progress as rapidly as they could have, since the donkey stubbornly chose its own speed. Pettygast did manage, by some means (magick markers, perhaps?), to keep him going in the general direction of the group, lagging behind only slightly.

In the evenings, when they set up camp, the heroes practiced their fighting skills in friendly competition with one another. Merisuwyniel would have liked to continue her lessons in sword-handling, but Halfullion had refused, muttering something about “too many spectators”. She had to content herself with shooting arrows at trees, which were then hewn for firewood by Kuruharan’s mighty axe. Occasionally Vogonwë joined her in target practice, but for the most part, he could be found musing over his parchment or conversing with the horses.

Pimpiowyn had never in her life needed a weapon, but all agreed that she should at least be able to defend herself. Kuruharan produced a dagger of just the right size from his packs of goods and sold it to her. After she overcame her hesitance, she was eager to learn to use it and gained considerable skill. It was a beautiful blade, slender and supple; no doubt prompted by Wylkynsion, Earnur volunteered to practice with her frequently.

One evening, as all were enjoying the comradeship of activities after a good meal, Merisuwyniel looked up at the sky with furrowed brows.

“What do you see?” asked Halfullion, who was gazing admiringly at the curve of her shapely cheekbones.

“I am not sure,” she answered. “There appear to be black birds flying in this direction. Are there ravens here?”

Quoth Voronwë, “Nevermore!”

All stared at him, wondering over the dramatic utterance of the Poe-t.

“I too have Elven eyes,” he said somewhat sullenly. “And I say they are Crebain from Dunland.”

“That cannot be – wrong game!” Halfullion exclaimed.

“Indeed, they turn aside,” observed Merisuwyniel.

“They fly toward the fortress of EmCeeEm in Rohan, no doubt,” Orogarn Two stated.

“Yet others come, and they turn not aside,” Merisuwyniel continued. “Ai! These are Kiwi-banes from Down-Under!”

“Everyone hide!” Halfullion shouted. The ensuing scramble was made considerably more complicated by the fact that Chrysophylax was much too large to hide, so that they quickly tossed some branches over him to camouflage the dragon. All held very still, hoping that danger would soon pass.

[ January 19, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Birdland]

"I'm telling ye Burt, this just ain't right!"

"I heard ye the first time, Andy..."

"Mr. Peterson's "Guide to the Birds of the Southern 'Emispere' clearly states that the Kiwi is a flightless bird..."

"Keep flappin'."

"...with vestigul wings and shaggy, 'air-like feathers. So by rights, it is aerodinamically impossible for us to be flittin' about in the upper atmosphere. The lot of us should have plummeted like a Balrog the minute we left that tower..."

"I told ye before, Andy, We're enchanted!"

"ENCHANTED! Now who's the poncy little git who agreed to that! Nobody said nothin' to me about no enchantments when we signed up for this job."

"Monty agreed to it. It seemed like good deal at the time, and the job paid well..."

"Oh, well, Monty! He'll agree to anything if you show him the jack up front. But did Monty ever consider that we have no tails? How the 'ell did he expect us to steer? Bit awkward, flappin' around up here without a rudder-like tail. Makes navigation a bit difficult, ye know..."

"Would ye just shut your cake-hole and keep flappin'!"

[Kuruharan]

"Ah-Ah-AH-CHOOO!!! FUUUOOOOSSSHHHH!!!" went Chrysophylax as his allergies got the better of him, causing him to blast to cinders the branches that had been his cover. There he lay exposed to the sight of all.

"Ooops!" he said rather sheepishly.

"Look! A dragon!" screeched the Kiwi-banes.

"I can't find it in me guide book!" howled Andy.

"Shaddup!" squawked the other Kiwi-banes. "We have to go report!"

The birds turned about to go back the way they came.

Chrysophylax stared up at them with a stupid expression on his face. He hadn't the slightest idea what to do next. He could not let the Kiwi-banes return to "report."

In the end he reacted in the way that came naturally.

With a rush and a roar he surged into the sky and blasted and baked the Kiwi-banes into oblivion. Then he settled down to have a nice snack to celebrate his victory.

"Uck!" grunted Merisuwyniel. "Vile creature!"

"Whaaah...?" asked Chrysophylax, mouth full of roast Kiwi-bane. *BURP!* "'Scuse me!"

"OOO-ooo," moaned Merisuwyniel, shuddering.

"Allow me to comfort you!" exclaimed Earnur and Halfullion together.

"That's okay. We need to be moving on," said Merisuwyniel hastily.

[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Pettygast was having the most horrific time trying to keep his donkey pointed in the general direction the company was attempting to go. Unfortunately, Hummus kept running in large concentric circles. The wizard not only found himself becoming increasingly dizzy and light headed, but scrambling to play catch up with all those about him who seemed to be mounted on steeds whose pedigrees and conformation far exceeded those of his humble beast.

If that wasn't bad enough, Hummus seemed to be having a problem or two that might loosely fit the term 'being winded'. Pettygast kept a close watch on the donkey's front end, since he could only manage one end at a time. Moreover, this appeared to be the more serious dilemma. The beast was wheezing in and out, his nostrils distended and eyes staring wide. Pettygast kept flapping his knees against the donkey's shaggy sides, while gamely urging him to "Keep breathing. That's the trick. Just breath in and out. Go forward."

His attempts met with limited success. The donkey had finally turned a deaf ear to all pleas and imprecations, and come to a dead stop in protest, allowing Pettygast to hurtle forward over his head. The wizard ended up on the ground with a sore derriere. He seriously considered asking Orogarn Two whether he might hitch a lift, but the fellow had seemed a bit testy and might not react in a pleasant manner. Too bad he couldn't come up with that missing wallet, since it might gain him a few bargaining chips.

Most distressing of all was the group's eagerness to head straight to the Canthardlee Pass. A distant relation of his, the incomparable wizard--he of great wisdom and goodness whom everyone likes--had made a similar miscalculation, and ended up in even worse circumstances by being forced to undertake a different and more dangerous path. Pettygast grew nervous just thinking about that possibility, and showed signs of hyperventilation. His own activities ran more to frequenting jumble sales and discount stores rather than foolhardy escapades. If truth be told, he had a strong aversion to any circumstances that might bring him into close contact with any creature bearing large pointed teeth and exuding nasty breath, whether or not it happened to sport wings.

Not for the first or last time, Pettygast vowed to take up his complaints with Fruit-giver. But whenever he had complained to her in the past, she had merely shrugged her shoulders, pointed upward, and mumbled something incomprehensible about not really being the one in control. All the wizard's polite requests to speak with this gentleman or lady who arranged things higher up had ended only in failure.

Pettygast sighed and shook his head. He would truly love to meet this mysterious being who was supposedly in charge of managing wizardly resources, so that he could give him a piece or two of his mind regarding his particular job assignments, but the chances of that seemed increasingly remote. Best not think about it, he cautioned himself. Focus on the task at hand, which is more than enough to keep you busy! With a sigh of resignation, he attempted once more to get Hummus pointed in the same general direction as the rest of his companions.

[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Lord Halfullion Gormlessar seethed inwardly as he rode beside Earnur Etceteron, behind Merisuwyniel! Chrysophylax was walking abreast Falafel, with Kuruharan mounted on him. As much as it irked Halfullion to be relegated to second place, he dared not attempt to push the dragon aside, fearing his fiery temper. Yet while seemingly engaged in light bantering with his heroic companion, he fumed secretly. How could his Meri prefer the company of this nondescript dwarf to him – him, the peerless perfection of physical prowess, the avatar of attractiveness, the well of wisdom, the fëa of fearlessness…?

He was so preoccupied with his jealous thoughts that he failed to observe what was actually happening in front of him. Merisuwyniel was not speaking with the dwarf at all, but was engaged in animated conversation with Chrysophylax. Dragons have always had a special fondness for beautiful young maidens, and this one was no exception. Furthermore, she reminded him vaguely of a princess he had once met at a birthday party long ago. She had touched a soft spot in his heart that had since remained untouched.

The dragon, anxious to improve Merisuwyniel’s opinion of him, was telling her the most amusing stories of his adventures. She laughed, a melodious, rippling sound that infected all (except the still sullen Halfullion) with her high spirits. Nonetheless, she did not neglect to keep a watchful eye (two, as often as she could spare them) on her travelling companions. When the wizard was unceremoniously deposited on the ground by the recalcitrant donkey, she called the company to a halt.

“This wise beast knows that we have reached a point where we must decide how to proceed on our way,” she announced. “Either we travel south, to the Rohan Interstate Junction, or we cross the mountains by means of the Canthardlee Pass.”

“There is another way,” Halfullion reminded her, eager to reclaim his role in her decision making.

“Do not speak of that dark and secret path,” she said, as a shadow crossed her face. “I would not use it unless no other way is open to us. Let us rather take council to determine the further route of our journey.”

“I say we should travel by way of the Rohan Interstate,” Orogarn Two stated. “It is farther, yet we can travel more quickly, at least if that confounded donkey can keep up with us.” He stretched his long, well-muscled legs ostentatiously.

“There will be more travellers there as well,” added Kuruharan. “That will give me the opportunity - I mean, that will ensure our safety, which is in numbers, as we all know.”

“I say,” Earnur chipped in, “I have heard of some wonderful sport to be had on snowy mountains. Shouldn’t we try that?”

“What do you mean?” Halfullion asked.

“Well, you climb the mountain, then lay your shield on the snow, stand on it and slide back down. Sounds like jolly good fun!” Carried away by his enthusiasm, he abandoned the lofty expression that was his usual way of speaking.

“But what’s the sense in climbing up the mountain if you just come back down again?” Pimpi had no knowledge of the paths in the wilderness, but she did possess a good deal of common sense.

“Ah, the pristine whiteness of lofty, snow-bedecked peaks!” exclaimed Vogonwë, who was fortunately accustomed to being ignored, since no one took the least notice of his poetic effusion.

Suddenly Pettygast spoke up, startling them all, as they had forgotten him in the mean time. “Let the Bow-Bearer decide!”

“Um, I, well…” Vogonwë mumbled, startled from his poetic reverie.

“Bow-Bearer, not Bow-Wearer, darling,” Pimpiowyn admonished, patting him on the arm soothingly. He fell silent immediately, relieved to be rid of an unwelcome responsibility.

Merisuwyniel answered slowly. “I know that haste is needed, yet I cannot choose. Give me an hour longer, and I will speak. Let me be alone!”

All eyes watched her as she disappeared among the trees, then they turned back to discuss the possibility of cooking a meal within that hour. After a time, when they wanted to light the fire that had been laid, Kuruharan looked around and asked, “Where is Chrysophylax?” They searched everywhere and discovered that the dragon, who had at first been lying silent on the outside of the circle, was no longer there.

“He must be off hunting,” Orogarn Two suggested. “But how shall we eat if he does not light our fire?”

The flapping of wings from above alerted them all to scatter as the dragon landed. There was Merisuwyniel, sitting gracefully on his back! “Chrysophylax has consented to fly southwards with me so that I may see how the traffic is on the Interstate,” she announced. “Then I can make my decision wisely.” With those words, they lifted up again, the dragon breathing a playful flame that conveniently lighted the fire.

Over fields, woods and meadows they flew, the landscape spread out beneath them as a tapestry. The cool breeze flowed through Merisuwyniel’s tresses, yet the warmth of the dragon kept all discomforting coldness from her.

Such was the speed of the dragon that they reached the Rohan Interstate Junction before the sun had travelled far on its journey toward the horizon. It was well that Chrysophylax flew high enough to be out of reach of any weapons, for the Junction was full of orc troops. Merisuwyniel could distinguish various kinds with her sharp eyes, and she realized that there were far too many for their small company to combat, despite the renown of the heroes and their swords. Not that they could not be conquered, but it would take so much time!

Her decision made, she let Chrysophylax turn and fly back northwards. Her renewed enjoyment of the scenery below did not distract her attentive eyes, and when she spied a troop of fifty orcs also headed northwards, she was prepared for the dragon’s swoop. In an instant her bow was fitted with an arrow, aimed and loosened. It flew, strong and true, felling the leader of the troop. More arrows followed, causing consternation among the foes and flying with such power that they often passed through one orc and dealt a second the same fate. The Bow sang with the joy of death, and every arrow met its mark. Soon there was no longer any movement to be seen, and Chrysophylax landed to enable Merisuwyniel to recover her arrows.

With only a becoming flush of her cheeks to show for the effort, the Elf continued the flight back without further delay. She rejoined her companions just in time for a morsel of the meal which they had not yet consumed and told them of her discovery. With determination in their hearts and stew in their stomachs, they settled down for the last night before ascending the mountain.

[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Rimbaud]

The storm had hit them with its full force as soon as they had gained the heights.

The bitter cold threatened to consume them, seeping into their very core. Snow flurried against their chapped faces and before their feet, making the narrow way almost impossible to traverse. Carnthardlee Pass was proving very difficut to surpass. It was if the very storm itself was aimed at them.

“It’s as if the very storm itself is aimed at us,” muttered Halfullion to himself. He threw away the apple he had been eating with disgust, cold seemed to have seeped into its very core.

“We’re in dire straits now!” shouted Etceteron. He led the way with his broad shoulders, an odd gait, even for him, but even he was being defeated by the unending onslaught of wind, snow and ice and other rather maligned elements of mountain-top weather.

“We are in a bit of a jam,” confirmed Pimpi. “I hear the clash of our doom upon us.”

“Living on The Edge,” muttered Merisuwyniel. There were groans and moans out there in the storm.

“You too?” asked Halfullion, right behind her, spending much of his time teetering on the edge of the abyss. His sword, which dangled over the edge of the cliff, had chosen this inopportune moment to become the biggest size it could, and it took all of Halfullion’s strength to keep it from dragging him down.

“Yes, in excess danger!” replied Merisuwyniel, at the top of her lungs.

“In excess?” questioned Halfullion. “This is suicide, blonde.” He seemed all shaken up.

“Halfie, I need you tonight,” pleaded Merisuwyniel. “Please come together.”

Ahead of them, they saw Pettygast shouldering through the drifts back towards them. “Here come ol’ flat-top!” said Halfullion. “Come as you are!” he shouted to the by now thoroughly grungy wizard.

“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” said the wizard, somehow clearly audible above the deafening roar of the winds. The wind picked up and it seemed they would be lifted from the precipice like beetles swept from a log. The others looked at Pettygast, puzzled.

“All we need is a shove!” cried Pettygast. “Shove is all we need.” He pointed to the side of the cliff face, where a nick in the rock revealed a cave beyond. Merisuwyniel saw the possibility of hiding from the wuthering heights, better cover than a bush, and better by far than running up that hill.

“Come together!” she called. “Right now. We need to get into that house, before the rising sun shows our enemies precisely where we are.” They began to squeeze through the gap, one by one.

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

When they were all inside, they took stock of their surroundings. Pettygast created a flame from his staff, allowing them to see further into the recesses of the cave. There was a warm, fetid smell, but they were all too relieved to be inside, away from the storm to notice.

“Nevermind that it’s not nirvana,” said Pettygast. “I think we are just relieved to be out of the storm. It would seem that there are suspicious minds and cunning eyes out there, who would wish harm upon us…”

“What do we have to eat?” asked Pimpi, immediately. “I think I have some pumpkins saved in my pack.”

“So we are to spend all night smashing pumpkins, eh?” asked Halfullion, tetchily, but he participated in the meal when it was served.

“We should wait out the storm here,” said Merisuwyniel, wiping pumpkin juice from her chin. They heard strange wails from outside the cave. The wind still streamed in, threatening to have them all dancing on the ceiling. “We need to block the entrance better.”

“And we are surrounded by riders in the storm!” cried Etceteron in great terror. “This could be The End!”

“Look, will someone just get the doors?” pleaded Merisuwyniel. Etceteron, Orogarn Two and Halfullion strode heroically towards the appointed openings. “It won’t take three of you!” she shouted, exasperated.

Halfullion turned back towards her, his most charming smile lighting up his face. “Yet you, fair Merisuwyniel, are once, twice, three times a lady.”

Thus mollified, she watched them get to work on the loose stones at the entrance, piling them into a barricade against the wind and snow.

“Snow keeps falling at my feet,” complained Etceteron.

“Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you,” remarked Orogarn Two, dryly. “It’s something of a crowded house in here.”

He was not far wrong. The Multiple Choice Questors, their bags and their mounts crowded the part of the cave that was lit by Pettygast’s staff. The air was rather clammy with their breath. As the rocks slid into place in the entrance a more permanent darkness set up camp around the area lit by the wizard’s staff.

“Halfie, sweet, please tell us a story,” said Merisuwyniel. “To take our minds off whatever is outside.”

The Lord Gormlessar returned to the circle of friends, and sat cross-legged. “I will tell you of my first love, and how we were parted,” he said. “A tale of sadness for such a time.”

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

“She was working as a waitress in a cocktail Inn, when I met her. Her name was Lolathiel, and she was a showgirl, but that was many years ago, when there used to be a show. ‘Twas the Copa, Copa-Cobana, an Inn in downtown Edoras, and the hottest spot north of Gondor. Music and passion were always the fashion at the Copa. We were in love. Some called it just puppy love, but to us it was full-grown. We lived like wild horses, running through the night, from party to adventure. Ah, those were the days.”

Merisuwyniel frowned and shifted uncomfortably.

“But it soon, ended as all these things do… She finally snapped…”


LOLATHIEL: Look, now go! Walk out the door now.

She shouts shrilly after him. He half turns, tears upon his noble visage.

LOLA: Don’t turn around now, because you’re not welcome any more. I should have changed those stupid locks, I should have thrown away the key, if I’d known for just one second, you’d be back to bother me.

The young Halfullion turns to the audience. His face is drawn with anguish as he launches into his soliloquy.

HALFULLION: Oh, mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head. He pauses. And I know it’s over, but still I cling. I don’t know where else I can go. Over, it’s over, it’s over. I know it’s over – and it never really began; but in my heart it was so real.

LOLA who has crept up behind him and sees his hurt, but whose face is still embittered) : If you’re so funny then why are you on your own tonight? And if you’re so clever, why are you on your own tonight? If you’re so very entertaining, why are you on your own tonight? If you’re so terribly good-looking, then why do you sleep alone tonight? Because tonight is just like any other night. With your triumphs and your charms, while they are in each other’s arms…

HALF (breaking in) : Stop your crying, it’s not helping. Listen to your heart. Everybody hurts, sometimes. So hold on, just hold on. You can lean on me, I just wanna hold your hand. His voice breaks with emotion. Everytime you go away, you take a little piece of me away. Stop crying your heart out, please…

LOLA: It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Don’t go breaking my heart, I implore you.


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

Lord Gormlessar’s voice tailed off into the darkness, and those listening found they could draw breath again. His finely chiselled features revealed a deep-anguish. Merisuwyniel went to him and murmured into his ear.

“We are just talking heads,” she said. “Now stop whispering about your subterranean homesick blues and let’s find a way to get out of this place.”

He nodded heroically, and stood, casting off his dysphoria as one would discard sodden underwear. It appeared as though someone or something had adroitly blocked the entrance to the cave with several boulders and rocks, cunningly put together. There was no exit that way. Grabbing Pettygast’s flaming wand, he ventured towards the dark back passage.

“We’ll have to go the back way,” he whispered. Heroically taking the lead, he strode forth, towards the rear of the cave, shrouded in darkness, like something really dark. The flickering light revealed glimpses of what was beyond. However, the light was clearly failing and Halfullion turned to Pettygast, who shuffled his feet a little shamefacedly.

“What now, bearded one?” enquired Halfullion, trying not to bristle.

Pettygast took the implied scorn on the chin but replied in a not particularly dignified squeak. “It’s not my fault! I can make it go brighter…but…the colour is always off.”

Merisuwyniel laughed, a sound that even the most irascible of oysters would confess was pearl-like. “Dear Pettygast! We care not for the colour of your staff, just what it shows us!”

“Very well then,” said the wizard. “But I warn you…” He closed his eyes and concentrated. Presently the wand in Halfullion’s grasp began to glow, a bright…pink. A particularly shocking pink. A pink that would cause even the straightest of dies to give a skewed roll. A pink that shook the very foundations of morality. A pink later outlawed in Hyaborn Elassar’s Anti-Pink Act of the early Fourth Age.

“Wow,” said Orogarn Two. “That’s…revolting.”

“I rather like it,” said Halfullion and turned back to the rear of the cave, now illuminated, pinkly, by the wizard’s staff. He gasped. The rear of the cave held no wall, but instead a curtain of water, falling from some unseen ledge above, to a pool someway below and through the curtain. The coloured light created a quite exquisite rainbow of purples and pinks in the sheer sheen of the waterfall.

“Purple rain,” breathed Halfullion. “That’s a princely sight.”

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

Behind the mask of water, a passage descended fiercely, but smoothly, carved, spiralling down towards the foot of the mountain and the plains beyond. There they would strike camp. Canthardlee Pass had defeated them.

[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Diamond18]

The company was rather dejected as they sat around the campfire, toasting marshmallows. They were not used to defeat or dehands, and were appalled by how terrible the sound of a bad pun could be, echoing throughout their heads.

After a little while, Vogonwë broke the silence. “These marshmallows taste delicious soaked in Hair Off the Cat That Bit You,” he remarked as he watched his sugary treat burst into purplish blue flames.

“My flames are larger,” Etceteron said, dosing his confection in the manly liquid from his manly flask.

“My flames are of a lovelier hue,” Vogonwë insisted.

“Mmrfffs,” quoth Etceteron manfully around a mushy mouthful of mallowy marsh.

The others sighed, too dejected to make a contribution to the discussion. Or perhaps they were simply bored out of their minds. It was hard to tell. After about a dozen more spiked marshmallows had been consumed, Vogonwë again smashed the silence with the sledgehammer of his voice. “The way the marshmallows erupt reminds me of a sonnet I once wrote...”

There was a groan, but the others unfortunately could not speak due to the marshmallows in their mouths, so Vogonwë began:

“I saw a dead centipede one fine day.
The centipede lay in the dirt on the road,
The centipede rotted and smelt like a toad.
I sniffed at the dead centipede anyway,
To see if the smell’s as bad as they say.
The skin on the bug began to erode,
In the sunny heat its guts did explode.
The centipede smelt and stank where it lay.”

He paused.

“I can’t remember the other half,” he said with a puzzled expression. “There were six more lines…”

Pimpi could remember them, but she remained silent. But then suddenly, without warning, in the blink of an eye, like, really quickly, the silence was broken again (Eru only knows why it kept putting itself back together) by a most unpleasant noise. No, it was not the other half of Vogonwë’s sonnet (for he had stuffed another marshmallow into his mouth). It was the eerie howl of a deranged creature, like unto the screeches of a dying pig, or the ululation of a rabid myna bird. It sent chills down the spines of the Company (even the dragon) and made them feel as if their bones had been turned into gelatin.

Halfullion jumped up. “Ye gawds!” he cried, wobbling unsteadily. “It is the Hound of the Baskerwargs!”

A dozen or so equally hideous howling voices joined in with the first, and it was like unto a chorus of demon possessed howler monkeys murdering a chorus of demon possessed Tasmanian devils.

“Would that be other Baskerwargs, then?” Merisuwyniel asked timidly.

Pettygast stood forward and peered into the darkness beyond the firelight. “Get ye gone, Hound of the Baskerwargs!” he cried, but his voice cracked with fear, in a manner not likely to instill any fear into the crazed beasts circling the Company.

Orogarn Two decided to try his hand at the matter, and bellowed majestically, “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed!”

They could not be sure, but they thought that something akin to a wave of laughter interrupted the unearthly baying of the Hounds.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” Pimpi wondered out loud, feeling as if she could barely stand the suspense any longer.

“They don’t like fire,” Chrysophylax said placidly. “If there is one thing Baskerwargs don’t like, it’s fire. That is why an occasion such as this merits a good, belly busting ball of fire, which I could provide…”

“For a fee,” Kuruharan added hastily.

“That is preposterous!” Merisuwyniel cried. “Our lives are at stake!”

“No, not really,” Kuruharan said. “Baskerwargs rarely attack if there is even the slightest bit of fire present. They will simply howl on and on for hours, hoping that eventually one or all of us go completely mad and run screaming ‘Take me and be done with it!’ into the night. Now, I’m sure only the most weak-minded and lily-livered of landlubbers would do such a thing, so there is no danger of one of us doing that. At least, I think… In any event, if you want a peaceful night’s sleep, I would advise—”

“Oh shnizzlefit,” Pimpi declared suddenly. “I thought I heard once upon a time that Wizards can make fire come out of their staffs. Can’t you do that, Mr. Pettygast?”

“Well...I...”

“Perhaps if you lit all the trees around us on fire, it would scare the Baskerwargs away,” she suggested, thinking the idea quite clever.

Pettygast looked at her in unabashed horror. His mouth hung open for a moment or two and his pupils dilated. “Set the trees on fire?” he cried at last. “You Fool of a Half-Took! Think you that this is a Hobbit burning party? No, I could never set the trees on fire. ‘Twould be an outrage, and the Fruit-giver would pelt me with rotten tomatoes for sure! Flaming rotten tomatoes, at that!”

“Well, what are you going to do, then?”

“Set your curls on fire, Pimpiowyn Took! And if that doesn’t scare them off, then we will—”

“Peace, peace, Lord Wizard,” Merisuwyniel said soothingly, or at least as soothingly as she could with the Hounds creating their hellish racket in the background. “It does no good to argue amongst ourselves.”

“And yet that is exactly what the Baskerwargs want,” Kuruharan said smugly.

“I have no qualms against setting the trees on fire,” Chrysophylax inputted suggestively.

“No, I say! We will have no mindless flaming on my watch!” cried Pettygast. “These trees are my friends!”

Orogarn Two paced back and forth with his brows furrowed. “We seem to have reached an impasse,” he stated brilliantly.

Halfullion waved his sword (which was absolutely immense at the moment) in the air and said, “What say we rush at the Baskerwargs with our wrath blazing and our weapons swinging?”

Ah'm all fer that! Wylkynsion agreed heartily. I'm gonna twat 'em bleeders if 'ey don't shut their bleedin' gobs. Let's kick some 'eads in. First one ter get ter 'im gets ter gut the lanky gits. Have at 'em! Send 'em 'ome in a bleedin' ambulance! Send the bloody bleeders to 'ell! Rip out their guts and gut out their rumps! Make 'em bleed, bleed, bleed!

There was more, of course. Wylkynsion was in rare form, and it can be guessed that it had something to do with the curved blade of Pimpiowyn’s dagger gleaming seductively in the firelight. Whether or not the dagger was aware of all this was questionable.

“Aw, shut up,” Etceteron said after a moment or two, and the rest of the Company looked at him curiously.

“That’s the first step,” Kuruharan said. “First you beg them to stop, then you beg them to put you out of your misery, and then they do.”

“What? No, I—” Etceteron sought to explain. But he was cut off by Vogonwë, who leapt up from the ground and proclaimed:

“I have remembered! It went:

“I looked down at the rotting centipede,
My heart went out to the poor little bug;
It was so dead it didn’t even bleed.
Yes, it was dead and it stunk, I concede.
Poor little bug in a poor little rug.
That poor little, dead little, stinky little,
Centipede.”

There was silence. Dead silence. Utter, complete, ultimate silence. Not penultimate, but totally ul-ultimate. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Nothing, nadda, zip-zippo.

“Wow, it’s really quiet all of a sudden,” remarked Pimpiowyn. “Something must have scared them away.”

Kuruharan gave Vogonwë a dark look. “So, you can scare away the Baskerwargs just like that, eh?” he asked, disgruntled that the poet had ruined a potential money making opportunity.

“Why, I’m really quite shocked,” Vogonwë said. “But then, of course, Hell-hounds do not have much taste, and so I suppose they quailed before the fine art of well-spoken words.”

“You have saved us all from madness and extortion, Master Brownbark,” said Merisuwyniel generously. “We shall finally be able to get a good night’s sleep, and decide our course with clear heads in the morning. Now, please, do not ever, ever recite that poem in my hearing again.”

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox assembled his troops in the cortyard the next morning...very early...before either his wife or son awoke. He inspected the warriors with a scowl on his face, admonishing one for wearing a clean shirt and another for having brushed his teeth. Then he halted in shock. His second lieutenant, Kerplunck was wearing a pink mohawk and an insufferable grin. Gravlox took out a pad and pen and made a quick note. Then he addressed his troops.

"We go now afield again for our glory and profit!" he cried.

"Excuse me, sir" interrupted Kerplunck. "But just where precisely are we going and what is the nature of our mission?"
Gravlox whacked him upside the head, making his pink spikes wave in the breeze.

"We go...north...and west, yes!" resumed the Captain. "And our mission is to...pillage, yes, pillage...and...cause mayhem...and find treasure!"

The Uruk-Hai cheered feebly, though some yawned. Every mission began like this. At least, with the exception of that one little glitch a few years back, Gravlox had the reputation of generally returning with most of his troops. Then at a command from their Captain, they mounted their wolves and set out.

Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks...

Gravlox's eyes grew wide as they approached the ditch. "No singing!" he screamed.

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

A day later, they were passing through a forest. It was quiet. Too quiet. Suddenly, from up above many objects cam pelting down. The Uruks whined and whimpered as they tripped over one another in their quest for cover. Only Gravlox stood tall. "Fools," he muttered, picking up one of the objects by its grey bushy tail.

A soldier, wearing a red shirt, ran up to Gravlox. "Sir, what is it?" he cried.

Gravlox looked down on the Orc. "Skwerls," he replied. "Dead skwerls, and that means..."

The soldier gasped as he waited for the dramatic pause to end. Gravlox squinted as he looked about. "...puns," he concluded. "Bad ones..."

[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Birdland]

With a tail in his teeth,
the Fox let whirl,
and threw in the road his last dead skwerl.
"If that doesn't stop them,
I'll hurl a dead Zerl!"

But the Wargs stopped short,
when they saw it rained beasts,
and all licked their chops,
for the dead skwerl beast feast.

Then the Fox jump out
from a waggleberry bush,
and smiled at the Orcs,
while he waved his red tush.

"Good day, Gravlox!
I am a fox.
And I've come to snitch
on some Elven jocks."

"Right now they are stranded
on the Carnthardlee Pass.
With a dwarf, a dragon,
a Wizard, and his *** ."

"If you would like,
I can show you the way.
But tell me, pray tell!
What will you pay?"

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron gazed into the very heart of the fire as he mused over his companion's sad tale. It seemed to blend almost seamlessly with the deeply moving and evocative portrait of mortality that Vogonwë had painted for them earlier in the day, not to mention almost half a bottle of "Captain Strangereek's Harvest Haemorrhage" that he'd found in his saddlebag.

I looked down at the rotting centipede,
My heart went out to the poor little bug;
It was so dead it didn’t even bleed.

Some called it just puppy love, but to us it was full-grown.

Warning: Highly corrosive. Highly flammable. Do not exceed 2ml per 24 hour period. Stains like the devil. Keep out of reach of everyone. Do not expose to naked flames. Avoid contact with ferrous metals. This product may cause scrofula.

It was all true. No centipede should drink neat Strangereek's with girls called Lola and that was a fact. Clearly he was in the presence of great bardic genius. That was the only possible explanation. He returned briefly to his own oral tradition with a gentle glug.

"The woven shtavesh have yeth worth inthem for woeful heartsh." said Earnur wistfully. "O bards of passion and of mirth, ye have left your souls on earth. All at once I saw a stately pleasure-dome. Look on my works, ye mighty and quaff while thou canst..."

He trailed off into a sleep troubled by dark dreams, in which a mad old man accosted him en route to a wedding in order to tell him at great length about his holiday. His horse and sword were for once too preoccupied with other matters to comment.

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox leered at the fox, debating whether it might be tastier than grilled skwerl. Then, with a toothsome grin, he knelt by the animal and spoke.

"Oh, tell me do, mister fox, sir,
all about these Elven jocks, sir,
can we pelt them with grey rocks, sir,
and muss their pretty Elven smocks, sir?"

Behind him, Kerplunck sniggered as he fixed himself a breakfast of green eggs and ham. The Captain glanced back at his mohawked lieutenant, and in a momentary flash of insight, Gravlox knew what he could offer the fox in exchange for information...

[Birdland]

"Should we pelt them with some rocks?
Should we shove them in a box?
Should we eat them with bagels and lox?...

Oh, never mind all that!" screamed the fox. "Honestly, I don't know how the ancient Bards of Numenor managed to speak like that all the time. And that fourth stanza really didn't scan well."

At that moment the fox noticed that the Wargs had polished off the last of the skwerl meat, and were snuffling around looking for any last scraps. One curious fell beast stuck his nose in the frying pan of ham and eggs, (both green, since Orcs seldom worried about salmonella). But Kerplunkt batted his nose with a spatula, growling "No begging! You can lick the plate when I'm done."

But most of the Wargs had turned their hungry eyes on the fox, who was looking more and more like a red dead skwerl on the hoof. Wargs are not very bright, nor are they picky eaters.

Fox knew that his window for negotiation was closing fast, so he sidled up to Gravlox's wooden leg - controlling a nervous impulse to raise his own leg - and whispered:

"Listen. Can we talk?"

[Mithadan]

"Sure we can talk," said the wooden foot. "Love your coat. Seen any oak trees lately...ow!" The Captain stamped his faux foot on a rock and turned to more important things. Gravlox's belly had rumbled at the mention of bagels and lox and a fleeting thought passed through his mind. Fox in Gravlox? He shook his head to drive the thought out. This was business.

"All right, my little furry friend," he said as he idly slapped the snout of a warg that had crept too close. "Let's hear what you have to say and if I like it, you'll be rewarded, and if I don't, you'll make a fine pair of fox-socks. Where are the Elves off to? The pass is too far away."

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Birdland]

"Where are the Elves off to? The pass is too far away."

The fox's eyebrows raised in astonishment. "Too far"? But these were the Uruks, the mighty, mighty Uruks. They knew no pain, no fear, and they had no concept of distance, either. This did not sound like the Gravlok of old, who would fearlessly lead his men on missions that that would last months of a time, refusing to ask directions or check the maps.

And what about the wooden appendage that had addressed him so cheerfully? The only other time that the fox had heard a bit of lumber speak was...at the council! The poorly carved bow that the Elven maiden had carried. There had to be a connection. But where?

The fox desperately tried to think of some information that would satisfy Gravlok, and insure that he could leave this little pow-wow with some kind of reward, which at this point seemed to mean "in one piece." The fact that Gravlox's Warg was pacing slowly towards him did nothing for his state of mind.

eeerrrrr...sir...your Warg...would you mind terribly?..." The fox squeezed his eyes shut and crouched in the dirt as the dirt-colored steed stood over him, saliva dripping from his fangs onto the fox's head.

"Wha...? Oh. Here, Shagoff!" Gravlox pulled a yellow, rubber Zerl out of his pocket and squeezed the toy, which gave off an enticing
HU-WHEE-HUH! HU-WHEE-HUH!" sound that even made the fox's ears prick up.

The effect on Shagoff was immediate. The carnivorous beast of burden looked expectantly up at the toy in Gravlox's hand, prancing his front feet and offering an insane grin that would haunt the fox's nightmares for years to come. Gravlox held the rubber Zerl high over his head, cooing "Ya want it? Ya want yer squeeky-zerl? GO GET IT!" And with a mighty gesture, he flung his arm out towards the waggleberry bushes lining the road. The great Warg went bounding off into the undergrowth, and Gravlox returned the toy to his pocket.

"OK, you've got ten minutes. Spill yer guts. or Shagoff will spill 'em fer ya."

Now unfortunately, the little fox had not stuck around long enough to discover just where the plucky band of Elves, Men, Half-Elves, and Half-Halfings were heading. He had thought that just the fact that they were just out there, somewhere, would be enough to interest the Orcs. But apparently Gravlox had become more particular in his middle-age, and was actually attempting to come up with some kind of plan. The fox just hadn't counted on that.

But the little vulpes' much sharper mind had been coming up with a plan. The fact that Gravlox's prothesis could speak might be of some interest to the Elven-maid who bore the verbal bow. But he would have to mislead Gravlox and his minions in order for him to find the party first and offer them the information that he carried. How could he throw the Orcs off the scent?

The fox decided that he would have to send the Orcs off to the most unlikely destination. Someplace that was so disgusting, banal, and tedious, that no Elf of high standing would ever possibly want to go there. There was only one country that fit the bill, as far as the Fox was concerned.

"Topfloorien! The party of Elves is headed for Topfloorien! If you can lay-way them before they reach that country on the banks of the Pretty-Good River, you'll be sure to catch them!"

[ January 23, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Rimbaud]

The Dumb Bell, or Halfullion's Dreme


Night had fallen upon them like a dark shroud, making things difficult to see. You couldn’t cut the air with a knife but Halfullion, who couldn’t sleep, was idly thinking of trying. He rubbed at his jaw anxiously. Having been so long without a proper bathroom or attendants, he was becoming rather stubbly and he dared not risk the sturdy but unpredictable blade he bore bravely, buckled with bright brass upon his black belt. Combining this with the definite cooling of his relationship with Meriswyniel recently, the fearful dangers of the quest, the lacklustre carriage of Tofu and the heady reek emanating from his boots was a strain for him, but he managed and promptly wished he had not for it cast him into a foul funk, replete with excess chest hair and brightly coloured flashing lights.

***

He blinked. Indeed he was not mistaken, coloured lights danced towards him, shimmering; an effervescence of lights fantastical; a phantasmagoric display of such ethereal other-worldliness that Halfullion’s normally acute wordplay became quite oblique, angling between hyperbole and purely weak semiotics like a darting salmon.

Unaware that he had fallen into a deep and embracing slumber, Halfullion bravely swished at the lights with his sword, muttering dire imprecations under his breath. Not used to enemies daring to face him in the field, he had to admit his swordplay was a bit rusty. This did not prevent him from serious pain and a stab of humiliation when he sliced open his own leg rather badly, warm blood gushing out upon his tunics. He ceased his frantic but ferocious fighting and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When he re-opened them he was in a world far removed from one that he knew.

Strange fish swam past his nose, peering inquisitively at him. He realised with a start that he was naked…but before he could take in the vivid colours, vivacious Pisceans and vapid muzak he was shifted again…he was a flower, opening, budding, petals akimbo, open to the sunlight. Colours swam…a heady raindrop fell…he span….turning in a circle of much turningness…he was a potato…a sailor…a warrior…a lover…a fighter…a candle-stick lighter…all the while he thought of you….all was confusion and….

SNAP!

He was in a cold grey chamber. Two large arched windows grudgingly let in light that rather reluctantly wandered in and for the most part popped back out again, with an excuse or two. “Left the gas on,” explained a lower-spectrum ray. “My mother’s sick,” confided an ultra-violet visitor. This visible hesitancy of the would-be light cast a fearful darkness upon the chamber…yet he could see. The reason was the fearsome glowing red figure before him, wreathed in flame and heat and raw, naked fear. He must have missed him on a first scan of the room.

SNAP!

He was running, in stark terror, rain lashing him to his knees. He was behind him.

SNAP!

Back in the room again, but now he was sitting. Sitting at a low grey stone table he had not noticed before, opposite a nondescript man who before, he was sure, had been a fearsome glowing red figure before him, wreathed in flame and heat and raw, naked fear. He could remember that line distinctly.

“Hello,” said the man, in a tone that could almost be inaccurately and haplessly described as bland.

“Salutations, old fruit,” gasped Halfullion, still pretty terrified of the whole caboodle.

“These changes in tone are quite off-putting,” said the man gruffly.

“Unusual shifts in tone in a famous work of fiction?” questioned Halfullion, cheekily. An impish idea had occurred to him. He shifted it to one side, just under his left ear. The man was prattling on about something. Perhaps he should listen. He’d deal with that idea later. Right now, he realised he was in a dream. So he could have fun! But first…the man was speaking…

“…will result in your eventual death, of course,” continued the man, rather genially, “and I’m sure you will observe that this will probably be immensely painful and undignified, as is my wont.”

“Yes, yes,” smirked Halfullion, with the look of a hungry man grasping a smoked kipper. “I’m sure, whatever.”

“So in that case, remember to straighten that all out for me, otherwise it would be the worse for you. I would suggest also that you pay heed to any and all poems you hear, since I tend to stick prophecies and the like within them. This one for instance will pay you well to heed…”

SNAP! CRACKLE! POP!

Halfullion awoke with a gasp and gripped his codpiece with gibbering fear. He was sweating and his stomach was roiling. For a moment he considered popping over the road to the overnight garage for a kebab from the van and seeing if Etecetron had any herbal remedies for his sleeplessness. But then, another thing caught his attention, snared as if he were a velcro rabbit running down an equally velcro-ed hill.

Carved into the ground beside him, as if by a black-handled dagger, with runes plastered liberally over the blade, were some lines of verse. When he first spotted them, they were carved in fire, but now they were simply black and smoking incisions, not half as interesting.

Quack, quack goes the duck, little Half,
And He Who Ducks never stands tall.
All that is shall soon be nought,
And your farm shall soon be bought.

Be it cucumber as it may,
Or a tomato you shall flay
But salad you must eat
Or your way shall be peat.

And last but never least,
Beware the final feast!
For when the job is done and dusted
By poison you will still be busted.

Lying adjacent to these fearsome letters was a black handled dagger, with mystic runes liberally plastered all over its handle and blade. Halfullion was wise enough to know he should watch what he ate, he understood poison well enough, and he even saw that there might be problems at the final feast, but that seemed a long way off. What the rest of it meant he had little idea. He looked over at Merisuwyniel, lying peacefully nearby. He sighed a sigh of deep sighing sadness, scratched his head irritably and lay down again, upon his blankets.

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two lay shivering in the darkness, bemoaning his current company and asking himself why he had chosen not to own a horse. Certainly, such a beast was unnecessary for speedy travel, for his own legs rivaled those of any mount he had yet seen, but even a sturdy mountain pony would have been wonderfully practical at the moment for storing blankets, food, extra clothing, and other such things. His bulky backpack contained a few useful items, but a warm and fuzzy sleeping bag would have been superbly superior to the frazzled bath towel he now had wrapped around his frozen feet. Perhaps he could talk the dragon into lighting it on fire.

The icy knight attempted to forget the dropping temperature by watching the peculiar twitchings of the frosted flake, Halfullion. The elf-smitten man had lain kicking and moaning for the better part of an hour until Orogarn Two had seriously considered setting him on fire, or at least lighting a match on his boot heel. With luck, the sleeping nitwit might ignite, and two problems would be solved at once. A new idea came to his mind, and he leaned forward to carve a mysterious message into the ground beside Halfullion, but someone had already beat him to it. Drats!

His thoughts then turned to the lovely Merisuwyniel. It was she that possessed the broken Ent, and it was she that could answer the riddle if only he could find a moment to speak with her. But competing suitors made approaching the elf-maiden nearly impossible, and Orogarn Two had been forced to glean information by eavesdropping on her conversations with the other travelers. He got mostly rambling soliloquies and meandering poems, but occasionally he heard bits of what he sought, clues to the mystery of his missing wallet.

A loud and explosive sneeze from the woefully over-hyped Lord Etceteron broke his reverie. The sotted windbag was moaning in his sleep again, no doubt dreaming of a tragic loss of bottle and brush, which might put him a half-step behind in the race for the darling maiden of the Hidden Farm. His armored feet fluttered as if he were running with the devil. “I do! I do!” he slurred without waking, either saying his vows to some dreamlike bride or admitting his undying love for himself.

Weary of his companions and finding no warmth in his towel, Orogarn Two stood and walked to the edge of the camp to stare at the moon. Away from the light of the heatless fire he became aware that the crystal around his neck was glowing with a faint light. That could only mean one of two things, the batteries were getting low or there were orcs about.

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

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel woke as if startled out of a restless dream, but she could remember none. Something significant hovered on the edge of her consciousness; suddenly she remembered. They had not been able to cross the mountains by way of the pass; they could not take the Interstate; there was now only one alternative. She stretched, and her fingers brushed the bow, lying close beside her as always. Amazed, she noticed that it was vibrating more strongly than usual – it was shaking!

What is amiss? she asked in concern.

You will be taking the secret path, the bow answered.

Yes, but what know you of that way? queried the Elf.

I have been there, and I fear to go again, came the reply. Yet if we must, I can lead you through the labyrinth.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

One after another, the companions awoke. When they assembled for breakfast, Merisuwyniel stood and announced, “We were not able to cross the mountains by way of the pass; we cannot take the Interstate. Only one way remains open to us.”

The others waited in breathless silence.

“We must take the sub!” she exclaimed.

“We’re going to get sandwiches?” Pimpi’s face lit up in anticipation.

“How can we take a sub? There is no sea here!” Halfullion was puzzled.

“Where is a pub?” Etceteron asked hopefully.

“Who is substituting for whom?” Orogarn Two questioned.

“How much will you subtract from what?” shouted Kuruharan.

“Quiet!” she exclaimed. “We must take the Subway; it is a dark and treacherous way, but it leads us through the mountains to the other side. I have a map which shows where the entrance is; follow me!”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

They reached the gate to the underground passageway before sundown and stood in wonder before a strange device that blocked the entry. Beside it was a sign, yet no writing could be seen upon it. They searched for a switch or button; Pettygast even pointed his staff in its direction, fortunately without results.

Finally, in exasperation, Halfullion kicked the pole on which the sign was mounted, and lo! A light shone forth and red runes became visible.

“Who can read the fiery letters?” Pimpiowyn inquired.

“I can,” Vogonwë volunteered. “It says, ‘Insert ticket in turnstile slot.’”

“What does that mean?” Earnur asked.

“It obviously means that we should have an object which opens the gate,” Merisuwyniel answered. “But who has a valid ticket?”

Each of the travellers dug in pockets and bags, producing various tokens, ticket stubs, credit cards and coins, which they tried to insert. Alas, none of them opened the turnstile.

Finally Merisuwyniel cried out, “I have it!” From her golden tresses she removed a small, exquisitely fashioned mithril hairpin, inserted it with a twist, and the turnstile gave way. She entered, motioning the next ones to follow her. Kuruharan and Chrysophylax were the last to come, for the dragon had serious doubts about his ability to enter through the small gateway. The dwarf, distracted by his business partner’s problem, was suddenly caught on the turning device by one of his many pockets and felt himself whirling around dizzily.

The heroes tried to slash at the metal staves with their swords, but to no avail. Finally Chrysophylax turned around and, with a mighty swish of his tail, destroyed the turnstile and tossed Kuruharan into the cavern. The group hardly had time to get inside with all of their mounts and packs, before the entryway crashed behind them. They were inside, but would they find the right train?

[Mithadan]

Gravlox considered the words of the furry snitch. "Topfloorien, eh?" he muttered. "The foul Elven land of overpriced shops and trendy eateries." He pondered distances, speed, strategy and the unpleasant effects of a day old bean burrito.

At last he gave the fox a smile, causing it to duck and look about for cover. "Very well," he said. "You have earned your payment. And if you get any more information, bring it to me."
--------------------
An hour later the fox trotted off happily, dragging a bag filled with grilled meat and wearing a new hat with a pink mohawk on it. The mighty Uruks are very efficient with knives if nothing else...

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The monstrous echoes of the turnstile's destruction echoed away into the distance, punctuated by the obligatory last trickle of debris to the floor. A great smoky miasma of dust blocked out most of the light that wasn't there, and the companions stood choking by the remains of the elaborate entrance to the Subways.

Suddenly there was a bout of coughing from a new set of lungs, which resounded hollowly in the confines of the tunnel. As this died away a voice spake thusly:

"Wot the bleedin' 'ell is goin' on 'ere? Wossappened to me turnstile eh? You bloody kids'll be the death o' me!"

Faster than thought, a lurid pink glow lit the tunnel, reacting with the clouds of dust in a way that would have been reminiscent of a cheap discotheque if any of the company had ever seen one. Pettygast's wand was once more their sole and rather tasteless source of light. Framed by neon-backlit billows of stone dust nobody could have failed to look impressive. Nobody, that is, apart from the figure who faced them, who clearly found looking shabby and superfluous as easy as our heroes and heroines found looking windswept and interesting.

The new arrival was about four feet tall, pale and grimy. Aside from two notable exceptions its garb was baggy, ragged and nondescript, but the exceptions are well worth our attention, as they are the reason why Earnur suddenly blanched, read the label on his bottle of Strangereek's and hurled the receptacle as far away from him as he could.

The dog-eared yet mysterious figure was wearing a brightly coloured clip-on tie and an official-looking hat with a shiny peak and a badge. The badge appeared to be some sort of religious symbol, consisting of a red circle bisected by a blue line, which bore the legend Lindon Underground in once-white runes. A badge pinned to its chest identified it as Errol and, more in hope than expectation, invited whomever might be reading it in the dark to solicit help of its wearer.

"That's destruction of Underground property, that is, mate", said Errol, picking a figure at random to be the ringleader. "I'll 'ave to charge you for that."

Two swords were instantly at his throat: Lord Gormlessar and Lord Etceteron had been unable to decide which of them was being addressed; although had they but known it the dusty aggressor had been talking to one of the horses. His eyes were never good at the best of times, and being full of grit and reliant on 1980s nightclub illumination they had given up the ghost entirely.

"Charge them?" said Kuruharan in a shocked voice. "I've never heard the like." There was a distinct possibility that this unimpressive official would bill him for the damage as well and this offended his sense of financial aesthetics. In Kuruharan's economic model the flow of money was strictly one way.

"I could sell you a nice pair of dust-removing spectacles for a once-in-a-lifetime bargain introductory price..." he added automatically, but without real hope. Their new acquaintance was clearly more down-at-heel than a man with no feet.

"He's not going to charge us for any damage," said Oragarn Two quietly. "Are you, friend?"

"Our business concerns you closely, little err.. man?..." ventured Earnur.

Bloody kill 'im! Wotcha waitin' fer? 'E's wearin' a bleedin' clip-on! That's wot people wot wear 'em was invented fer

"...and though I would fain hold civilised discourse with you, my blade desires to ... umm ... 'slit you up a treat'."

I didn't say that! I said...

"Peace, my blade!" thundered Earnur (in the shadows his horse snorted in scorn)

"He means we won't pay for your shoddy turnstile. And I can't control my weapon for long either; so you'd better scarper before l’En’viey gets the better of you." Halfullion interjected good-naturedly.

The little man looked panicky. His eyes darted this way and that, finding nothing but sharp weapons and steadfastly-closed wallets at every turn. Even Merisuwyniel, normally generous to a fault, could ill afford to replace an entire gate of Mithril, and there was no time to lose if they were to arrive in Topfloorien before the shops closed.

"It was an accident," she said sweetly. "Couldn't you just let us off?"

The little porter pounced on this opportunity like a domestic cat on an unwary piece of chicken. "Well, nobody uses that entrance anyway; and it does save me waterin' those flamin' trees. Go on with ye. But mind you don't so much as touch the fixtures."

"We'll be careful," assured the slender Elven-maiden, demonstrating her impeccable diplomatic skills.

"You'll be dead." replied the small figure disconcertingly, and before they could ask (or, for that matter, tell) him where to go he was gone.

You bugger! You never let me kill anyone! Ev'ry time we meet some little tit 'oo ain't a flippin' Orc you lets 'im cheek yer like a...

"Enough, noble brand." spake Earnur gravely. "Be not so eager to deal out death in judgement."

I wasn't judging 'im you toffee-nosed pillock! I just wanted ter kill 'im!

In the shadows, Baklava, bored as ever, had found a brightly-coloured yet dusty map. It was composed of a series of intersecting lines drawn in primary colours, and with circles at regular intervals. Not for the first time in his life, the horse felt very keenly his want of literacy. It would probably be hours before any of his idiotic two-legged companions noticed the plan, least of all his lush of a master. He sidled a little closer to Pasdedeux. Perhaps this delay wouldn't be a complete loss after all.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion stroked his chin, literally absent-mindedly. He enjoyed stroking his chin; not only did he find the contact soothing, but he felt that it lent to him an air of great wisdom and deep thought. Unfortunately, his last action had been to search through some of Tofu’s more recent deposits for a valued ring that the great steed had consumed earlier in the week. He had found the ring but neglected to clean his hands, making the chin-stroking line into a paragraph.

He was attempting to think through the events of the day and he felt an onus on him to take firm control of the group. These Questors are inept…they need guidance…I am epter than they, and with this level of eptitude I am surely the one to do it… he thought, in italics. His dreams of leadership were undermined only by his incomprehensible level of incompetency.

The journey through the long dark of the Subway filled them all with trepidation. Halfullion was also nursing a pint of gibbering fear, with a side-salad of mounting panic. His thoughts were rudely interrupting by the continuation of the story.

“How will we get our horses on the Tube?” asked Orogarn Two, somewhat understandably, being the only one unhorsed. Dehorsed. Horseless, rather.

“We’ll have to rely on the benevolence of the Porterog,” said Halfullion, amazed at his own knowledge. He countered their inquisitive stares with a slightly baffled expression and wished he were a waffle. “The Porterog is a fearsome guardian of the Subway, but he may well allow us to board with our horses. A bit hypocritical of him to accuse us of taking up space anyway,” Halfullion continued, “given the amount of room his great wings take up.”

“He can fly?” asked Pimpi, nervously.

“Not to my knowledge,” interjected Orogarn Two. “To my knowledge, his co-guards are trolls, there to protect him. Unlikely his guards would not be able to fly if he could. I think the wings are decorative.”

“That’s a shadowy subject,” argued Merisuwyniel. “You can’t be so positive.”

“I have my sources,” replied Orogarn, politely.

Kuruharan felt a stab of fear at the thought that someone might cut into his profitable condiment market share. It turned out that it was simply a stab of his fea, and somewhat more troubling. He mused briefly upon corporeality and wondered why Halfullion’s face appeared to be covered in chocolate.

“Look, Orogarn’s point seems fair enough to me,” said Halfullion. “This is not getting us anywhere. We need to decide which line we need and which stop.”

“White City?” asked Etceteron, feeling a bit left out.

“Near Acton? Not where we want to be,” replied Merisuwyniel. “To get nearer to Topfloorien, we should try for Shepherd’s Bush.”

“Why would a shepherd want a bush?” thought Halfullion noisily.

A bush can be useful, thought Tofu, but said nothing.

“You wouldn’t,” began Halfullion, warming to his theme as a ferret warms in a ferret-warming device. “For instance, let any of your decisions be made by a bush would you?”

Orogarn grimaced. “Come Halfullion, take these weighty matters from your broad and ever so muscular shoulders, and let us make haste! From my knowledge, gleaned from the annals of Hero weekly, we need the red line for Shepherd’s Bush!”

“Ah, the thin red line,” murmured Halfullion. “Sweet words have been said of the thin red line.” He stood some three steps from the remainder of the party and quoth:

”Oh Subway of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Oh red line of joy and despair!
Whenever we are destinationless,
You seem to get us there.
Passengers you must surely hate
Being as you are, ever late –
But no grudge do I bear thee, o Central, my dear
No other line do I hold so near
For when all hope is lost
And men in the mirk go out
You are there to take us home,
Slowly and at great expense.

The Subways are dark and subversive
Some can only talk in cursive
Awkward rhymes are hard to find –
But ‘tis good to take the time,
For when your praises must be sung
And in the tunnels your sweet bell rung
I’ll be there, the first in line
Timepiece in my pocket hung!

Beware the frumious Porterog!
Outgrabing in the coach class cabin.
Take thee thy vorpal ticket,
And payest thou the manxome fare,
Or else galumph will you not
But in your grave, you shall rot.”

Merisuwyniel breathed a sigh of deep shuddering relief when it was over.

“Seems we still need a ticket!” said Tofu, suddenly, confusing all of them, especially Halfullion, who had been unaware of the horse’s hitherto unseen loquacity.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Diamond18]

Pimpiowyn was feeling hungry. Not just merely hungry, but terribly hungry. It had been an hour since first breakfast, so under normal circumstances she would have been in the mood for a little snack, perhaps a sausage with a helping of golden, fluffy scrambled eggs. But due to the events of the morning her hunger was spurred on not by appetite, but by stress. Things had seemed to take a decidedly bizarre turn ever since they passed through the turnstile. The dusty darkness was not something she was fond of, and having never been in a Subway before, it can be safely said that she didn’t have really the slightest idea of what was going on.

In the silence following Tofu’s sudden declaration, she whispered, “Vogonwë?”

“Shhh, I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Lord Halfullion’s excellent poem. It was so...inspiring...really quite excellent.”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Pimpi said, thinking that it was just as well, if Vogonwë found it excellent. “Anyway, I’m hungry.”

“Hungry...” he muttered absently, and it was obvious he was contemplating a rhyme for it.

Pimpi sighed and sat down on a bench. By the pink glow of Pettygast’s staff, she could see graffiti scrawled across it, and decided to occupy her mind by reading it. She would leave the matter about tickets and Porterogs and talking horses to the others. She found it slightly disconcerting, however, that the first line of graffiti she read, went Fish are nice, and so juicy-sweet. Her stomach rumbled. She looked at another spot and read the curious message.

Tickets grow in thickets under the thickest wickets. All one need do is pick it from the thicket, and you’ll have a ticket.

“Have you ever been here before, Vogonwë?” she asked in a moment of suspicion.

But the others were not paying any attention to her, as they were deeply engrossed in the problem of what they were going to do next.

“So what are we going to do?” asked Tofu.

“I don't know, what'cha wanna do?” replied Halfullion, his mind thrown into confusion by the sudden effusion of speech from his hitherto mute horse.

“You’re the ept one. What do you want to do?” Tofu said.

“I don’t know...what’cha wanna do?”

“Look Halfie, first I say ‘what are were going to do?’ then you say ‘I don't know, what'cha wanna do?’ then I say ‘what are we going to do’ then you say ‘what'cha wanna do’. Let's do something!” Tofu neighed.

“Ok. What'cha wanna do?” Halfullion said, feeling a bit foolish, but unable to stop himself.

“Don’t start that again!” Merisuwyniel interrupted, feeling her head spin. “We’re going to Shepherd’s Bush, but what we need is a ticket.”

“How do we get a ticket without paying for one?” Kuruharan wondered. “I really want to know.”

“Don’t we need eight tickets? Or, if we are allowed to take the horses, fourteen?” inquired Orogarn Two, who was good with numbers.

“I resent being counted among the horses,” said Chrysophylax huffily.

“Whatever,” Merisuwyniel waved her pale hands dismissively. “We need tickets, and we need to find this Porterog, and this thin red line to Shepherd’s Bush.”

She looked around at her companions and felt acutely frustrated. She was half inclined to join Pimpiowyn on the bench and forget about the whole matter, but she had more gumption than that, and was determined to move this hopeless band of laggers on.

“Does anyone have a suggestion about the ticket problem?” she asked.

“What’s a wicket?” Pimpiowyn asked.

“She said ticket,” Tofu said.

“But do tickets grow under wickets?”

They looked at the young quarterling curiously.

“Thick ones?” Pimpi ventured.

Silence.

“What I’m asking, is do tickets grow in thickets under thick wickets, like it says on the bench?” Pimpi said, pointing to the inscription beside her.

“Of course!” Earnur said. “A ticket garden! We need to find a ticket garden, and pick tickets. How amazing that I didn’t think of it before. Any master of herblore can tell you that tickets grow in dark and rocky places underground, commonly known as wickets. If we can find a ticket garden, we shall have an abundance of tickets at our fingertips.”

Inexplicably, everyone turned their eyes to Pettygast. Wizards were supposed to know things, and some inner prompting made them assume he would have something wise to say on the matter. He gazed back at them silently, and he didn’t look all that wise in the pinkish glow of his staff, so they turned away.

“Right, that’s sounds as good as anything,” Merisuwyniel sighed. “Let’s look for a ticket garden, then, and we shall be on our way to Shepherd’s Bush.”

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two, Duke of Earl and heir to the porcelain throne of Grundor (for the real throne had sat empty for countless generations due to the untimely demise of the ‘Pincushion King’), doubted very much that a garden of any kind might be coaxed to grow in such a lightless plot of rock as the Subway. Ticket farming was so old-fashioned and outdated that only the most provincial clodbusters would be rustic enough to plant such seeds. Being no longer a natural commodity, the only place likely to sprout such produce was a ticket booth.

Far in the distance, in a corner far, far away, he saw a new hope. A pane of glass faintly reflected the wan light of whichever character or creature was giving off a wan light (who could keep track?). He quickly adventured toward the mirrored rays, leaving his companions behind. As he advanced, the proximity to the glass revealed a window thickly smeared with orcish fingerprints, behind which sat a bespectacled goblin of the most geekish sort. Orogarn Two’s crystal sparked an odd orange flash and went dead.

“Goblin, ho!” he shouted, and rushed the glass-protected orc-nerd with a deadly spinning kick designed to shatter the clear shield before him. He flew through the air in a vicious arc of spittle and metal, but his mailed foot, which should have easily shattered the dirty window, stopped dead as if it had met a wall of tempered steel. From his lengthy foot to his pearly teeth, Orogarn Two, Earl of Jones, quivered like a loosely held softball bat meeting a 96MPH fastpitch. He fell to the ground, numb and twitching.

“Ha, ha!” screamed the creature behind the glass in an irritatingly high pitch voice like a herd of clumsy reindeer sliding down a tilting iceberg . “This booth is protected by powers stronger than you – the Subway Transit Authority!”

“The what?” asked Orogarn Two, shaking uncontrollably as he stood. The collision with the ticket booth had stunned him and he was having a hard time thinking.

“The Subway Transit Authority, you stinking twit of a tarkish turnip!” screeched the dorkisk ork. “They control all tolls and tickets. You gotta be on the ball to reach the First Hall.”

“Huh?”

“You can’t be cheap if you wanna see the First Deep!” grunted the goblin dipstick.

“What?”

“Don’t look for a sale to reach the Dimwit Dale?” sang the orc-spaz.

“What on Middle-earth are you talking about?”

The ticket booth orc threw his hands up in exasperation. “12 silver pennies for a ticket to Shepherd’s Bush! What are you? Stupid?”

“No!” shouted Orogarn Two. “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of …”

“Shut up!!!!” shouted his companions as they came up to pay for their tickets.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Kuruharan]

The Very Secret Diary of Chrysophylax Dives

Day: Lost count.

Wandering through the ancient Khazad Subway. Ever since it fell into evil, service has been a little slack. After everyone else bought their tickets, I had a snack of a goblin ticket agent. Alas, he was a little stringy. After smashing the gate I figured that I was already on the STA’s hit list, so why hold back. The little goblin seemed quite surprised that somebody would think to go around to the back of his booth.

Since everyone else was in a hurry to get to the train, Kuruharan slipped back to plunder the register. Said something about the contents belonging to his people anyway.

Had an embarrassing moment when we boarded the train. My wings would not fit through the door! Not amused! I had to be tied to the top of the train. This is very humiliating for one of ancient and imperial lineage.

Merisuwyniel has been very friendly of late. Especially since she was saying all those not nice things about me earlier. I told her that she reminded me of a beautiful princess of long ago. I said that princess had touched my heart. I neglected to mention that said princess also eventually touched my mouth, throat, gullet, gizzard, stomach... I probably won’t mention it to her. Merisuwyniel has such lovely eyes, and such delightful laughter, especially when she is killing things.

Halfullion is pining away since he seems to have lost the attention of Merisuwyniel. He’s been moping about and singing songs and doing all that other stuff that Elves and half-Elves do when they don’t get their way. I almost expect that he will toss himself into the next available chasm. That seems to be something that they do.

It is funny the way that Orogarn Two’s lineage continues to grow higher and higher as we go along. He was telling me as we were going to the train about his rightful place as Duke of Earl. He even sang the ritual song of his family.

Got very nervous when he said that I could be his Duchess of Earl! Almost had to roast him!

Earnur is about twelve sheets to the wind right now. Or twelve branches to the tree. I can see him in the car babbling and stammering to Merisuwyniel about his undying lust, or something like that. Halfullion looks like he is about to kill our good Etceteron.

The dread blade Wylkynsion seems to be jumping about in its scabbard! *shudder* Reminds me of *gulp*...

Pimpi seems to be engaged in robbing the supply bags, again. I should probably tell somebody about that disagreeable habit of hers.

Vorgonwë is in his own little world with the Hair off the Cat that Bit Him.

If he suddenly keels over and bursts into flames we’ll know what did it.

Kuruharan is rather jittery because he is afraid of being accosted by a certain someone about a sale of defective products a few years back...
----------
As Chrysophylax was placidly writing in his diary, he did not see that they were coming to a rather small tunnel. He did not notice nor comprehend the unfortunate consequences that could ensue from his being on the top of the train when they entered the tunnel. He did not realize that it would be difficult for him to....

*KA-BANG!!! CRUNCH!!!*

[flop]

Kuruharan noticing that his pet, business associate, ruffian, and porter was lying plopped on the ground, he jumped off the train and went back to investigate...investigate the possibilities of a future law-suit.

[ January 25, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Birdland]

Kuruharan started running back down the tracks - in that funny way dwarves have when they run - towards his supine friend, who was flat on his back and wheezing puffs of flame as he tried to catch his breath.

Merisuwyniel, immediately assessing the situation, leapt for the emergency brake cord of the subway car - which broke off and flopped loosely in her hands. Flinging aside the useless brakeline, she swiftly ran for the next car, as the train pulled farther and farther away from our fallen heroes on the track.

Suddenly through the gloom, Kuruharan noticed the red gleam of sneaky little eyes peering out and him and his reptilian compadre. He gasped in disbelief as hundreds of shining, metal-clad rodents started advancing slowly upon our plucky duo. A hideous squeaking noise was issuing not just from the mouths of the trackside vermin, but from their very joints, as well.

"Mice!" screamed Kuruharan. "Mithril-Munching Moria Mice!!!!"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel ran through the subway cars to the back of the train, ruthlessly tearing the connecting doors apart, since the automatic openers were not fast enough for her. The others, realizing that something had happened, though not all knew what, followed, with Halfullion immediately behind the Elf and Vogonwë at the end, being pulled by Pimpiowyn. Merisuwyniel reached the last door together with Halfullion, who (secretly pleased about having an opportunity to demonstrate his strength and importance for their mission) broke it open with sheer brute force.

Without hesitating, Merisuwyniel jumped, landing lightly and gracefully. She ran back toward Chrysophylax while the others were struggling to their feet – except for Vogonwë, who had executed a double somersault, throwing in a cartwheel for good measure before catching Pimpi. No one saw how Pettygast had managed to persuade his donkey to jump, but the two of them were even ahead of the noble steeds, who followed their masters and mistress. Soon they had reached the prostrate Dragon and the concerned Dwarf.

The pale pink light of the Wizard’s staff was reflected most eerily by the myriad moving mice. The company stood spellbound, aghast at the sight of the metallic menace approaching from all sides. Swords were of no avail here, even Etceteron recognized. What were they to do?

Merisuwyniel felt more than heard a humming behind her back. Sing! the Bow urged. And sing she did, the melody rising ever higher, climbing sheer precipices and lifting the hearts of those who heard it with its beauty. The heroes took courage hearing those notes, Chrysophylax lifted his head and arose, Kuruharan felt an emotion that had nothing to do with profit, and Pimpiowyn forgot all thoughts of food. The light of Pettygast’s staff grew clear and strong, reflecting in all colours of the rainbow from Orogarn Two’s crystal, brilliant sparks of light that blinded the miniature foes surrounding them.

The sound grew louder and louder; suddenly, they realized that it was not merely the echoes of the Elven melody that they heard, but the resonating of metal, like unto the vibrating of a thousand tuning forks. The walls began to shake, the ground rumbled, and after a moment of petrified motionlessness, the Questers and their creature companions dashed back toward the centre of the labyrinthine tunnels from whence they had come.

They escaped just in time; the ceiling of the tunnel behind them crashed, burying the ruffian rodents under tons of rubble.

“Now what?” Pimpi, practical as always, was the first to ask. “Is there another way to this Shepherd’s Bush we are trying to find?”

“Seek for the map that was posted,” Pettygast proclaimed.

“What do you mean by that?” Halfullion demanded.

“I do not know – I can only say what I divine, the interpretation is up to you,” the Wizard answered.

Baklava neighed suddenly, and Tofu spoke up: “There was a map near the entrance, says my equine colleague. Let us seek it and hope to find help there.”

“Stay on the left track,” warned Merisuwyniel. “No trains can come from that direction anymore.”

“You mean the right track, dear,” Halfullion admonished. “Traffic comes from that side here.”

“Whatever,” said Orogarn Two. “Let’s just get moving!”

Baklava led the way proudly, and soon they stood in front of a plan with brightly coloured lines. Whither should they go?

[ January 27, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

“Here we are, back at the beginning…back at the beginning where we began…” Vogonwë observed. “I think I may get dizzy…” He shook his head gracefully and uncorked his trusty bottle of hairball treatment as the others studied the map. He tilted his head back and anticipated the delicious taste of the minty hazelnut liquid. A few moments later, his head was still tilted back and he was still anticipating it. He began to feel a crick in his neck, and lowered the bottle with a puzzled frown. He peered into the mouth of the bottle and saw with horror that the bottle…was…not…full. In fact, it was so not full that it could be called empty.

He was stupefied, and for a moment did nothing but stand there and stare. Then, with a wild look in his grey-brown eyes, he accosted Kuruharan. “A bottle! A bottle! My country for a bottle!” he cried, forgetting for a moment that he didn’t have a country of his own to bargain with.

Kuruharan drew back in surprise and said, “What on Middle-earth is your problem?”

“It’s empty!” Vogonwë shrieked, waving the small glass bottle in front of the dwarf’s face. “Do you have another? I’ll pay you double what I gave for the first one!”

“Oh…but you see, that was my last bottle,” Kuruharan said regretfully, his mind racing for an alternative item to sell to the distraught elf. “I have some heartburn medicine that may interest you…”

Vogonwë was quivering, so that even his hair bow shook like a leaf. “No…more?” he stammered.

“Or some eye drops…” Kuruharan said, rifling through his bags. “And I think I saw some allergy medication in here somewhere…”

“No, no, no! I want more of this!” Vogonwë insisted. “You must have another…don’t keep it from me!”

“I assure you, I would not hesitate to sell you another if I had one,” Kuruharan said helplessly, spreading his arms apart and shrugging. “There’s no need to get angry.”

“Well if I’m angry it’s your fault! Mnraaa!” Vogonwë said, with an uncharacteristically contorted facial expression, which made him look somewhat like an angry Baskerwarg.

Everyone jumped in surprise, even the manly men who were usually immune to fear of any kind. Halfullion, Etceteron and Orogarn Two instinctively drew their swords, but as soon as the hideous mien had come, it departed again. Vogonwë started to whimper, and mutter something about being sorry.

Pimpi turned on the dwarf and demanded, “What on Middle-earth was in that bottle?”

“Well…I’m not sure…I won it in a card game with a troll,” Kuruharan said, shrugging.

Vogonwë turned and unhappily threw the empty bottle into a nearby drain hole, and in the minutes that followed it could be heard shattering with an echo that reverberated throughout the entire subway system.

“Imbecile of an Elf!” Pettygast exclaimed. “This isn’t a drunken bottle smashing riot! Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your fluidity!”

“Huh?” Vogonwë blinked at him in confusion.

“Don’t look at me, I was channeling someone else,” Pettygast shrugged.

“Do you feel better now, Master Brownbark?” Merisuwyniel asked thoughtfully, as was her nature.

“A little,” Vogonwë admitted. “The sound of shattering glass is a good stress reliever...this gives me an idea for a poem...”

“Unfortunately, every Orc in Moria will be aware of our presence, now,” Halfullion pointed out.

“All the more chance for valor and glorious deeds in battle,” Earnur said optimistically.

“That’s nice,” Merisuwyniel said, “because Tofu and I have decided on a route.”

“It certainly will be a rout,” Halfullion said, patting the hilt of his sword.

“I could eat some roots, myself,” voiced Pimpi.

“No, no, I mean, we have decided on a path to take through the system,” Merisuwyniel explained. She tore the map from the wall and said, “Follow me.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Whatevery path Merisuwyniel had decided, Pettygast could make neither head nor tail of it. It all looked the same to the wizard. The subway car continued hurtling through the bowels of darkness, roaring and clanging like a great dragon of the night. Pettygast found himself crammed into one midget-sized corner of the compartment, wedged in between three super-sized heroes who were inexcusably taking up all the space, and making no bones about their right to do so.

The wizard grumbled something unintelligible from beneath his breath, and reflected that this iron beast seemed a most unpleasant way to travel. Moreover, the thing too closely resembled those mechanical monstors that had been described in great detail within the early drafts of the fall of Gondolin, but which had then been rejected by authorities as standing clearly ouside canon. Since Pettygast had no wish to stand on canon, either inside or out, he sincerely hoped this entire trip would end soon.

His donkey had been luckier than most, and was actually able to squat down on his rear in one of the few empty seats, which had recently been vacated by a suspicious-looking Troll. This passenger had thoughtfully left his daily tabloid behind, somewhat crumpled and smelling of fried fish, but still eminently readable. Hummus was now intently perusing the latest edition of the "Mordor Daily News"

Suddenly, the donkey reared up from his seat and began hee-hawing loudly into the air, begging his master Pettygast to come quick and have a look.

"Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw!" The donkey's braying rang insistently through the car.

Vogonwe covered his ears and glared back at Pettygast, sticking out his tongue, "Now, who's making the noise, old pinktoes? Can't you control your beast?"

Hummus lifted up his hoof and banged on the nearest pole to silence everyone in the compartment. Then he pointed triumphantly to a small notice that appeared on the very bottom of page 32 of the pictorial section within the Sunday Supplement.

This advert read as follows:

Notice of the Fraternal Order of Balfrogs

You are hereby invited to join us for a rumble sale that will take place this coming Wednesday at 2:00 p.m. in the vicinity of the underground station at Golder's Green. Among the treasures offered for your consideration are several cheap replicas of the One Ring, complete with broken chain; a used suit of mithril with several holes poked in the side, reputedly the former possession of Messieurs Frodo and Bilbo who have since departed for greener shores; and, of particular note, several chairs and tables which are said to be crafted from the wood of an Ent.

"By Jove," muttered Lord Etceteron. "That could be a find. I have long wanted a used suit of mithril."

Pettygast glared pointedly towards Lord Etceteron to shush him up and then, without warning, leapt forward in mid-air and, executing a double somersault of his own with surprising ease, yanked down on a cord that had red letters beside it spelling out the word "Emergency". The iron beast on which they were riding abruptly halted with a great grinding noise. Through the windows the fellow-gal-ship could clearly see a sign labelled "Golder's Green."

All about were cloaked figures with pointed teeth and horns who all carried whips and thongs. They were all scurrying down a long alley way which had a hand scrawled note beside it that read, "This way to the Rumble Sale." Orogorn II craned his neck out the open door to see whether the Balfrogs did or didn't...., but as they were all wearing voluminous cloaks, it was impossible to say for sure.

Pettygast authoritativly grabbed up his pink staff in one hand and his donkey in the other and charged out onto the station platform to the astonishment of the assembled throng of balfrogs. Realizing that a diversion was definitely called for, he grabbed hold of a nearby loudspeaker and announced at the top of his lungs, "If anyone wants to have a go at the greatest heroes in the universe, just follow that train right there, now departing from platform #5."

Then, as all the balfrogs began racing in the opposite direction, Pettygast sauntered forward towards the rumble sale. Just as the doors to the train were about to slam shut, he turned around to shout encouragement to his former companions, "Fly, you fools!" and was instantly gone.

[ January 28, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Slightly subdued after the departure of the wizard, the company left the subway car at the next station. They had arrived at Shepherd’s Bush.

“This is not the same station we intended to arrive at, though it bears the same name,” Merisuwyniel explained. “We can walk to our destination from here. To reach the exit, we must needs take the Escalator of Ka-Boom! Stay together so that no one is lost.”

They took several turns and found themselves in a tunnel that ended abruptly ahead of them. There was no passageway to the right or left, so they turned to go back. Suddenly they were approached by ragged, menacing-looking creatures, all stretching their hands out and saying, “Do you have a buck for me?”

“We have only horses, no deer,” Pimpiowyn said, puzzled over the unusual request.

“Yes, dear?” Vogonwë responded, thinking that he was meant.

The heroes brandished their swords, and Halfullion roared, “That’s my two pieces of mithril!”

The creatures fled in fear, and Kuruharan followed, picking up the coins that they dropped.

Merisuwyniel shouted, “We must have mistaken right for left – follow me!”

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.

There was the exit ahead of them. Chrysophylax destroyed the turnstile with a playful swish of his tail, and the company jumped onto their noble steeds and raced out of the subway. They had escaped!

Thankful for the light and the fresh air, they galloped toward the Park of Topfloorien. Merisuwyniel’s golden tresses flowed behind her in the wind, her deep purple eyes glowed with excitement, and she shouted a triumphant cry of joy.

Little did any of them realize that they were observed…

[Mithadan]

Gravlox and his band had ridden hard and long to reach Topfloorien before the Elves. The Uruks crossed the river at the shallows and were moving south, hoping to intercept their prey as the Elves exited Carnthardlee Pass. They camped on a hill overlooking the pass and waited...and waited...and waited.

"I will wring that fox's neck if I ever come across that beast again," growled Gravlox. The Uruks were hungry and bored and had taken to shoving one another into the river and playing duck-duck-goose to while away the time. If they waited much longer, they would have to barbeque...Gravlox flipped through his note book to check his list of demerits...ah, Fatblob, who had been singing Ricky Martin songs all day.

Gravlox flipped his notebook shut just as Shagoff, his faithful Warg, came trotting up. He was growling and pointing his snout to the south. When his master merely scowled, the Warg snatched Gravlox's cloak in his teeth and began dragging him. "All right, all right, what's gotten into you?" muttered the Captain as he followed his beast away from the camp.

They climbed the next rise and looked down. There was the exit from the underground, and there was his prey stepping off from the escalator! Gravlox threw himself down and watched as the band of Elves and Men mounted their horses.

He was about to summon his Uruks when he froze and squinted down at a uniquely feminine creature leading her company towards Topfloorien. His jaw dropped, followed by a steady stream of drool as he watched her bounce on the back of her steed, up and down, up and down, as if in slow motion. Her hair trailed behind her...hair even his son Gravy would envy. And there was music. The music of violins and harps and those silver thingies that you blow into. And her radiant face seemed to glow in the sun as if...

"Whazzup sir? Do yer see sumting over here?" Gravlox reached out absent-mindedly and tore out the throat of Fatblob who had apparently followed him from the camp. He wiped the blood from his hands and picked at his claws with the point of his knife to dislodge the flesh that clung there. Now, where was I? Oh yes.

He turned back to face the south and watched the maiden splash into the river on her horse. The drops of water shone like diamonds as they dripped along her cheeks and her bare throat. He saw that she lifted her chin and gasped as she entered the flowing water and arched her back as her mighty horse carried her through to the other side. Sweat poured along his forehead as she shook her tresses from side to side sending a sparkling spray shooting into the air to form a rainbow over her head.

Then the company passed into the forest of Topfloorien and disappeared. It seemed as if his vision grew dark and he was unable to move for a long time. But at length, he stirred, and rose to stand looking at the nearby Elven realm. "Oh wow!" he said.

Then he cut up Fatblob and began cooking him.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Blissfully unaware of the danger they had so narrowly escaped, the company entered the Park, slowing only slightly as the trees grew closer. They looked in amazement upon the golden leaves, a gold that caused even Merisuwyniel’s golden locks to pale. It did, however, make a lovely backdrop for Pimpiowyn’s reddish golden curls, a fact that she noted with only the slightest bit of smugness.

“Here in the Park of Topfloorien lie the fairest and most expensive dwellings of my people,” Merisuwyniel said. “Here rules the mother-in-law of Lord Roneld with her consort; they are wise and will give us aid for our quest.”

“Holdit!” shouted Halfullion, who had regained the position next to her. All the horses stopped suddenly; Orogarn Two almost collided with Tofu, and Baklava took advantage of the situation to throw Etceteron. Pimpi held onto Vogonwë for dear life and was thankful for his riding skill. It was fortunate that Chrysophylax, with Kuruharan astride, was tailing along well behind the others, so that his startled hiccup singed only a few nearby trees rather than the backsides of his companions and their horses.

“What is amiss?” asked Merisuwyniel. “Why do we halt?”

“I did not call us to halt,” he replied. “I was merely greeting my old friend whom I see in the trees ahead of us, Holdit, the security guard of Topfloorien.”

Indeed, an Elf, clad in an official-looking cape with insignia and his name embroidered on it, approached them. “You cannot pass!” he declaimed.

Lord Gormlessar sprang from Tofu’s back and strode toward the guard. He embraced Holdit, who rather reluctantly embraced him back.

“Do you have an appointment?” the Elven security guard asked.

“Lord Roneld promised to send an O-mail [For non-Elven readers, this term refers to the Elven communication by Osanwe.] about our coming,” Halfullion answered.

Holdit paged through his appointment book. “Ah yes, here we have it. You’re late!”

“A heroine is never late,” said Merisuwyniel with her most charming smile. “She merely wishes to make a grand entrance! Please lettuce in!”

“You may enter the romaine of Topfloorien,” he replied, “but the dragon will have to be muzzled, lest he destroy the trees that house our dwellings.”

“I am of ancient and imperial lineage,” Chrysophylax protested. “One does not simply muzzle me like a dog. Just you come here and try it!”

“I will guarantee that he does not harm anything,” Kuruharan hastened to reply. He had realized that a people of this much wealth would not hesitate to press lawsuits on anyone causing damage to their property. He whispered something into the dragon’s ear; Chrysophylax blanched, swallowed hard and kept his jaws tightly shut.

“Then I will lead you to our head,” Holdit responded.

They followed him to the very centre of the Park, where the trees were tallest and thickest. There, attached to the most magnificent tree, was a staircase and next to it, a golden cage. “Stairs or elevator?” Holdit asked.

Vogonwë was already bounding nimbly up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Halfullion, Earnur and Orogarn Two, not to be outdone, followed him. The horses turned their backs to the trees and began nibbling grass nonchalantly, showing no interest in the lofty destination. Pimpiowyn paled at the sight of the staircase, leading up to dizzying heights. Merisuwyniel noticed, and being of a compassionate heart, took her hand and entered the golden cage, though she feared it more than any other fate.

The dragon did not fit into the lifting device; other races were never considerate of his needs as a member of a minority. “He can stay with the horses,” Holdit suggested. But Chrysophylax’ eyes filled with tears and he shook his head, though he did not open his mouth.

“He is a full-fledged member of our company,” Kuruharan insisted. “I will fly up with him to be sure that he does no harm.”

And so they progressed upwards, wondering who and what awaited them.

[ February 11, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Bêthberry]

Truly this was the most splendidly and luxuriously and uxoriously appointed city in Topfloorien. The members of the fellow/ galship became awed as they rose up to the great penthouse flet in the great city of Careless Gardenhon, rising 3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds whether by running up the elegant staircase or rising in the guilded cage.

They entered a chamber illuminated by roving strobe lights and lava lamps, decorated with many couches and pillows and attended by many handbunnies who Holdit whispered were the White Hares, attired in strange fluffs of white with black bows around their necks. Truly, this was another side of life.

There, on great pillows, sat the Lady of Careless Gardenhon and her consort, Celery. She rose to greet the fellow/ galship, tall and stately, robed gloriously in what might have resembled a white peignoir if some were so inclined towards that persuasion. Celery rose immediately after her and one handbunny, Aliciel, hopped up to measure that he followed the requisite two paces behind the not-Queen Saladriel. He stood smilingly to accept her ministrations and then walked behind Saladriel, his hands held behind his back. Both the Lord and Lady looked ageless, as if D'orien Grey had designed their mirror, although in the depth of their eyes were lances and wells of deep meaning that could signify only coming and knowing and getting and spending all those years in the finest pentflet shops of Topfloorien.

Holdit brought Merisuwyniel and Pimpiowyn forward to meet the couple. "Come beside me," said Celery eagerly, "and when all have come we will speak together."

"You are rash indeed to say that thing, Celery, however long you have longed for this long feat," said Saladriel, speaking for the first time. Her voice was enticing and mesmerizing, weaving images and ideas which fed everyone's head. But perhaps that was the effect of the herbal lembrownies which the handrabbits were passing around. Or the sudden strange heat which accompanied the arrival of Chrysophylax. Then she greeted each of the companions courteously by name.

"Halfullion, by your name, one might expect half so much as I have found, although the ways of your sword and hair were hidden from me until you entered Topfloorien."

"Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, son of Garn Eight, son of Garn Seven, son of Kevin, son of Garn Six, and several more generations, where do you buy your vestments and lovely attire? We have none like that although we have the finest shops here in Topfloorien. Surely you will rest here awhile and share your wardrobe secrets with me."

"Lord Earnur Etceteron, your manly manners and habits are most welcome here. Perhaps we can later discuss recipes for salad ingredients." So saying, Saladriel helped herself to one of the lembrownies and offerred him another.

"Vogonwë, airhead poet, it's no secret that you will enjoy the Airplane music which wafts through our trees. I'm sure you will find somebody to love your poetry here."

"Pimpiowyn, half-halfling darling, we have plastic fantastic food here for your delight should you become tired of the more vegetative comestibles we have here."

Saladriel then looked at the surly pectoral delver, Kuruharan. "I do not repent of our welcome to the Dwarf." And the dwarf, hearing the name given him in the ancient tongue, immediately began calculating what profitable exchanges could be made from the commerce here.

"One is not here who set out with you. He has fallen into the lower end of the rag trade. I did not know that his plight was so secondhand. Perhaps it is just as well, though, for those who rummage cannot be said to appreciate our high end transactions in Careless Gardenhon."

Finally, Saladriel faced Merisuwyniel. "Your quest is known to us here, and by your bow and your best arrows with the golden heads, I will speak with you, but not here so openly. Your quest stands on the rim of your quivers but I will speak not as a counsellor to you, but only as one who knows how the garden may be tended."

Then Saladriel held them all with her eyes and in silence looked knowingly at them. None save Kuruharan and Pimpiowyn could endure her glance without blushing and then at length she released them from her eyes.

"Let not your hearts be troubled. Here, you shall find a peace. You will rest amid the soft couches while the stars begin to prick through the sky and the moon gropes her way through the night's charms and our sweet verse tantalize the air."

With those remarks Saladriel and her consort removed to their pillows to admire the living quality of the bole of the tree upon which the pentflet stood. In the background could be heard a puckish voice proclaiming with all mock solemnity:

The not-queen holds her revels here
For they who work must also play.
So hold your tongue you who would jeer
And let the purist look away.
A merry prankster of the night
Shall come and be a teasing wight
And to that special, perilous sight
Shall play a game of mixed delight.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox returned to his troops bearing various cuts and chops of grilled Fatblob. The Uruks and Wargs set upon the feast hungrily washing their not so dainty bites down with liberal slugs of Orc Draught. Soon, most were collapsed on the ground in a stupor. But Gravlox had eaten little and more often than not, his eyes strayed to the east to look at the golden trees and billboards of Topfloorien.
One of his soldiers approached him with concern. "Is there something wrong, Captain?" said Buzzcut, wiping his greasy hands on his red shirt. "Is it that lying fox? Shall we hunt it down for you?"

Gravlox sighed. "No, Buzzcut," he replied. "The fox didn't lie. The Elves, I...we missed them. I found their tracks. They are in Topfloorien."

"Well, that's that," said Buzzcut. "We can't attack Topfloorien. We'd need at least three or four more Uruks."

"No, we cannot attack Topfloorien. But..." the Captain said, the beginnings of a plan falling into place. "Maybe we can do something." He stretched lazily and plucked a beetle out of the air. It crunched noisily as he popped it into his mouth. "We will cross the river, you, I and three others. The rest will make camp in the pass. Maybe they'll intercept some other careless travellers. But we will...scout out the area. Maybe there is something we can do..."

[Kuruharan]

Kuruharan looked approvingly at the luxurious accommodations of Saladriel and Celery. Even if they were a bit strange, Elves and all...

The Questers were being entertained by the bunnies with food and drink. In Earnur's case a lot of drink. Halfullion kept to his usual food fussiness and would not eat the offered dainties. However, the rest of the Questers were most indecent in their pigging out, particularly Pimpi and Chrysophylax. Those two seemed to be engaged in a spirited competition to see just who could eat whom under the table. Although what Chrysophylax meant by "eating Pimpi under the table" might be open to speculation.

The not-Queen Saladriel was rather put out.

"*Sigh!* I am feeling slightly depressed because I had hoped to gain the advice of the wise Pettygast on my next shopping rampage, because of the rudeness of my guests, and because of the insufferable boringness of my clodish husband. I feel that I need to have my spirits lifted by some gratuitous adoration on the part of my bunnies, toadies, roadies, and flatterers!"

With that she snapped her imperious, yet lovely, fingers.

Instantly the room flooded with more bunnies, and Elf roadies and hangers-on than had ever been assembled since the last Led Silmarils concert.

"Speak words of adoration unto me!" commanded Saladriel. "Behold, I am the Keeper of the Great Salad Bowl of Saladriel!"

"Yes!" intoned the rabble of admirers.

"Perform the great chant of adoring me!" said Saladriel as she lay down on a couch, on the opposite side of the room from her husband.

The whole crowd started bowing and chanting in unison...

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,

The chant began slowly and melodiously.

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,

Then gradually it began to pick up speed.

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,

"Ahh-ha-ha-ha!" sighed Saladriel. "This always makes me feel better! More my minions!"

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam!

The chanting was starting to take on a note of frenzy that was making Kuruharan a bit nervous.

Halfullion on the other hand stared wistfully at the pandemonium being unleashed around him.

"I wish that somebody would Ohwha-ta-goo-siam me." Halfullion said rather petulantly.

"Oh believe me," said Kuruharan with deep conviction, "I have rarely met anyone in my life that chant fits better!"

"Really?" asked Halfullion eagerly.

"Really!" said Kuruharan sincerely.

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

[Birdland]

The little fox had been searching for days on either side of the Pretty Good River, hoping beyond hope that he would encounter the fey wanderers before Gravlox and his fellow berserkers caught up with them. It was as if the earth had swallowed them! Which was very likely. No one in the history of Middle Earth took the subway and lived to tell the tale. The Balfrogs would have seen to that.

The diminutive canid was now headed for New Osgiliath, where everyone wound up eventually, whether it was canon or not. But in order to get there, he would have to go around Topfloorien. The fox quickened his pace in order to make good time before the traffic got bad. He turned on to the Outer Belt of trees that surrounded the overpriced, overdeveloped Elven sprawl like a bad case of ring worm. Though he was hungry, he sped by the beckoning light of the T.G.I. Thrimidge, and in short order left behind the Radagast Shack, Bath and Bodice Works, Bards and Nolder, and the Nienna Marchos anchor store.

He was almost past Topfloorien! The fox ran on as if he lay in a dark and troubled dream; it seemed that he could hear his own small voice echoing in black tunnels, calling If you lived here, you’d be home by now! Then the fox breasted a hill, and instead of a cozy fox condo, a good dozen or so hideous orc-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, and twenty-four hideous arms grasped at him from every side. Where was Meri?

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron the Quite Well Dressed was listening enraptured to the chanting drones of Saladriel the Verdant. It was an ancient piece, timeless and deep, and it resonated with the use of centuries.

"They sing the Lay of Lús-scrú, which is in our tongue 'The Statement of Mission'" he said quietly. "It tells of the great vow of the Gnomes of Dun Rómin that was their undoing long ages past."

"Ah! The Fisher-elves! Exclaimed a trembling Vogonwë. "Many are the tales told of their mighty vow."

"Aye." said the rosy-cheeked warrior sadly. "The folk of Dun Rómin, excelling all in their manufacture of patio sets, swore a mighty oath so binding that they writ it, lest error turn awry their plans; and for a scribe they chose Taepo the Swift, who knew better than any the Elder Tongues. But they were all deceived; for Taepo had mistaken his letters in his haste, so that they vowed not to be the best at lawn ornaments, but to be the best as lawn ornaments. Still they stand around the pools and swards of Dun Rómin, plying hookless rods to snare fish that will never bite, moving never. Such is the folly of oaths."

You useless ponce! Right! That's yer last stupid poem until I get ter kill sumthin'! I'm sure there's Orcs rahnd 'ere sumwear.

Etceteron's hand had moved unbidden to the hilts of the Sable Sword, Wylkynsion. More and more of late, his mind had been drawn to the glimmering black blade, and no amount of goodly tincture seemed fit to prevent it. Still, one more try couldn't hurt: he took out his flask and drank deeply, noticing as he did so that Vogonwë's haunted eyes followed each move of his drinking hand.

"Sir Poet:" he announced generously. "Mayhap thou desirest of me a draught of this spirit. Drink thou well, for there is yet a deal more."

And with this he passed the strongest liquor within thirty miles to the weakest head in forty, recking little what he did in his merriment. Vogonwë grabbed the bottle greedily, drinking the remainder dry, at which Lord Etceteron decided to hide the leathern bottle containing the rest of his supply. The Elf spoke again:

"Poor Elvesh. Poor ikkle Dun Róminsh. Fissshing furrever. Just likhe me with rhymes. Shlave tomyart."

"I must've drunk a bit," thought Earnur. "I wonder where the toilets are around here."

"No hairofthedog for Voghonwee. Notevena hairoftherabbit"

"It's a pressing need now. Where do they hide them?"

"O oft-besplatterèd Brock on ground,
What goes around must come around.
Soon all things must leave their road,
Or else fall in it and get squashèd too:
Many, many, many, many, many,
Many, many, many, many times.
Lo! Until they are as flat as they can be
From the passing of a thousand, thousand heavy things
That their intestines make to Eccles cakes
All stuck around with little bits of grit
That look a bit like currants. So do flies
That weave around the way the soft annoyance
Of their hellos and goodbyes, and sometime must-be-dashing-nows.
Such befalls all things, even ploughs, but never me:
I shall not go all nasty and squashed,
And start to smell horrid, like a rotten
Tomato. I'm immortal, you see.
Good for me."

"This is really getting too much," said Etceteron, sorry to leave off the viewless wings of poesy but feeling acutely the results of Bacchus' driving. He got up, and a few seconds later an enraged shout from the base of the tree indicated that he had found the edge of the platform. He returned.
"A bard of great cunning hast thou become, Master Brownbark," he said. "I wonder now what the dormouse says, for in sooth it must needs be dictation."

"...And all the vales and hills around
Became like little spots of jam
That stick to things like who knows what
And will not come off whatever you do..."

"Verily these hares of Saladriel art fair" observed Earnur. "What companions one of those would make."

"All stained with jam... just like a careless sandwich. Half a loaf, half a loaf, half a loaf onward."

"I'll see if I can find out how light they are..." thought Etceteron manfully, and resolved to ask if they could take a bunny with them. Something seemed very right about asking for a hare from Saladriel.

As the poet became as drunk as a lord, and the lord faded from consciousness entirely they failed to notice the gleam of financial inspiration in the eyes of their Dwarven companion. Someone else might well be asking for something very similar before the night was done.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Mithadan]

The Uruks carried the fox proudly back to their Captain who smiled at the animal. The fox shuddered. Gravlox had a fine set of fangs notwithstanding a serious need for some whitening toothpaste.

"We meet again," Gravlox said pleasantly as he nonchalantly sharpened the point of his spear. "The information you provided earlier proved accurate."

The fox's heart fell. The Elves had been waylaid by the Uruks and slain or otherwise roughed up! He had lost his opportunity to double-cross the Uruks and make an additional profit. His pink mohawk hat slipped down over one eye as he bowed his head.

"Unfortunately," he continued with a sly look on his face. "We did not arrive in time and they have entered Topfloorien. I caught a glimpse of them before they entered that foul Elven land."

"I thought you said that you found their tracks," interrupted Buzzcut. He spent the next ten minutes lying dazed on the ground and marveling at his Captain's hand speed.

Gravlox cleared his throat. "We cannot attack Topfloorien," he said while rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "We must therefore make other plans. That is where you come in. You know of their leader? The female?"

"That would be Merisu," the fox replied.

"Merisu," answered the Captain in an odd voice. He seemed to be savoring the name in some way. Again the fox shuddered at a sudden mental image of barbequed Merisu with a side of stewed Halfullion. "Take this note to this Merisu. Do not say who sent it. We will reward you for your assistance." Gravlox shook a pouch which jangled promisingly and held the envelope out to the fox.

Glad at the opportunity for further profit (and the chance to betray the Uruks) the fox took the note in his teeth and trotted off toward Topfloorien...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel gazed with shining eyes at the wonders surrounding her. Never in all the peaceful, quiet, …boring days on the Elven Farm had she dreamt of such refined beauty and urban sophistication. The women wore such clothing as she had never before seen, and she found herself wondering if her divided skirt, though practical and feminine, was not positively dowdy compared to see-through dresses and sheer stockings. Merisuwyniel thought the head of this realm to be rather an iceberg, but she was stunning, no denying that! She thought about the possibility of buying such clothes for herself in the city shops; would her dear Halfie like to see her in something like that?

She looked over to the couch on which he lounged. Judging by his rapt gaze as he watched Saladriel and her handmaid- no, handbunnies, she corrected herself – he apparently approved of the current fashion. She felt Celery’s eyes on her and turned to speak to her host – well, at least the spouse of the hostess.

“Pray tell me of the wondrous boutiques in your fair city, Lord Celery,” she said.

“It’s ‘Kelery’, not ‘Selery’, m’dear,” he answered with an indulgent smile. This young, unspoiled natural beauty was a welcome change for his jaded eyes.

Mortified, she blushed profusely and stammered an apology. Even the accent was different here, and she had just blundered.

“Do not be concerned about such trifles,” Celery consoled her, laying his arm about her shoulder in a fatherly way. “You are intelligent, I can see, and will quickly learn the ways of the city. I will be happy to show you the finest shops and advise you in all matters of wardrobe choice.”

She smiled wanly and was relieved when he turned his attention to Pimpiowyn, seated on his other side. She again observed Saladriel, wondering whether the not-Queen would give her the name of her hairdresser and saw that she was looking intently at Chrysophylax. The dragon had been looking rather forlorn and dejected, having been ignored by all others after he had finished off the buffet. Merisuwyniel thought she had seen a tear in his eye, but
now he was focusing his attention on the Elven ruler, who seemed to be communicating with him. What might they be saying to one another?

Tired after the adventures of the past days, overwhelmed from too many new impressions to handle at once, and drowsy with whatever the drink had been that Celery had brought her, she dozed off.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Rimbaud]

Yet the sound of Lord Celery’s nasal voice brought her reluctantly back to her senses. She felt decidedly befuddled. She wished brave, strong Halfie, he of the catastrophically awe-inspiring hair-cut and only marginally poorer manicure, would be there to comfort her, but currently he appeared to be employed as an inspector of the waiting staff, who were lined before him, ears pricked, as he looked them over.

“I did not know your flight was so evil,” said Celery. “Let you all forget my poor welcome; I spoke having just returned from The White Hart (a fine establishment). I will do what I can to aid you, each according to his wish and need, but especially those of the folk who carry the biggest burdens.”

His eye roamed from the fair Merisuwyniel to the strappingly strapping Lord Gormlessar as he said this last.

“Your thirst is known to us,” said Saladriel, looking at Etceteron. “But we will not speak of it more openly. Yet not in vain will it prove, maybe, that you came to this mall seeking maids, as Pettygast himself plainly purposed.” A resigned look of eye-rolling proportions came over here, and her tone became droll. “For the Lord Celery is accounted the wisest of the Elves of Muddle-Mud, and a giver of fabulous gift certificates beyond the power of Fifth Avenue or Oxford Street.” Seeing that Celery had abruptly fallen asleep (a little known condition of the altitude and homogenous diet of lembas was a disproportionate affliction of narcolepsy) and was drooling listlessly upon Merisuwyniel’s leg, she gave up the droll tone and spake fiercely. “He has dwelt here for bloody ages, and I have dwelt with him years uncounted ; for ere the fall of Nogarter-on or Grindulin I passed out at the wedding, and together through the ages of the world I have fought the long defeat of the reluctant bride.”

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

That night the non-gender specific Questors slept in comfortable beds, separately, much to the dissatisfaction of Halfullion. The Elves spread for them a large amount of jam upon toast near the kitchen, and in it they laid sweet lembas; then speaking words of really poor quality pop songs they left them.

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë awoke in the morning with the worst hangover of his life. It was, actually, the only hangover he’d ever had in his life, so that isn’t saying much. But, hypothetically speaking, if he had ever been so unfortunate as to have had a hangover before, this one would have topped that one easily. It was so terribly painful and unpleasant, that he wrote a poem about it.

My head is splitting,
The world is spinning,
I’m not winning,
Anything.
My heart is sinking,
I ought never to be drinking,
What was that stuff?
I had enough.
Or too much.
It’s hard to tell.

Fortunately for the rest of the It-ship, he was the last to awake, and found himself all alone, so that he couldn’t share his poem with anyone. This did not bother him, since he was in the midst of working on the continuation of his epic poem; The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs: Fit the Second, Confusion and Angst in Dark Places. He hoped to be able to recite it before leaving Topfloorien, so that the Not-Queen Saladriel could hear a sample of his endless wit.

Meanwhile, the two fair and winsome members of the Whatever-ship, Merisuwyniel and Pimpiowyn, had set off hours earlier for a girl’s day out, to the chagrin of the manly men and half-elf, who were left to their own devices for the duration of the shopping spree. Indeed, one can only imagine how dull life must have been for them without fair Merisuwyniel around to impress with their unmatched manliness, elveness, and idiocy.

Yet it must be so, their day must be darkened, for the She-elf and the Half-halfling-half-thing-quaterling-thing, were bent on pillaging the high-class stores of Topfloorien for all the delights to be found therein. Merisuwyniel had visions of newer and more fashionable clothes dancing in her head, whilst Pimpiowyn was eager to discover if the Elven café’s were all they were purported to be. She wondered briefly if any of the shops would have red clothes in them, but despaired of the idea in a remarkably overdramatic mood swing. Elves never wore red, so surely she would not find what her heart desired in an Elven boutique: a dress of black velvet with flowing, gauzy, fluid, filmy, flimsy, diaphanous, gossamer, sheer, tiffany, ethereal, preternaturally gosh darn beautiful red sleeves. And a mushroom sandwich.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Only the discipline of many years of adventurous journeys enabled Merisuwyniel to contain her excitement while she dressed for the shopping trip. Pimpi’s eagerness equalled hers; she managed only one breakfast before they were ready to leave! Celery met them with more alacrity than he usually felt at this early hour of the day; he took their hands reassuringly as they entered the golden elevator.

Mallorn Mall was like nothing they had ever seen before. A dizzying procession of elegant shops paraded past them as they walked, filled with the most dainty accessories and the most astonishingly elegant gowns. The heady scent of perfumes from Peris-edhil intoxicated their senses and Pimpi noticed with satisfaction that there were lipsticks of a red bright enough even for her taste. When she discovered that they were flavoured as well, she bought several. She was getting hungry now, and as she joined Merisuwyniel, who was gazing raptly at the jewellery displayed in a large showcase, she wished that she had brought sandwiches, so that they could have had second breakfast at Tintallë’s.

Celery, accustomed to anticipating female whims after so many ages of marriage, led them to a nearby café. To Pimpi’s complete and utter gratification, they were served sandwiches, scones and cakes on a triple-layered tray along with an invigorating hot beverage. Since Merisuwyniel merely nibbled at the dainties and Celery sipped only a glass of Kiril Royale, she was able to still her appetite quite satisfactorily.

“Now that you have regained your strength,” their host said, “we shall seek out the boutiques that cater to young misses sizes and tastes.” He added, “Follow me!”

That was my line on the journey, Merisuwyniel mused. It was rather nice to let another make the decisions now, especially since Celery could find his way through the labyrinth of hallways that had caused her to lose her orientation. Purposefully, their host strode toward a lighted sign that said ‘Halfway to Valinor’. “Here we shall find clothes suited for our Half-Halfling,” he explained.

And there, in the window, was a dress – the dress of Pimpiowyn’s dreams. Black velvet, cut low at the neck, adorned with ribbons of golden embroidery, and above all, the sleeves – falling gracefully to the ground and of a width and length that made any practical action of the wearer nearly impossible. Her eyes grew round and large as saucers; breathlessly, she turned to Celery and asked, “May I try that one on?” He smiled in answer and entered the shop with her. Neither noticed that Merisuwyniel had stayed outside, looking at the beautiful dress with yearning eyes.

Even from outside she could see that the gown was not her size – the hem looked as though it would come just below her knees, a shockingly immodest and unbecoming length. And she knew how little its colour would flatter her; Elves never wear red, her godmother had told her. Yet its beauty touched her heart so profoundly that she was moved to a highly unusual poetic utterance.

Oh beautiful for spacious sleeves,
for ‘broidered bands of gold,
for deep, dark velvet majesties,
for colours bright and bold.

She was shaken out of her reverie by Celery’s gentle voice, calling her to come inside. Reluctantly, she acquiesced.

In the shop, Pimpiowyn had disappeared into a fitting room with the garment. Celery motioned Merisuwyniel to follow him to another small room. There hung a dress, midnight blue and encrusted with shining white gems and threads of gold and mithril, so ingeniously embroidered that they seemed to be the stars and constellations of the heavens. It too had the voluminous sleeves that were obviously in fashion this season, diaphanous layers of various shades of blue, like unto clouds in the night sky. She gazed at it in wonder, touching its soft folds reverently before carefully putting it on.

When she came out of the fitting room, Pimpi was already turning excitedly to let the skirt and sleeves of the dress swirl around her. Merisuwyniel wished that there would have been a mirror in which she could see herself in the dress, but when she asked, Celery only said, “You need no mirror but the admiring eyes of a man, my dear. You both look wonderful.” Timidly, she inquired what the price of these fabulous garments would be, but the Elven ruler shook his head and said, “Roneld and I have made advance arrangements for all such matters. You need not trouble your pretty heads with them. As the saying goes, Oh, I can buy with a little help from my friends. Now we must go to Manwëolos for shoes.”

‘Shoes’ seemed much too prosaic a word for the creations of soles, high heels and a few leather straps that they looked at in astonishment. Such impractical, certainly uncomfortable, wholly unsuitable for normal life footwear – and soooo sexy! Even Pimpi, who hated to wear shoes and had never even tried on high heels, couldn’t resist the magic appeal and slipped into a pair that made her sturdy feet look irresistibly feminine. Celery chose a pair of silver sandals for Merisuwyniel to try on, with equally admirable results.

Hours later, laden with the spoils of the most unusual hunt both maidens had ever experienced, they arrived back at the pentflet in time to rest before preparing for the evening’s big party.

Saladriel was feeling quite magnanimous after the admiration of newly come males. In a fit of unwonted generosity, she sent her hairdresser to arrange their coiffures in a festive style. Crowned with curls and braids and adorned with their new evening gowns, they made their appearance at the door to the ballroom, shyly awaiting the reactions of the others. Celery saw them first and strode to welcome them. He handed each of them an ornamented case and said, “Please do an old man the favour of accepting these small trinkets. I know that Silmarils are a girl’s best friends, yet these poor substitutes can only serve to reflect the brilliance of your eyes.”

Astonished, they opened the cases to find a golden necklace with red jewels for Pimpiowyn and a mithril band with a single white star to adorn Merisuwyniel’s brow. Their host helped them to fasten the clasps, since their fingers were trembling with the unaccustomed excitement of the occasion.

As the admiring eyes of the company rested upon the maidens, it appeared that fire and night stood together. Pimpiowyn glowed with an earthy, warm beauty that seemed to spread to all who saw her. Even Vogonwë, who thought he knew her well, stood thunderstruck and for once, absolutely wordless before her.

When they turned their eyes to Merisuwyniel, many of the assembled throng gasped in astonishment, for it seemed to them that Varda herself had appeared in Middle-Earth. Tall and slender she stood, and the Valacirca, Wilwarin, Remmirath, and other constellations shimmered from her raiment as the star shone on her brow. More than one of the company felt an urge to kneel before her, and Celery bowed his head reverently. Then the spell was broken, and the festivities began.

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

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two stood gaping at the lusciouly gowned Merisuwyniel, wicked thoughts flittering through his mind in a constellation of bright lights and dark intentions. Never had the sight of a woman so moved him, and he had to force himself to stand motionless, to fight the almost uncontrollable urge to either drop to one knee or to plunge forward with a reckless oath of lustful devotion. Her eyes met his and his senses reeled. He must have her!

He leaned forward in preparation for a sudden lunge, but an obligatory inanity from Celery broke the spell.

“Dearly beloved,” began the vapid elven lord, “we are gathered here today to join these …”

Realizing her husband was reading from the wrong cheat sheet again, Saladriel gave him a quick, sharp punch to the kidney and finished his sentence loudly enough to mask his groaning decent to the flet floor.

“… to join these wonderful travelers in a toast.”

Everyone raised their glasses, and Saladriel turned to Orogarn Two, smiling.

“Lead us in a toast, lord of Grundor,” she said. “It is fitting that a guest of such noble lineage, high bearing, and remarkable apparel should inaugurate our celebration. Surely one who has so long guarded the Porcelain Throne will have words of wisdom for a gathering such as this. Perhaps a tribute to your missing comrade?”

Finally free of the amatory enchantment of Merisuwyniel’s shapely pair of sandals, Orogarn Two turned to the angelic Careless Lady with a proud look in his eye. Many times had he stood in the Citibank of Minus Teeth and orated before just such a crowd. Lords and ladies from the districts of Ethyline, Listerine, and even Dol Amstel had sat amazed by his extemporaneous deliveries. Raising his right hand, he began to speak.

“Friends, Romaines, countryelves, lend me your pointy ears; I come to praise Pettygast, not to marry him,” he gave a quick look to the still-confused Celery. “The mathoms of Balfrogs live after them oft strewn among their victim’s bones. Such items sought Pettygast, at bargain prices. The noble Saldriel has told you that Pettygast was a trader in rags, that his hard-sought bargains were secondhand. Perhaps it was so, and perhaps Pettygast paid the ultimate price for his last rummaging. My heart is in the Subway there with Pettygast, and I must say no more of him till it come back to me.”

Lowering his right hand and elevating his left, he continued.

“Fourscore and another fewscore days ago my father set me forth on a journey across this continent, dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal, except for those of Grundor who are more equal than others. Also, elves are created equal, only more so, but in a different way. Dwarves are, obviously about half as equal, and half-halflings are a quarter equal under most circumstances.”

Unsure of what he had just said and embarrased at his own confusion, Orogarn Two raised both hands and shouted a traditional toast of Grundor.

“Here’s to a long life and a merry one
A quick death and an easy one
A pretty girl and an honest one
A cold beer and another one!

Here's to us all, Eru bless us every one!”

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë was better at controlling his hormones than Orogarn Two, and felt no urge to pounce on either Merisuwyniel or Pimpiowyn (though, being like a cat, he would have done a very good job of pouncing had he been so inclined). He did feel moved to compose a poem in honor of their luscious beauty, and if he knew what was good for him he’d write more lines for Pimpi than for Merisuwyniel. But though Vogonwë had good control of his hormones, his brain was a different matter, and he seldom knew what was good for him.

That poem would have to wait, however, as his mind was filled with the second fit of the epic lay, and as is flitted fittishly through his grey matter, he stood and lifted his goblet for a toast once Orogarn Two was finished babbling.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “I would now like to recite for you a poem, or the second fit of a poem, to be precise. The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs: Fit the Second, Confusion and Angst in Dark Places, to be precisely precise.”

“What about the first fit?” Celery asked unwittingly, as was his wont.

“Oh, quite true, thou of the Topfloorien persuasion did not hear the first fit of the bit!” Vogonwë exclaimed. “I shall have to repeat it—”

Pimpi gave him a meaningful look and winked in an odd manner, uttering a noise somewhat akin to, “Mmmmm! Uh-uh.”

Vogonwë heeded her judgement, and said, “On second thought, it doesn’t matter much either way, you can hear the first fit second or first, and the second fit first or second, or the second fit second or first or the first fit first or second, or the fit first second—”

“Mmmmm!”

“Anyway, here it is— Confusion and Angst in Dark Places—

They left the Elven Farm,
They left the Farm to face harm,
The day was warm.
And sunny.

They walked for days, or weeks,
And ate leeks,
Every night for dinner.
They came to the mountains,
So far from the fountains,
Of the Elven Farm.

After a time,
They sought to climb a pass,
They clumb Canthardlee,
But did not get over, not hardly.
So they found a cave,
With rocks it was paved,
And through the pinkish gloom they went,
Their bravery and energy not yet spent.

That night they camped again,
They camped again, all of them.
They had gone there and back again,
And were in a sore mood when,
Out in the dark they heard a bark,
And then another.

“The Baskerwargs!” Gormlessar cried,
“They’ve come to eat our scrawny hides!
To rip our flesh and chew on our bones,
Oh I wish we’d never left home!”

(Halfullion muttered, “I never said that at all,” but Vogonwë had up a head of steam and puffed on.)

It seemed for a while that all was lost,
For fire came at an awful cost,
Which they didn’t want to pay.
But they had to do something, anyway.

Then all at once, the world was silent,
The leaves whispered in the air,
For they were pliant.
“They’re gone, they’re gone!” the Questers cried,
“They’ve gone and ‘twas Master Brownbark who did the deed!
He the barking did not heed,
And sent them running with his words and punning!”

(“That’s my department!” Halfullion huffed, but Merisuwyniel laid a reassuring pale hand on his arm, and he began to drool like a slavering Baskerwarg.)

“Praise him, praise him,
With great praise!
Gosh darn golliwog,
Give that boy a raise!”
But the hero demurred,
And they went to sleep.

The next day,
They opted to take the Subway,
And so they did,
Even though the dragon was really big.

Days it seemed they wandered,
While poetic thoughts they pondered,
As they wandered, and wandered, and wandered.
Up one tunnel and down another,
On wheels that rattled like thunder.
Maps they read, and tickets they sought,
The garden idea was all for naught,
But they found them one way or another.

As they were rolling merrily along,
The Dragon fell off, and broke his crown.
Then they heard, to their chagrin,
An awful, clinking, noisy din.
“Mithril-Munching Moria Mice!” cried the Dwarf.
“Mice aren’t nice when they’ve got a mouthful of mithril,
Especially if you’re wearing said mithril.”
But Merisuwyniel sang a note,
And everything was okey-doke.

They neared the end of their dark journey,
When the Wizard left them in a hurry,
Saying “Fly, you fools!” in a flurry.

A massive Balfrog followed them at a jog,
And scared them like spoiled grog,
And smoggy fog.
But the Dragon flew (who knew!)
And the Balfrog didn’t,
So that was the end of that little incident.

So the dauntless heroes left the zeroes,
Of the dark empty pits of nothingness,
That are wont to be in places of darkness.
The fearless friskers felt far brisker and crisper,
Once they were in fresh air again.
And they set their sites for fair Topfloorien.

[Bêthberry]

The chant of adoration had had no lasting effect and the great, magnificent, stupendous not-Queen was mightily miffed about last night's Ball. Oh, the words had rung mighty enough, particularly those of the Lord of Grundor. Frankly, however, she hoped never to hear the shank end of Vogonwë's epic. And it wasn't the lamentable loss of the lovely-haired swordsmen to the undertable that she despaired of, however disappointingly deplorable that had been. No.

The not-Queen had received no bauble of the night sky with which to adorn her unsurpassed brow. And she quite jealously envied the gorgeous red and sultry blue gowns which Celery had heaped upon Pimpiowyn and Merisuwyniel--perpetual white at her age was such a frightful bore. At any age, in fact. Obviously, Saladriel was becoming frightfully bored of everything. This was more than a post-partium depression.

She stifled a yawn but still sighed with the ennui of ages. It was depressingly quiet in Topfloorien. Nothing seemed to be going on and nobody seemed to want it. Was this all that ruling a realm with her own will meant? Of course, she had thrown over Morget. It seemed hardly worth that little spot of resistance back in her salad days--not that she really did resist. Good thing she had been able to find that historical revisionist writer to set things straight.

Saladriel yawned again, not bothering to stifle it this time. She was beginning to regret her actions with the SnowWhite Council as well; maybe things would have been a spot more lively if she had liaised with SoAman rather than Dandruff the Fey. She shrugged. There was little to do in Topfloorien but eat and drink and walk among the tumtum trees and borogroves, and even still it was not all mimsy enough. They were simply vegetating. And to top it all off, Celery was being difficult again.

Celery himself was not amused. He had enjoyed stalking certain members during the Fellow/Galshop til they drop spree. They had sought commerce everywhere from Sûl of Firith Avenue to Far Harrod's to that lovely lunch at Forgoil and Mathoms. It had been gratifying to see the results at last night's splendid. Ball. Smashed a few pumpkins they did. But there was no beamish to be had with the old girl. He was in fact rather put out that Saladriel apparently had not appreciated his tireless efforts at hospitality. Speaking of put out, what could she expect after all these years? Still to carrot all for her? He saw her tossing around on the greenery and approached her.

"I say, Saladriel old girl, what say we have a spot more fun with our guests?"

"Even the very wise cannot see all ends, Celery, so why should you try? But you have a cunning plan?"

"Well, I had so much fun with that Baton Relay game for our Golden Jubilee that I thought we might hold other batons. Er, have another Baton Relay Run."

"We are we, Celery, not you."

"Aye."

"No, you not we. Me we."

"O. . . . U."

"Celery, you old fruit, we shall have to tighten your purse strings. We have devised a clever plan. Yes, we beleaf we have the very thing," the not-Queen intoned. "We shall peep into the Looking Glass of my Salad Bowl to see what is mirrored there."

At that point, Saladriel's gaze was oiled as some of the handbunnies came romping through the rabbit patch with the Fellow/Gal ship. Celery could sense the idea that tore into her ripe head. "O'live to see this game turned around," thought Celery to himself. He signaled to Aliciel to come forward for he had a plan to make Saladriel render up her page to him.

To the handmaiden he whispered, "There is a little Westron flower, before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, called 'Love in Elvenness.' Fetch that flower and prepare the Salad Bowl of Galadriel with it." With a wink the puckish Aliciel ran off to do his bidding.

Saladriel spoke no word but beckoned to the guests. She led them toward the southern slopes of the hill of Careless Gardenhon, and passing through the verdant bush they all hedged their bets as they entered the Bower of Elven Delights. No tumtum trees grew there and all lay open to the sky where the Light of the Evening Star pierced down. Down a flight of long fanciful steps into a deep green mossy hollow through which ran a murmuring stream that issued forth and tumbled into a silver fountain did the Lady of Topfloorien lead them. There, a low pedestal which spread like a branching tree held a wooden bowl, wide and shallow, the great Salad Bowl of Saladriel. The not-Queen kneeled reverently and took in her lovely hands a silver ewer which she dipped into the wonderous waters and then poured forth into the bowl itself after Aliciel had rubbed the burnished wood with garlic--or that other substance. Saladriel inhaled deeply before blowing over the bowl and then waited for the water to settle.

"Many things I can command the Bowl to reveal, and to some what they most desire. But the Bowl will also mirror things stranger (here she glanced at Merisuwyniel) and more profitable (here she glanced at Kuruharan the Dwarf, with a wink). Do you wish to take a peep? Look only but do not touch."

So saying, Saladriel herself looked deep into the bowl and therein came to dote madly upon the next live creature that she saw and she was forthwith smitten with one of the children of Aule, Kuruharan.

Then, indeed, long while all the Itship stood there, and one by one each assayed to gaze upon the Salad Bowl and many wonders there were seen, which they then did choose to tell, or spell or sell.

And once again the girl chorus in the background could be heard singing:

Come now a rondel and a fairy song,
Of wishes vain and love gone wrong.
What thou seest when thou dost peep
Take it for thy true-love's keep.
In thy eye what shall appear,
it is that thing shall you hold dear.

[ February 02, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Birdland]

The little fox stood at the very edge of Topfloorien, Gravlox’s billet deux held gingerly in his teeth. Orcish paper was made from the coarsest of wood pulps (with blue solid and dashed lines to aid in penmanship), and to clutch it too tightly could lead to rather painful splinters below the gum line.

Looking back, the fox could just see a faint line of Orc-heads, grinning helpfully and waving him on with many snickers and poking of ribs. Looking ahead he could only see shops of innumerable sizes and shapes; straight or bent, twisted, leaning, squat or slender. The Elvish mega mall seem to go on forever, with paths leading off in all directions. With many a look back, and a heavy heart, the fox set out.

There were, of course, Elves everywhere. Elves here, and Elves there. Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children. All shopping, their faces proud and fair, clutching their shopping sacks, with receipts in their silver hair. The fox shuddered as he dodged amongst the bustling shoppers, trying his best not to touch them.

Suddenly a lithe Elf maiden leapt in front of him, holding an atomizer and flashing an ageless, cavity-free smile. “White Simarils, Sir?” she asked brightly as she fogged the air between them with a blast of elanor scented spray.

The little canine ducked and dodged, muttering “No thanks. Allergies”. The Elf-maiden gave a sad, puzzled look - the Immortal Folk having no concept of runny noses or itchy, watery eyes. Then a tall, slender Elf Lord appeared in front of the four-legged messenger, sweeping a tray of broken bakery goods in front of his nose. “Would you care to try a sample of our Chocolate-Chocolate Chip Macadamia Lembas today? We’re having a special!” The fox backpedaled furiously, stammering “No, really! No thank you! I’m…I’m low-carbing!” The Elf Lord gave him a withering look, hand on hip, and sniffed ”Looks like you could use it, honey”, before he turned to seek another victim.

The fox scanned a near-by map, glowing with its own internal Elven light; marked with a bright “X” and runes reading “Welcome, Friend. You have traveled far, and are now here.” But the map was of little help. In all this mass of Elf-manity, all scrambling in a frenzy of buying and browsing, selling and pitching, how was he ever to find the Fellow/Gal-ship?

Suddenly the Fox found himself in a grove of trees filled with ancient statuary, all infinitely beautiful and impossibly thin, draped in the very height of Elven fashions. He was surrounded by a herd of Elven-teens, all fingering the finery with squeals of delight, checking the tags and swooping down upon the racks of ready-to-wear dotted amongst the trees. The trendiness of Topfloorien seemed to bear down upon the fox, and he felt that he could bear it no longer, and without warning he let out a shout: “Oi! Oi! I don’t want to buy anything! Just let me pass through, will you?”

The silence surrounding him was deafening. All eyes were upon the cowering little creature in the middle of the sales floor. Then the silence was broken by a lanky Elf-teen wearing a carefully distressed, faux Rohanian riding jacket. “Nice topknot, dude!“ he sneered, and the bevy of Elf-maids around him snickered.

The fox drooped even farther, realizing for the first time that pink probably really wasn’t his color. He had never felt so alone and out of it. Why had he ever come here?

But suddenly he raised his head. There was an answer, or so he thought. He turned round to listen, and soon there could be no doubt; someone was singing a song; a deep glad voice was singing happily, but it was singing nonsense:

Hey Dol! Half-Off! Ring it up! I’ll take it!
Here’s my card! Box it up!
You have to buy if you break it!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel stepped up to the Salad Bowl as the first of the Fellow/Galship. “I will look,” she said bravely. “But what shall I see? Things that were, or things that are, or things that yet may be?”

“Even the wisest cannot tell,” Saladriel answered. “It may be that you will see something of each.”

She gazed into the Bowl and saw at first only leafy greens speckled with croutons as if they were stars upon a verdant sky. Then the shapes changed, light reflected on the salad dressing, and she beheld a forest. Therein strode an Ent, vigorous and strong, only to be attacked by a horde of orcs. She saw a person giving signs to hew the Ent down and peered more closely. The figure looked familiar and yet strange, but turned away before she could see its face.

The image faded, and another face appeared only to disappear again. I wish it wouldn’t appear and vanish so suddenly, Merisuwyniel thought, it makes me quite giddy! Slowly, a sharp-toothed grin became visible, a grin without a face, a sight that was considerably stranger than a face without a grin. She shuddered, yet looked fascinated into the pair of burning eyes that appeared, feeling strangely attracted and repulsed at the same time. Her compassionate heart was touched by the haunted look in those eyes, though her sensitivity for beauty caused her to recoil from the uncouth features.

Then the face slowly vanished, ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. A great darkness took its place and the black outline of a tower loomed large before her eyes. She seemed to be flying closer till she could look into an open window. There stood a woman, both beautiful and terrible to behold. Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain and dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning she appeared. She was tall beyond measurement and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful. Merisuwyniel could not decide whether to love her or despair. Her head drew closer to the surface; Saladriel warned, “Do not touch the dressing!” Then the image diminished, and she saw only salad greens again.

“I know who it is that you last saw,” Saladriel said, “for she is also in my mind. It is not permitted to speak of her, yet perhaps you shall know more anon.”

Dazed and bewildered by the images she had seen, the Elven maiden withdrew from the rest of the company to ponder the purport of the vision.

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Birdland]

The fox made his escape just as the fat, jolly Elf dressed in a spangled yellow and green jumpsuit made his way into the plaza.

"Bombi! Bombi!" the teens were screeching and flocking around their idol. The Fox slunk away with his message, not understanding the huge popularity of the Elf Minstral Tom Bomba-bloom-O. It was an enigma.

The fox crossed the Banquet Court, taking the escalator to the top of a high, round hill in the very heart of Topfloorien. And there, at last, he spied she whom he had sought for so long. "About time." he muttered.

**********************
Merisuiniel stood alone in the Elvish twilight, the neon of the distant plaza gleaming in her golden hair, the basic little black and red Elven gown making a classic fashion statement, hardly needing accessories at all. She gave a heavy sigh, puzzled by all that the Salad Bowel had shown her, and idly flicked a stray crouton from her sleeve.

Suddenly before her appeared the strangest creature: it bore a striking resemblence to a fox she had seen, shortly after it had been run down by stampeding wain team. Except no fox she had ever seen ever sported a bright pink top knot, nor reeked of "White Simarils".

The little creature sat before her, and spat a slobber-coated, crinkled piece of coarse manila paper at her feet. He then shook his head, grimaced, pawed at his mouth and spat two more times. Then, without a word, he faded into the undergrowth.

"Well, I've got that little nuisance out of the way. Now to find that dwarf and conduct some real business, then get out of town without those Orcs seeing me again. I wonder which way the parking lots are?" And with that, the fox trotted off, in entirely the wrong direction.

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sent all but three of his Uruks back across the river to hide near the Pass. He winced as a water-fight erupted among his troops which escalated until one suffered a broken claw while trying the fighting technique known as the Way-Ji. Chagrined by their fellow's whines of pain, the troop completed the river-crossing and disappeared into the mouth of the Pass.

Buzzcut and the remaining two accompanied Gravlox to a billboard which they slipped behind to set up a campsite. When the sun began to set, Gravlox took up his mighty spear, Henry, and buckled on the mighty Zig-Zag sword along with a number of knives. He tugged at the sword's hilts, but as always it remained firmly stuck in its sheath. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should carry a blade of lesser name but greater utility. No matter. The spear was his weapon of choice.

Then he turned to his companions and spoke. "I go now on a daring mission, seeking to spring the trap I have set with the note I gave the fox. Stay hidden. I shall return by morning."

Buzzcut, clapped his Captain on the shoulder. "Good luck sir! Bring back some booty!" Gravlox smiled. "I'll keep my eyes open for booty," he responded to the Uruk.

Gravlox walked off to the north until a bend in the river brought its stream into the shadows of the trees. He did off his weapons and armour and leaped into the river. From his pocket, he romoved a bottle which his son Gravy had once given him. It bore runes which spelled the magic words invigorating bath and shower gel.

An hour later, he crept into the trees of Topfloorien...

[Kuruharan]

"I’ll look next," said Kuruharan.

His intention was balked by the fact that the Salad Bowl was one of these trendy numbers with legs and was sitting on top of its pedestal. He could not conveniently look down into the bowl.

"Hmm," he muttered.

"I’ll help you darling...uh, I mean, dwarf," said Saladriel eagerly. She rushed forward to take hold of Kuruharan and hoist him up. Whether she actually could have, or indeed would even really have tried is a mystery left to the ages because Kuruharan unknowingly forestalled her.

"Oh, never mind," said Kuruharan. "Here’s a nice chair."

"Drattit!" snarled Saladriel under her breath.

Not-King Celery, utterly taken with watching the paint on a nearby wall dry, did not notice any of this exchange.

Kuruharan plopped the chair down on the ground in front of the Salad Bowl. Climbing up onto it he stared down into the depths of herbage for a long moment.

A veeeery long moment.

"Well," said Vogonwë impatiently, "what do you see?"

Another long moment passed.

At last Kuruharan replied.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…"

"Oh for..." said Halfullion.

Saladriel was in the process of casting Halfullion a nasty look when Kuruharan suddenly reeled in the chair and crashed face down into the great and wondrous Salad Bowl of Saladriel breaking it into several pieces.

"Eeekk!" squawked Celery.

"My precious!" cried Saladriel.

"My gracious!" shouted everybody else.

"My nose!" howled an abruptly awakened Kuruharan.

"Look at this, the Salad Bowl is ruined!" shouted an angry Celery. "You’d better be able to pay for this!"

"How dare you speak to my darling, I mean my guest, like that!" bawled Saladriel.

*WHALLOP*

Saladriel’s backhand blow sent Celery flying into the wall he had been so fascinated by earlier. He spent the next several hours lying there like a wet noodle.

"Oh, my poor dwarf," soothed Saladriel. "Let me help you." She sat down beside him, put his head in her lap, and started wiping away all the various oils and leafage that besoiled Kuruharan’s face.

Oblivious to the fact that he was suddenly in a situation that most males of any race would kill their entire families to be in, Kuruharan could only think of a way to get out of this mess without having to pay for repairs to the bowl, or even worse, having to replace it altogether.

"No harm done! No harm done!" cried Kuruharan hurriedly. He sprang up and started gathering the pieces of the once-mighty Salad Bowl of Saladriel.

"I have just the thing to fix it!" So saying, Kuruharan pulled out a fat roll of gray...something. He immediately started pulling strips of this gray stuff off and laying them on the breaks in the bowl.

Wonder of wonders! The Bowl was restored, with a funny new gray pattern along where the breaks had been.

"There you see!" announced Kuruharan triumphantly. "Good as new, and better!" He began scooping the remains of the salad back into the bowl.

"I think that since I made such an improvement in the design we can just call this whole thing square," Kuruharan said hopefully.

"Don’t you need me to fawn over you a little more?" said Saladriel rather forlornly.

"I knew that you would see things my way!" said Kuruharan happily, totally unaware of what had actually been said.

"What is that stuff?" asked Orogarn Two dubiously.

"The making of it is a secret of my folk," announced Kuruharan importantly. "In our tongue we call it ‘Dûct-tape.’ Among the Dalemen it is known as ‘Duck Tape.’ It works wonders on just about anything that is broken. Indeed all the male-dwarves and the Men of Dale use it to repair everything."

"WOW!" said Halfullion and Earnur in unison. Seeing that this was a creation that was truly masculine in every way, they had to have some of it for themselves. "How much?" they asked together.

As this sale went forward Saladriel fumed on the ground. Seeing the state that she was in, Kuruharan thought that he might make her some favorable deal on something, believing as he did that she was upset about the Salad Bowl.

Looking about him hurriedly for something to trade he spotted some of Saladriel’s hares sitting under the trees.

"How would you like to make a bargain on some of your hares?" he asked encouragingly.

Chrysophylax was lying on the ground some distance away with his head in his claws.

"Oh, I can’t watch this," moaned Chrysophylax to himself. "This is pathetic!"

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Rimbaud]

There was a soft whinny, and Tofu trotted (to the surprise of many) into the bower and straight to the Salad Bowl, without even a by-your-leaf. Saladriel arched an arched eyebrow archly as he arrived arrestingly at the arboreal amazement.

Without any warning, Tofu slurped his long tongue straight down into the salad bowl and apparently swiped a few croutons and what looked like (to the experienced lettuce-ologist) a fine red coral Bellisimo leaf, before falling into what appeared a deep reverie. Being far more highly erudite than any other present, Tofu quite naturally received his message in Latin.

The first of the missives, swimming lazily upon the shimmering surface of the psychic vinaigrette seemed to refer to Merisuwyniel’s mare, which had cast more than one horsey eye upon his normally equable equine equanimity, thoroughly discomforting him.

Falafel formosa est multis. mihi candida, longa,
recta est: haec ego sic singula confiteor.
totum illud formosa nego: nam nulla venustas,
nulla in tam magno est corpore mica salis.

…said the Salad Bowl, and Tofu nodded emphatically in agreement. The thoroughly learned steed knew his Catullus from his catalytic converter. The Salad Bowl held one further message for Tofu, referring to Merisuwyniel, and it thoroughly scared him. Est vemens dea: laedere hanc caveto said the Bowel of Saladriel. Tofu whinnied in dismay. The warning stated, in the common tongue, “She is a violent goddess: You will beware of offending her.” Tofu whinnied in anxiety and backed quickly away from the Salad Bowel, lettuce still protruding pathetically from his equine maw.

Halfullion stepped up, seemingly oblivious to Tofu’s discomfort, and stared deeply into the leafy shadows of the future. The Bowel was confused by the abrupt changeover in minds focused upon it. Letters floated up to Halfullion, pretentiously fonted and horrendous in their apparent faux-erudition. Si qui forte mearum ineptiarum lectores eritis manusque vestras non horrebitis admovere nobis.

To this Halfullion exclaimed nobly, “Yegadzookerzoids! I appear to have lost the facility for speech and understanding!” Many of those gathered nodded sagely, apart from Vogonwe, whose nod was more reminiscent of parsley than sage.

The Bowl spake to Halfullion’s mind, a veritable cornucopia of saladorious delights, a veritable radishment of ravishmental ramblings. Halfullion became a bit confused but listened intently. Sorry, about that, young Fellah! said the Bowl, unexpectedly cheerily. Mixed you up there with that grand old minded horse you have there. Allow me to show you your future in pretty pictures with nice bright colours.

Halfullion frowned, suspecting he was being mocked, but given that he was being addressed telepathically by a giant bowl of salad, let it pass.

“Just one thing,” he said. “Please translate what you said to me. Please, just one good movement, oh great Bowel!”

The Bowl sighed and bowed its head (suspension of disbelief required here – it’s a mythology and not any kind of allegory, phew…)and answered Halfullion gravely.

“I said to you ‘...If you who are brave will be readers of my foolishness,
Then your hands will not tremble as they reach towards my poems...’ and I meant it.”

“Oh,” said Halfullion a bit blankly. “That kind of humour’s all a bit, well, post-modern, don’t you think?”

“Rhetorically speaking,” said the Bowl somewhat sharply, unused to being addressed so. “I would argue though that the jesting was not truly of, relating to, or being any of several movements (as in art, architecture, or literature) that were reactions against the philosophy and practices of ‘modern’ movements neither was it ‘typically’ marked by a revival of traditional elements and techniques – due to the somewhat anachronistic nature of this entire conversation.”

“Hmm,” said Halfie thoughtfully. “That’s a very specific answer when the original question held an inherently wider view. It is not simply that the postmodernism does not believe in "truth" so much that it understands truth and meaning as historically constructed and thus seeks to expose the mechanisms by which this production is hidden and "naturalized. I would argue that contrary to the very roots of the word, it can refer to any discipline of any Age."

“Then it is redundant,” retorted the Bowl sharply. “I don’t know what kind of poor deconstructionist literature you’ve been dribbling your meager mental resources upon, but I assure you, you have no knowledge of the concepts of which you speak.” The wise Salad paused for proverbial breath. “Anyway you are missing the point. Here is your future.”

And the Lord Gormlessar saw fabulous haircut after beautiful bouffant while ever in his mind loomed a great pair of scissors and a rotating black leather chair.

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Curiouser and curioser, Merisuwyniel thought. Whence had this strange creature come, with its incredibly tasteless colour combination and its cheap perfume? And what was the meaning of this piece of substance probably known as paper? She picked it up gingerly, wiping off the unappetizing moisture that covered it, then unfolded it and read:

A SeKREt AdMIeROR WaNTZ 2 SPEeK 2 U

MeAT MEe AT Da SHArINg HAMmOCK AT SuNSEt

Her mind reeled – secret admirer? Who could that be? How could someone have fallen for her without her being aware of it? And most of all, why did the person have such incredibly awful spelling?

Ah, she thought, it is a ruse! That must be it – a prank to put me on the wrong track! Surreptitiously, she looked around, but the others were all mixing at the Salad Bowl. Quietly she slipped away, going back to the pentflet to check if her hair and makeup were alright. Reassured that her appearance could satisfy even the most fastidious admirer, she sought out one of the ever-present handbunnies to ask the way.

“Sharing Hammock, Miss?” she giggled. “Why, that’s up Lover’s Lane; you can’t miss it when you go up the hill outside the city.”

Merisuwyniel sighed and wished that Falafel had not insisted on staying at the Salad Bowl with the other horses. Oh well, she would have to walk fast. She pulled out her pocket-watch and thought, Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!

She entered the first circle of trees just as the sun disappeared behind the hill. Ahead of her loomed a second circle of huge trees. She could barely distinguish a hammock that swung between the two largest; therein sat a figure, visible only as a black silhouette to her.

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sat in Sharing Hammock, waiting tensely. She will not come. Surely she has many a suitor. Or she will send instead warriors. I am a fool. He drew his dagger and tested its edge nervously as he looked about, seeking some sight of Merisu.

Then he saw, in the distance, a maiden walking in a shimmering pool of light and his heart leaped. He swallowed it back down and tried unsuccessfully to compose himself. Unbidden, thoughts cam into his mind: It is the east, and Merisu is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

She came yet closer and brought up a hand to her face as she tried to pierce the darkness with her eyes. "What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night So stumblest on my counsel?"

She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air. But he remained silent as she stepped slowly closer.

Finally, he spoke. "I have come to see you my lady, and having seen you, that is enough: I should go."

"Stay," she cried, squinting into the night. "And give me your name."

And Gravlox said, "By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word."

Her breath hissed in a gasp as at last she saw his face. He cringed but made no move to rise. "I saw you from afar," he said. "And could not stay away. Though I know my kind is repugnant to you. And yet, know that among my kind it is sometimes said that we were once as you are before the Dark One came and sat upon us."

Almost, she ran, and yet she was facinated by this Orc who sat so quietly and yet so boldly before her. "How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here."

"So be it!" he cried. "I am weary of my life. And if I cannot have more, then die I shall, but happily now that I have seen you from so close a distance." He stood slowly and walked to her. She stood quietly and did not run, but marvelled at the apparition which had appeared before her. "You find me attractive?" she said shyly.

"Yes!" he cried. He hurriedly wiped some spittle from his snout then continued. "More fair than any I have seen before. But this is foolishness. This will never work."

"No, never," she replied taking a small step closer.

"Impossible," he insisted, letting the dagger fall from his hand.

"What would people say?" she laughed, taking a deep breath.

"Unnatural," he answered stepping even closer. "Insane."

"Yes," she whispered, having slipped so close that the hilts of his sword nearly touched her. "Kind of sad, isn't it?"

He fell silent, shivering at her closeness, and bowed his head. At last he answered. "Very sad indeed." A tear fell down his cheek.

"What a mighty blade you wear," she commented. "Does it have a name?"

He laughed bitterly. "It is called the ZigZag sword and is said to be enchanted. What manner of enchantment it bears I do not know, for it will not come free from its sheath."

"Really," she said, licking her lips. "I love a challenge. Can I try?" She placed her hands on the hilts and pulled. Then he placed his hands on hers and they pulled again. The blade slid from its sheath with a whisper of steel. He looked at it in surprise. A light seemed to shine on the two from above.

"There now," she said. "That wasn't so difficult. Now where where we? Oh yes. So sad, I could cry that because of the families we were born into we could not ever be together."

"Never," he whispered. "Ridiculous." He reached a hand up to her face to console her.

"Absurd," she replied, looking into his eyes and caressing his muscular shoulders to console him.

"Laughable," he murmured, as he ran his hands along the soft material of her dress to console her.

She stepped back suddenly. "Do you compose poetry?" she asked.

"No," came the crestfallen answer. She smiled and they consoled one another vigourously throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two strode forward and violently shook the curious Salad Bowl, scattering leafy greens in a maelstrom of fluttering roughage and sending a shower of bacon bits over the overpriced footwear of the maidens gathered about it. Without apology or warning, he vaulted high into the air and dove head first over the wooden rim of the vegetation-filled saucer, where he convulsed face-deep in the elvish guacamole.

Embedded in the mysterious melange, Orogarn Two soon lost adequate oxygen flow to his brain and slipped into unconciousness. Darkness wrapped itself about him as he slipped away, but after a while, the blackness lessened a bit and he found himself surrounded by a host of dim sparkling lights, each inexplicably shaped in the glowing likeness of his loquacious step-mother, Iodeth. The multiple specters of his father’s fourth spouse floated before him in an eerie dance, and a ghostly voice that he recognized as his own began to speak to itself.

Orogarn Two: “Lost. The wallet is lost.”

Orogarn Too: “Stolen. Stolen by the nasty trees.”

Two: “No, not the trees. The trees are our friends.”

Too: “You don’t have any friends. Nobody likes you.”

Two: “Not listening. The wallet is lost”

Too: “Stolen! And you are listening!”

Two: “Am not.”

Too: “Nobody likes you, you know.”

Two: “Merisuwyniel likes me.”

Too: “Tricksy half-elf. She’s a friend of the trees and can’t be trusted.”

Two: “Pimpiowyn is nice to me.”

Too: “Little quarterling thinks you have food.”

Two: “Kuruharan?”

Too: “You’re just an easy mark.”

Two: “Earnur? Halfullion?

Too: “I told you! You don’t have any friends.”

Two: “Yes, I think you are right. The trees betrayed us, and the half-elf carries the lving tree.”

Too: “I told you they was false. They is all false.”

Two: “Yes. They are false and betrayed us.”

Too: “Yes! We must punish them.”

Two: “No. No. It’s too risky.”

Too: “We could let him do it.”

Two: “Yes, he could do it.”

Orogarn Two

Orogarn Two, come back to us.

The Lord of Grundor’s body shook again with a tremor so great that the gathered companions jumped back in dismay. His long figure twisted savagely and ejected itself so forcefully from the Salad Bowl that he landed many feet from it in tumbled a heap.

“What did you see?” asked Vogonwë, rushing forward to help him up.

“Nothing,” answered Orogarn Two. “The Salad is wilted.”

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë strode up to the Salad Bowl and struck a pose before it. He gazed in at the now tossed salad and his reflection reflecting up at him from the dressing. He saw himself, naturally, and adjusted his hairbow. “Yes…well…quite…” he said.

Then the bowl went dark, as if the salad was rotting before his very eyes, and the green leaves blackened and moldered and began to stink, the odor rising toward him in wisps of yellowish air. Then the bowl cleared, and he saw his father, frolicking under the verdant bows of the Forest Formerly Known As Greenwood the Untreated Lumber Yard. This was odd enough, as his father normally did not frolic, but what was even more remarkable was that Geppettuil was frolicking with what appeared to be a mortal woman. “She is not an Elf, anyway,” he thought, “for we are wondrous fair to look upon.”

“Meaning I’m not, I take you?” the woman stopped frolicking and spoke to him. “Thank you kindly! And when you’ve finished ogling me, perhaps you’ll say who you are, and why you can’t let the shadows of the past rest?”

But as he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that a woman in a salad was frolicking with his father and speaking to him, the scene changed to a very ugly baby crying in a bassinet. In its tiny wisps of hair was a fixed a bow far too large for the little head. A woman picked the baby up and said, “There, there, little Vogonwë, your head will get bigger in time.”

The bowl went dark yet again, and suddenly a face took up the whole circular area, the face of that same dratted woman! Only her face was now green, and she had the mysterious runes, “Ghost Prince of Cardolan” stamped across her forehead.

“Who are you?” Vogonwë asked.

“Ask me not who I am, but rather, who I was,” the woman replied.

“Yeah, yeah. Who were you, then?”

“In life, I was called Darthana of Chippendale, and I was a woman of the Lake-men of Chippendale, naturally.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

She sighed. “Geppettuil never told you what happened to your mother, Vogonwë.”

“He told me that you killed her!”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Do proceed.”

“I am your mother, Vogonwë.”

“Yeah, and I’m a Dwarf,” Vogonwë snorted.

“No, really.”

Vogonwë grew serious. “But…but my father told me that I was transformed from a carved doll (which was carved from a rotting log inhabited by potato bugs) by the magick markers of the Blue Faerie.”

“And you believed that load of horse swill?” said the green lady.

“Well…I was only 20-years-old!” Vogonwë said.

She rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. My son is an idiot.”

“I am not!”

She cast an appraising eye over him and arched her brows. “Look at you…slouching… Is that how I raised you? To slouch?”

“Duh! I have to lean over the bowl to see you, Mother!” Vogonwë replied with annoyance, but then clapped his hand over his mouth.

“Aha! See? The long dormant embers of your memory are stirred! You were only a little elfling when I died, but a son never forgets his mother,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Don’t you remember the nursery rhymes that I used to sing you to sleep with?”

Vogonwë paused, then to his own surprise, recited,

“Hush little elf-child, don’t you cry,
And don’t be afraid of the Lidless Eye,
But if you’re naughty then, you see,
Daddy’s gonna sing you some poetry.
And if that poetry doth stink,
Mommy’s gonna drown in the kitchen sink.”

“Good, good!” Darthana cried. “You do remember. Now, listen up, my time with you grows short. Already the others are grumbling amongst themselves about what a bowl hog you are. So I’m not going to chew my cabbage twice, do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. I have a message for you:

Vogonwë Brownbark, long under spell,
Go now to your father and give him hell.
And then you must choose a fate for yourself,
To Die as a man, or Fade as an Elf.”

Vogonwë found this little poem so moving that he whimpered, “Mommy,” and began to cry great tears that splashed into the bowl in giant drops. The surface of the salad went black, and he stumbled back from the bowl, wiping his face and blowing his nose on his sleeve.

He looked around at the puzzled group, and said, “Well, that’s an eye-opener and no mistake!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vogonwë would not say what he had seen, so it was with slight trepidation that Pimpiowyn advanced upon the Salad Bowl. But, at the same time, Pimpi felt curiously attracted to the Bowl. She crept up onto Kuruharan’s chair and peered over. A chill air seemed to strike her face, rising from invisible depths below the lettuce. Moved be a sudden impulse she grouped for a loose carrot, and put it in her mouth. She felt her heart beat many times before there was any sound. Then came a crunch, magnified and repeated in the hollow space of her mouth as she chewed.

At first there was nothing to do but purloin a couple more carrots and an odd chunk of yellow pepper here and there, but then she too saw a curious sight appear in the dressing.

She saw a picnic laid out on a grassy knoll. Heaps and heaps of food were piled atop a red checkered blanket. It all looked much tastier than the dry and well-tossed salad fixings she was crunching on, and she licked her lips hungrily. But the scene changed and she saw a multitude of Orcs rushing about, growling and roaring and shaking various sharp and unpleasant looking implements of war. They trampled over the picnic and Pimpiowyn saw that they were chasing a man, a hobbit, and a toddler. What she saw next cannot be described in detail, due to the PG-13 rating of these documents.

Horror filled her very being as she re-witnessed the band of marauding Orcs marauding her parents. The Salad Bowl became very bloody. Rivers of blood, pools of blood, cascading waterfalls of blood, gurgling drinking fountains of blood, filled the image before her, and yet through the terrifying red sheen she saw one hideous face over and over again. Slaying her father, killing her mother, lopping the head off of her father’s horse, chasing her with murder in his bloodshot eyes, was one Orc that stood out from all the rest.

Oh, she knew that face well. Years she had seen it in her darkest dreams, and even the really light ones, too. As the blood swirled and twirled and pirouetted before her, his ugly mug leered at her through the murk. She saw again the moment when all seemed lost, and he loomed above her, crying, “I’m gonna put a maggot hole in your belly!” Then an Elf came up from behind, wielding a shovel, ready to strike. He tripped on his shoes and came down upon the Orc’s foot. Foot and Orc separated, and then the image went bloody and dark, as that had been the moment when little Pimpi fainted.

Pimpiowyn wondered why she was being shown this horrific scene again, and also thought obliquely that she didn’t remember it being that bloody. Perhaps it was the Salad Bowl’s idea of a good special effect, but it seemed rather cheesy and B-movie horror schticky to her.

All the same, she couldn’t help but shed a tear as she viewed the remains of her mother, the fairest flower of the Shire, who never hurt anybody or wanted to hurt anybody or anything. Gentle, loving, jolly little Pipsissewa Took. Sweet, caring, delightful little hobbit lass. Pretty little, sweet little, cute little halfling. What kind of debased, depraved, perverted, dissolute, immoral, iniquitous, sinful, vicious, wicked, vile, nefarious, pernicious, damnable, execrable, offensive, atrocious, foul, hideous, loathsome, obscene, repugnant, repulsive, revolting, distasteful, repellent, fetid, putrid, stinking, malicious, malevolent, rancorous, spiteful, vicious, wicked, disagreeable, ugly, wrathful, hurtful, injurious, destructive and generally vapid creature would ever take it in his mind to harm such a beautiful and innocent hobbit? But there the vision loomed before Pimpi’s eyes: Pipsissewa, lying upon the picnic blanket, bleeding into the potato salad and baked beans.

It is a little known fact that it was Dead Mothers Month, which explains why Pimpi heard her mother’s voice speaking to her mind, and it said, “Pimpi! The time is near! Sooner or later you will finally be faced with your mortal enemy, and then you will either succeed or fail in your Quest for revenge.”

“Is there a third option?” Pimpi asked in puzzlement.

“No! Whatever happens, know that you father and I are looking down on you, up here in the Eternal Mushroom Patch. Do not let the blood of your parents be spilt in vain!”

“But even if I revenge you, that won’t make your deaths worthwhile,” Pimpi reasoned, her practicality challenged.

“Just do it!”

With a swoosh, the vision of the picnic faded, and Pimpi again found herself staring at a simple salad. She shrugged and plucked a tomato from the roughage. Then, all of a sudden, she heard the sound of whinnying.

“Drat,” she muttered, hopping down from the chair, “Lopitoff is at it again.”

“Come again?” Saladriel asked in a low and melodious voice.

“My pendent has an annoying habit of whinnying from time to time,” Pimpi explained. “The sound fills my mind until I think that I should go crazy.”

“Try to ignore it, darling,” Vogonwë advised.

“That’s easy for you to say, I’m the only one who can hear it,” said Pimpi. “I do so hate it when he malfunctions! It’s only supposed to do that when Orcs are near.”

“There are no Orcs in Topfloorien,” Celery said gravely from where he lay in an undignified lump on the ground.

“Right,” Pimpi lifted the chain from around her neck and held the pendant away from herself. “Try telling Lopitoff that.”

Celery, missing the sarcasm, faced the dangling horse head and intoned, “Listen to me, little shrunken gold horse-head thingy, there are no Orcs in Topfloorien, and that's final.”

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Entish Bow stood propped up next to the Sharing Hammock. It was accustomed to being laid aside when swords were unsheathed, since it was useless in close combat. Suddenly the sound of a voice nearby woke it from its dozing.

“Well, Mr. Gravlox,” it said, “this is a nice pickle we’ve landed ourselves in!”

Startled, the Bow shook itself awake, thinking that it had been dreaming. Strangely, Merisuwyniel was no longer seated next to it, but the unknown male who, though he was an enemy, apparently meant her no harm. The voice seemed to come from his lower appendage.

“Who speaks?” the Bow asked. “Your voice seems familiar, yet I recognize it not.”

“And I feel that I should know yours also,” the answer came, slightly muffled. “I am the unfortunate wooden substitute for the lost foot of this brave captain.”

The Bow gasped. Could it be? Was this wood of his wood and branch of his branch? It trembled so strongly that it fell over, touching the wooden ankle which was revealed between ill-fitting boots and too-short trousers. In blissful reunion, the Entish relics communicated silently with one another, which is just as well, since their conversation was much too lengthy and boring to be related here.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Merisuwyniel stirred, sensing more than seeing the approaching of faint light on the eastern horizon and hearing the sounds of birds awaking. How could so much time have passed since she had come here? She touched Gravlox’ hand shyly and said, “Oh say, can you see? It is dawn’s early light!”

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day,” he protested.

“It was the lark, and not the nightingale that pierced the fearful hollow of mine ear,” she replied.

“Nay, that raucous sound comes from crebain of Dunland,” he corrected. “Hide!”

She threw the folds of her Elven cloak over the Hammock, concealing them perfectly from all intruding eyes. After a longer time than was strictly necessary to be certain of safety, she reluctantly drew it back again.

“You must be gone and live, or stay and die,” she admonished.

“When shall we two meet again?” he asked, gazing longingly at her face.

“O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?” she breathed.

“I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come,” he replied fervently.

“A thousand times good day!” she said yearningly, slowly letting go of his hand.

“’Twill be a thousand nights to be away!” He tore his eyes from her lovely features and turned, disappearing from her sight between the trees.

Sighing, she picked up the Bow, wondering fleetingly that it was lying on the ground next to the place where her Orcish beloved had been seated. With light, graceful and swift steps, she ran back to Careless Gardenhon.

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion shook his head, his exquisite coiffure settling down in gentle, heroic waves. Clearing his head, he looked up and saw the fair Merisuwyniel, Star of the Skies, returning. His heart thudded like a rhinocerous in heat having a mild coronary as he saw her flushed and exuberant features. She had clearly been thinking of him again, day-dreaming of running her fingers through his supremely subtle highlights. Her hair was a mane behind her, her dress was askew and her quivers loose and bouncing upon her shoulder.

He rose, with very great glee, and strode to her, as her heavy breathing and ruddy complexion gave clear notice to Lord Gormlessar that she was faint at the very thought of his pugilist's pectorals.

"So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
Burning in flames beyond all measure," quoth he, grandiosely, with a massive dose of unintentional irony. "My fairest Princess, gladly come are you to this place. Let me escort you to where you might rest." He laid a broad, strong hand on her slim shoulder (exposed by an unfortunate tear in her gown) as if to lead her away. All the while his eyes shone with his love and passion for her, so beauteous was she in this flushéd state.

"Halfie!" she said sharply, and removed his hands. She whistled for Felafel, and before Tofu could even spell 'cuckold' in Greek, she was gone. Thoroughly annoying Halfullion, who slumped disconsolately to the ground, his ardor dispelled, Tofu began to sing, under his breath, "Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love, Untrue Love, Untrue Love, adieu, Love; Your mind is light, soon lost for new love."

Halfullion looked thoroughly miserable so Etceteron sidled over and reluctantly offered a swig from his hip-flask. Some seconds later, red-faced and spluttering, Halfullion had very nearly forgotten all about Elven Princesses.

[ February 04, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Bêthberry]

The not-Queen Saladriel composed herself as best she could, her face filled with the unsurpassed beauty of the ages and shining as if bejewelled with the light of new love. She was moved, nay, deeply touched, at the thoughtful and caring and considerate ways of the Dwarf and she paused to admire with plenitude the deft and dexterous and nimble ways of Kuruharan's fingers as he skillfully repaired the sundered Bowl.

"True indeed it is said that the skill of dwarves is in their hands rather than their tongues."

"Yes, yes, whatever you wish, my dwarven darling," she spoke with a hushed tone which was barely heard over the loud gaffaws and snorts of Chrysophylax, who was becoming quite exercised in his own way, wondering if the Bowl would ever bring forth something to him a little more substantial than this vegetable matter.

"Here, I offer up to you what none have e're earned in so bold an action. And may your hands flow with gold over it." So saying, Saladriel retreated to discuss the affair with several of her handbunnies, er handhares, who seemed none too displeased with the exchange. More volunteered than were strictly necessary, so Saladriel chose the comliest and handed them over to Kuruharan.

Unseen in the light of her surprising ritual of gift-giving were the actions of poor, forelorn, heart-broken Halfullion, whose watery sorrows were not so great as to keep him from noticing that some of the handbunnies, er, handhares, had been overlooked. He was quick to whisper sweet and not so sweet enharements in their ears, whereupon he departed, consoled in his misery by several of them.

[ February 04, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron approached the dread salad bowl with an unsteadiness that was due in part to trepidation but mostly to a day spent drinking, and reciting bad poetry. Vogonwë's latest masterpiece had left him feeling inspired, although it had sadly fallen short of providing more than the sensation; and the fruits of this had been lavished upon all whose ears remained unblocked:

Oh give me a flask full o' the warm South
And let me sup it alway'.
There is a crust within my arid mouth,
And I must wash it clean.
Behold the goblet's sheen
Reflects to me wobbly squiggles and lines

It was with these mighty staves in his mind that the warrior almost-poet strode through the wreckage of the mystic salad, stepping neatly over a puddle of Sauce Vignette to pause awhile and contemplate the wilting depths of the prophetic receptacle. Stooping slightly, he brushed aside the momentary distraction of a stray morsel of Juvenal and gazed deeply into the heart of an artichoke, wondering blearily what wonders he would see.

At first there was only a rather sad assortment of squashed vegetables, drizzled with oil and not a little mucus, and a vague smell of equine halitosis. Then images began to form: first the mouth of a silver flask, then a drop of pure amber liquid. His gaze being naturally drawn to spiritual things, Earnur looked into the depths of the drip and was engulfed.

He was standing in a sward, over some former feared bandits, a bloodied and broken sword in his hands. The leader of his erstwhile opponents wore a fine sable scabbard for his impressive weapon, and without further ado he set about unbuckling it. No sooner did he take the blade to sheath it, however, than there came a voice seemingly from his hand:

You useless twonk! I've seen bleedin' toddlers 'oo could've parried that! I 'ope you 'ad that pansy good an' proper...

There was a sudden, pregnant pause.

I'm not talkin' to Slasher am I?

"You address Lord Earnur Etceteron of Ilvers-in-Slógin, O hidden foe. Stand forth that I may test the mettle of this sword." replied the great warrior, glancing about him wildly.

I am the sword, you berk. 'Ow the 'ell did a prat like you ever beat Slasher Grimodur?

"Peace, my brand. Th'art mine by right of looting corpses. Henceforth we shall be as brothers in battle, and many shall wonder at our deeds..." retorted Etceteron grandly, but his new sword interrupted him.

Leave it aht, Sunshine. I've 'eard it all before. Last bloke 'oo said that it took 'em five days ta find all of 'im. I'll stitch you up 'nall, ya great steamin' tit...

But Etceteron was no longer listening. A brightly-coloured mist was swirling about him, which differed from the usual rainbow in that it eventually coalesced into something resembling reality. He was in a grassy glen, looking on some sort of grey hammock. Near it, a very familiar-looking bow lay close beside a crudely made wooden foot, which was fastened to a leg that clearly belonged, even at this merciful distance, to a plastic surgeon's retirement scheme. Although it was doubtful that even a mother could love a limb so revolting its owner appeared to have prevailed against plausibility and taste; for entwined with the disgusting appendages of the beast were those of someone rather more attractive. Were it not for his certainty that every Elf he knew possessed both keen sight and a functioning sense of smell he might have thought this better-looking half familiar, but as it was he could only mutter something about Cupid being painted blind before a welcome veil was drawn over the scene.

Now he stood in a black landscape. He faced some great and terrible evil, but his sword would point only at the ground. The faint words of an argument reached him, cut short as a huge taloned hand swept into view and his vision darkened.

Now he sat in what could only be a tavern, slumped over a rough-hewn table. Someone at the bar was buying a round for everyone, and he sprang to his feet to order a large Miruvor and soda, but the vision faded as swiftly as it had begun. For some reason an unexpected earthquake had begun, and someone was shouting at him, presumably to beg assistance.

"Lord Etceteron? Lord Etceteron? Oi, Clothears!" said the Lady Saladriel daintily, and never, it seemed, had he heard a voice so fair. Suddenly struck by the beauty of the not-Queen at a delicate moment when relative sobriety was beginning to set in, Earnur muttered something indecipherable, to which she replied: "Your visions have fatigued you greatly, my lord. Perhaps you would lief retire?".

Suddenly being alone with a bottle of wine didn't seem the attractive proposition it usually did at this time of day. Aware that he really would rather like some company this time he made the greatest conversational sally of the month:

"You've got nice hair." slurred Lord Etceteron feebly.

"Ummm... Very well... I think you ought to go and have a lie down now." decided his hostess uncertainly, obviously none too happy with the compliment: the not-royal court was not used to such gin-sodden idiocy. Realising that he had failed to make an impression, and too embarrassed to speak further without a drink, Earnur did his best to extricate himself from this new blunder with no more than the usual loss of dignity.

"Gratefully, Lady." said the daredevil dipsomaniac, "For I have seen much that seems to me strange, and I must ponder on it ere I sleep."

Lightweight

"Shut it." Etceteron told his brand, which had spoiled his momentary satisfaction with his apparently successful gambit; but it was an ill-advised moment of remonstrance, since only he had heard the word.

"I beg your pardon?" inquired Saladriel sharply.

"...Mmmm? Nothing. Sorry..."

Mumbling apologetically, Lord Etceteron made to retire. Pausing only to grab a jug of wine from the table he left the Fellowship and made for his quarters to commune in spirit with the elven vintage. He left surrounded by derisive metallic laughter that only he could hear.

[ February 09, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox made his way wearily from Topfloorien. I meant to kidnap her and hold her for ransom. Really I did, spoke a voice inside him. Who are you trying to kid, and more importantly, what will you do now? came a second voice. You are an Uruk! insisted the first voice. You are a Shmuck! What now Romeo? Deny thy name...? Gravlox shook his head violently. "Not enough sleep," he muttered as he approached the borders of Topfloorien...

[ February 06, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Bêthberry]

Celery was stewing yet again. He had fancied a bit of garden of his own, but Saladriel had not invited him to peep. And now his hopes of dicing her were shredded. He had not intended Saladriel to string along that dwarf. "There's no good help around these days," he rabbited on, blaming Aliciel for failing to ensure that Tofu had discharged soon enough into the bower. He sulked off to devise a pithy plan to defeat these pulp fictions on the marrow.

After much cerebration, the Company were again summoned for a final celebration to the chambers of Celery where he spoke crisply but ceremoniously of hardening their hearts for the leaf-taking. Seeing their resolve wilt, he offered more of the magical mashed mushrooms, served once again by Aliciel who was quick to point out that one bite would make them large and the other bite make them small. Halfullion at this news had a spot of trouble holding manly onto l'Enviey Piennhas and Wylkynsion berated Etceteron about getting the bite right. Orogarn Two demanded the right to take two bites of the pasties, one also for Too and Pimpiowyn munched the entire mash in one masticatory mouthful. Vogonwë immediately memorialized the marvellous morsels in extemporaneous amphimacer, which cretinous cretic shall here be recorded to highlight its curiosity as an archly archaic anachronism.

In amaze
Lost, I gaze!
Can our Eyes
Reach thy size?
May my Lays
Swell with Praise
For this Meal
So unreal.

Not realizing this was the antipathetic antidote, Saladriel attempted to allure Kuruharan into nibbling on the nicety which she held in her mouth, but he was busy trying to garner Celery's attention in order to discuss the potential for this product in the weight management market.

Suddenly, the earth stood still.

"Oh, poop," said Etceteron. "These aren't the honey cakes of the born-gains. Pimpi burped. Orogarn Two did a double back flip. Halfullion tossed his head dashingly. Saladriel rolled her eyes--all that apparently she had to roll.

"I guess that what should be shall be after all," she intoned in her most meaningfully monotonous, monogomous monotone.

"Oh woe! Alas! Farewell great visions," bespoke our heroine, Merisuwyniel. "I feel your loss, good members of our 'ship. I was clearly foresightful in refusing to partake of this repast, for now I have my memories at least intact. I will not forget he whose very steps enthrall my bow. Yet you great Saladriel are fairly envious and perhaps needful as well. I will give you the Bow if you ask for it."

With these generous words the lovely girl with the lovely hands tremblingly held the lovely bow up to the not-Queen. The Bow seemed to stand upright and fairly hummed with its own good vibrations.

"Well-dressed am I but clearly I have met my match in your saucy skirts. I do not deny that I have long longed for such a long bow. And for many years I have pondered what I might do should a living bow come into my hands. And now at last it comes and if I take it all shall love me and despair."

"I know what it is you seek, for I have seen the bow quiver on your pillow beside you. I say to you, Merisuwyniel, that even as I speak to you I perceive the Dark Lord. He ever gropes to see me and my thought, but is yours the greater need?"

Saladriel lifted up her hands and from the hot peppers she held in her fingers there shot forth a firey burning taste and as she planted herself there, to Merisuwyniel she seemed herbaceous and edible beyond tossing. Then Saladriel dropped her hands and lo! she was once again merely the not-Queen of Topfloorien, a simple mixed salad rather than a Caesar.

"I pass the croutons. I will choose ascetic vinegar and leave the bow cid'er."

They stood a long while in silence and then the Lady spoke again.

"Now is the time for you to leaf." She snapped her fingers and many handhares came forward and provided them with more croutons for the journey, with cloaks woven of the strongest hemp and held about the neck with a brooch like a mushroom head veined with dollar signs.

"They are as good as credit," said Saladriel. "Now let us drink the cup of V8 and the shadows of consumerism fall between us. And here be the munificent and magnificent gifts of Saladriel and Celery to the Company."

"To the dashingly dashing Halfullion, the Lord Gormlessar, I give a sheath to fit his sword, which is overlaid with a tracery of flowers and leaves and mosses and on it is carved runes which speak the extraction of the sword, in notches."

"To the Lord Earnur Etceteron, valiantly valorous and in vino veritas, I offer a mithril flask of prodigious unemptying production and on which is carved the image of an elk's antlers and the words, in runes of course, Dorfiddich Single Malt. Other runes of the magical inscription are, unfortunately, weathered and scratched and overhatched. The only remaining runes which can be made out are the potentially portentous, 'made ..... compromise.'"

"To the mightily physically fit Orogarn Two, he of very fine fettle, I give a mithril fob for binding his wallet to his belt, should he ever find it again, that it be not lost nor taken from him ever again, knock on wood." (Here Saladriel glanced at the Entish bow quivering on Merisuwynial's back.)

"To Kuruharan the Convivial but Conniving, I give a pouch of sundried tomatoes and mixed antipasto, a sort of vegetal pemmican, and suggest he devise ways of marketing it for the tourist trade which will spring up in the footsteps of the Fellow/Galship."

"To Pimpiowyn, not-lover of orcs, I give a box of bean seeds set with the letter S for Saladriel but may it also stand for Sustenance in your tongue, so that always the half-halfling would always have something to feast upon. At the very least such musical fruit could always be used to punctuate Vogonwë's poetic output."

"To Vogonwë himself I give a raspberry wreath, to be worn around his brow as a totem to guard against those who would hazard a critical comment upon his poetic output."

"And, finally, to the splendidly lovely and sumptuously attired and perfectly finished heroine Merisuwyniel, I give a cosmetic bag 'broidered with the runes, Yo,Logo. In it are samples from all the coolest Brand Names of creams, salves, unguents, ointments and foot powders for when you will be in rough places and want to be brand-new. Oh, and emery boards for your lovely nails."

And as the Fellow/Galship took their leaf there arose the voice of the Not-Queen singing puckishly to them one last time:

If we purists have offended
Think but this and all is mended
Tolkien has but words us lended
And we our elbows now have bended
As if in jest bad verse is ended
And laughter much is cheerily sended.

[ February 10, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel gracefully swung a shapely leg, clad again in the practical yet feminine divided skirt which was her habitual attire, over Falafel’s back. The starry festive gown had been relegated to her saddle bag, folded carefully with layers of tissue paper and enclosed in a waterproof protective cover. Likewise had she traded the high-heeled Manwëolos for her fine leather boots, supple and sturdy. As she waited for the others to take their farewells, she unwrapped the small package that Celery had secretly slipped into her hand, recalling his words.

“The eyes of the men who surround you on this journey are not sufficient witness to your beauty,” he had said. “Take this small token from one who has seen much that was once beautiful fade away from memory, and delight in the vision it shows you.”

After she had removed the shiny wrapping paper and the elaborate bow, she saw a locket, exquisitely shaped of gold and mithril, attached to a mithril chain. She pushed the clasp to open it and lo! the face of a wonderfully fair, dark-haired Elven maiden was therein. She recognized it as the image of Tinúlizzie, the most beautiful Elf that ever lived. Then the picture faded, and a golden-haired maiden became visible. Eyes of velvety violet looked back at her, and only when the image moved did she realize that she saw herself in a mirror.

Peering more closely, she realized that her complexion was rather ruddy, more so than a becoming blush would account for. Furtively, she rummaged through the cosmetic bag till she found a sample of tinted moisturizer and applied it to her face. Then she disguised the shadows of sleepless nights with cover stick. How restlessly she had tossed and turned, torn between self-reproach and longing.

She had looked into the heart of an enemy and seen there love and understanding. Now memory was all that was left, and memory was not what her heart desired. That could only be a mirror… And as she gazed into the mirror, it seemed that she could see the outline of a dark figure, waiting for her – but where?

[Kuruharan]

The Elves took the Questers down to the pier to show them their noble craft. The Elves had been very considerate in loading all their supplies and horses onto the craft beforehand. Given the amount of supplies and the size of the horses the Fellow/gal-ship hoped that they had been given a veritable flotilla of mighty river craft.

"And here is your ship," said Celery as it came into view.

The Fellow/gal-ship was disappointed that they had only been given one boat. They were further disappointed when they got a good look at the boat. In fact "boat" was probably not the correct descriptive term for it. "Three pieces of plywood nailed together" would probably be a better way of describing it.

Their gear was piled up in the middle of the craft. Chrysophylax was taking up one whole side of the raft, and the horses were precariously balanced among the baggage on the other.

"Ummmm..." said Pimpi dubiously.

"That’s right," said Celery. "Its a wonderful craft!"

"But..." said Merisuwyniel.

"You just get aboard and everything will work out fine," said Celery.

"But..." said Merisuwyniel.

*BOP* *SMACK* *SHOVE* *KICK* *TOSS*, erupted the sounds of a sudden scuffle as the Elves "helped" the Fellow/gal-ship aboard.

There was no other way for the Questers to ride on the raft except for them to mount their horses and dragon, except for Orogarn Two who had no horse.

"But we have to go upriver for a few miles," said Orogarn Two. "We have no oars."

"Ask and ye shall receive," said Celery.

A few pathetic splinters of wood were tossed their way.

"By the way," said Earnur, "where is not-Queen Saladriel?"

"Ah...er...um, she had an appointment, yes that’s it, an appointment," sputtered Celery. "She soooooo hoped to be able to give you a good send off, but she’s all tied up at the moment." Inwardly, the word that arose unbidden to his mind was, "literally!"

"Anyway, bon voyage!" cheered Celery.

"Oh, these city dwellers have such sophisticated expressions!" Merisuwyniel thought dreamily.

The Elves of Topfloorien had broken out their ukuleles and grass skirts, and they started to play a wistful song of departure, swaying gently to the music.

"Well, off we go!" called Halfullion.

The Fellow/gal-ship leaned down from their horses to use their so-called oars. They set to their task with good cheer and vigor.

+++++++

Two days later

+++++++

"Can’t...row...another...stroke..." gasped Earnur as he collapsed in his saddle. The rest of the Questers silently agreed and they all slumped over in their saddles.

*BUMP!* went the raft back into the pier approximately two seconds later.

The Elves of Topfloorien were all sitting pathetically on the ground staring forlornly at the Fellow/gal-ship. They only managed a muted and half-hearted hum of their song of departure by this point.

"This is getting nowhere fast!" thought Celery to himself. "How are these philandering jerks supposed to drown if I can’t get them out to midstream. What if they decide to spend another night here! I’ll end up even more cuckolded than I am already!"

Suddenly, inspiration struck.

Gathering some of the other Elves, Celery and his helpers grabbed long poles and started shoving the raft away and out toward the river.

"Oh, why thank you," said an exhausted Merisuwyniel.

"Think nothing of it!" said Celery hurriedly. "Off you go!"

And off they went. They drifted out into the river and were picked up by the current.

"I say," said Kuruharan suddenly. "Aren’t we going the wrong direction."

"Huh?" said Vogonwë.

"We needed to go upstream from Topfloorien. We are rapidly going downstream," said Kuruharan.

"What difference does it make so long as we get to the other side of the river?" asked Orogarn Two.

"Hmmm..." said Kuruharan dubiously. "Getting over there may be the problem."

"Nonsense!" said Halfullion. "The way the river current is we’ll just float right over to the other side and hop off this thing without even getting our feet wet. You’ll see!"

Alas, all the Fellow/gal-ship saw was the opposite shore drift lazily by for the next two days.

"Something is not right here," said Orogarn Two.

"I’ve eaten the last of the food," announced Pimpi.

Suddenly, a horn call blared from the opposite bank. Several dark and agile river craft darted out of concealment and bore down on the Questers.

"River Pirates!" cried Kuruharan. "To the skies!" So saying, Chrysophylax abruptly took off, bearing his master out of reach of danger.

"Wait!" shrieked Merisuwyniel. "Something is wrong with this!"

"I’ll say!" bawled Halfullion, furiously trying to get Tofu aloft. "What has come over this cursed beast! Fly varmint, FLY!!"

"Horses don’t have wings!" shouted Vogonwë.

"Says you!" snapped Halfullion.

"Look out!" called Orogarn Two.

The pirate ships had closed in rapidly. The crews were scrambling preparing to board the raft and slaughter the defenders.

Earnur drew Wylkynsion in preparation for the first real battle that the Fellow/gal-ship had yet experienced on their travels. As the pirates closed in he reacted in the only way that a strong, tough slab of raw, reeking manly manliness could react.

He succumbed to a sudden fit of the vapors and fainted.

"Git," snapped Wylkynsion.

Seeing his rival’s discomfiture, Halfullion prepared to draw his blade to do battle with the foe. However, something was missing. His mighty sword of legend and lore was nowhere to be found.

"Where is it, my preciousss? Where has it got to?" squealed Halfullion in a desperate attempt to find the sword.

"You had it just a minute ago," said Pimpi helpfully.

"Wait a minute, here it is," said Halfullion. He tipped his new scabbard up into the air and {presto} a little miniature sword popped out. It looked to be just the right size to be put through an olive and served on a platter.

"Could there be a worse time for this to happen?!" yelled Halfullion.

"No!" said Merisuwyniel scornfully. How so unlike her new beau who had a much more reliable sword.

Merisuwyniel had been shooting the pirates with the Ent that was Broken, killing about five with each shot. Her markswomanship was greatly aided by the fact that the pirates were crowding together on their ships to gawk at her. However with every five that fell, fifteen more came crowding to stare.

Vogonwë was doing his part by tossing arrows at a furious pace and killing many more of the foe.

For her part, Pimpi could see little hope in resistance. They had no more food, so it would be better to surrender in hopes of getting a decent meal.

Orogarn Two was silently calling on the strength of his ancestors and his high lineage and drawing his boring, but truth be told much more useful, sword in preparation for combat.

Kuruharan and Chrysophylax glided sedately above. As an encouragement to those trapped below he pulled out his accordion and started to slowly play the mournful strains of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

As concerned for their comrades as they were Chrysophylax could not bring himself to swoop low enough to blast the pirates to cinders. The pirates had many archers and Chrysophylax had a relative who had perished in very similar circumstances. The two of them contented themselves with providing moral support.

Suddenly, the moment of truth arrived.

"Board ‘em!" howled the pirates.

"Kill 'em!" screamed Wylkynsion, even though he was in no position to do anything at the moment.

The pirates jumped aboard with a wild "Huzzah!" and the turmoil of mortal combat began on the little raft.

Alas, the raft was not designed for this kind of rough-housing.

*GLOOP* *KA-CRUNCH* went the little craft as it simultaneously capsized and broke apart.

The pirates reacted swiftly to snatch up the valuables, and were notably slower about retrieving their comrades and the unfortunate Questers.

When this work was completed they stood on the deck of a river-boat tied hand and foot facing a deranged looking captain with one wooden leg, and a big bushy beard.

"ARRRH, Mates! Wot we got ‘ere?!" asked the captain.

"I didn’t get a word of that," said Merisuwyniel. She was desperately trying to avoid the pawing hands of the pirates. "His language is archaic and his dialect barbaric!"

"Wot you got 'ere is a sword that is too good fer ya!" said Wylkynsion.

"Hoo said that?" said the captain after a moment of bewildered glancing about him.

"Me," said Wylkynsion.

"Hoo?!" asked the captain.

"Oh for..." snarled Wylkynsion.

"Stow that," yelled the captain. "We must get arrrrh plunder ashore before darrrrrrhk. Man the oarrrrrrrrhs. Leave these bilge rats here. And somebody ‘ave an eye fer tha’ dragon."

The crew whipped into motion and rowed for the opposite bank. They went up an small tributary as it was getting dark. The Fellow/gal-ship had reached the other side of the river, but they were prisoners of the moderately dreaded, but not really quite feared, River Pirates.

From there they were lost to sight in the dark, but Kuruharan and Chrysophylax followed them.

[Mithadan]

Gravlox and three of his scouts watched from across the river as Merisu and her company attempted again and again to launch their "vessel". Buzzcut roared with laughter as the current pushed the raft back to shore no matter how its crew struggled to guide it into the rushing water. Even Gravlox began to giggle when, during the fifteenth attempt, one of the "warriors" fell into the river and splashed frantically until he realized the water was only hip deep.

When two days later, the raft finally got under way, Gravlox organized his band and they began to trot along after Merisu and Co. ( Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks, and everywhere we go... splash, splash... NO SINGING! ).

The assault of the river pirates caught even Gravlox unawares. He watched intently as they looted the raft of its goods (giggling a bit at the "prowess" of Halfullion and Etceteron) and then with alarm as the pirates took Merisu and the others hostage.

"Well, that's that," proclaimed Buzzcut. "We'll have to find someone else to play with." But Gravlox urged his Uruks into a double-time march (one broke a leg trying to keep time) and as night fell, they were camped a half mile from the pirate outpost. When asked, he responded that the pirates were now their target.

Following traditional Orcish custom, they made their wounded comrade comfortable. Then they ate him.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Earnur awoke and groaned. It was a groan of agony for his pounding headache; a groan of deep, heart-rending frustration for his sudden alcoholic fainting fit and a groan of total humiliation because he had been tied up by someone who looked as though he'd failed the audition for a fish-finger advertisement. This would never do: The sword Wylkynsion was already annoyed because it had killed nothing in weeks, and now at the first sign of a real fight, not to mention an opportunity to kill someone with a silly beard, he had keeled over like a nun in an abattoir.

His position was especially awkward as he could reach neither of his flasks. If this situation couldn't be resolved soon he would begin to sober up, and it was far too early in the day for that. Urgently he cast about him for a means of escape, perchance to drink.

Fortunately the pirate crew, being grizzled sea-dogs, were fond of the stronger spirits that were distilled around Greyhaven* and other less salubrious Elven enclaves. A bottle of Strangereek's had fallen to the deck very near where he was sitting not more than a day ago, and he could smell the spilled liquor eating its way into the planks. Shuffling closer to the reeking crater he allowed the bonds at his wrists to touch the highly volatile beverage, at which a substantial proportion of the rope evaporated. Now able to reach a miniature of the good Captain's Olde Amber Amnesia that he kept in a secret pocket in case of unfavourable customs laws or chemical weapons treaties, he applied a few swift drops to the ropes around his legs and was free.

The solitary tar assigned to guarding the prisoners was reasonably good. Given that the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin was more sober than usual and fighting unarmed, the other man had a certain advantage; but all the same it took an entire rambling paragraph to make a deprecating comment about his haircut and break his neck like a dry twig.

Swiftly untying those of his companions that he could see through his stinging eyes and stinking headache, Lord Etceteron now addressed himself to the real problem of the day: how was he to recover the sword Wylkynsion, which had never failed in battle, and for which the pawnbroker in Minas Vëatë always gave at least ten silver pieces? He turned to his companions, but it was too late to say anything: the greybeard loon was returning to gloat, and had noticed this daring piece of escape work. In his hands he held a blade that was the terror of three continents and thousands of temporary incontinents; a blade that would have sold its forger for the amusement value, as indeed would this narrator. There was a viciously satisfied gleam along the edge of Wylkynsion's black blade, and the Captain's first words were not encouraging:

"What d'ye mean, ye lily-pommelled landlubber? Captain Byrdsae always gloats over 'is victims afore they walks the plank."

"Lord Etceteron exercises no man's pet." announced the bemused nobleman, glancing for support to his manly companions.

The Captain engaged in a one-sided bout of whispering, which culminated in "All right; we can kill 'em now." and lunged towards our gallant party, beginning the second skirmish in two episodes. The action was hotting up in earnest.

Note:
* Now Grimsby

[ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Birdland]

(Two kraken-ish creatures float in the water, watching the the second skirmish)

"So what do we do now?"

"We watch."

(Creatures watch)

"Can't I eat one?"

"No, we can't. That's not what we do."

"They're right there. Just one."

"No. Just watch."

(Creatures watch some more.)

"I'm hungry."

"Here. Have a fish. Nice fish."

(Beats fish on rock and eats it.)

"That passed the time...Who's winning?"

"I think the ones on the left."

(They move to the left, and watch some more.)

"Is it over?"

"Seems to be."

"Let's go."

"Yes. Let's go."

(They do not move.)

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Rimbaud]

"For goodness sake Halfie," pleaded Merisuwyniel. "Now is the time!"

In the heat of the moment and the confusion into which they had all been thrown, like croutons in the soup of combat, she had neglected her martial prowess and was clinging on Lord Gormlessar's arm as a limpet would a limpet-attracting surface. At any other moment, he would have been rather pleased at this abrupt turn of events; however, prior to the sodden Lord Etceteron's fumbled rescue attempt (he had not untied Gormlessar's wrists but had very nearly severed his thumb) he was feeling rather queasy. He refused to look at his (presumably bloodied) hand for fear of the fainting fit he knew (with some small shame) would result in him seeing anything red and moist.

Merisuwyniel tugged on his arm more fiercely. Luckily, with this being an action sequence, the director had slowed the bad guys down to super-slow-mo, but due to time constraints, the editing team had left the Fellow/Gal-ship running at normal speed, allowing them quite a bit of time to prepare. Orogarn Two sat down, cross-legged, and began cleaning his nails out with his sword, that the inept River Pirates had neglected, neglectfully, in a wanton display of neglectful neglect.

"Merisuwyniel, please bandage my thumb," gasped the injured Hero Halfullion. Adroitly she did so, ripping material from her bodice. Etceteron tried unsuccessfully not to gawk and mumbled something about the South Downs, and rolling slopes, but no-one was listening.

"Why so afraid, oh mighty one?" she whispered as she finished off the make-shift dressing.

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine, making the green one red," he replied carelessly, rather surprsing her for she thought that line had been punned on previously and considerably more humourously. Etceteron, trying to yank a hitherto unsuspected black dagger from a similarly sable soft satin boot, stumbled into her.

"Out, damned sot!" she cried. Ah, I see now, it was a sort of precursory pre-emptive premonitory sort of affair, she mused. She finished wrapping the strips from her tunic around his hand.

Will I ever cut her hair? wondered Halfullion. This wound to my hand seems most grievous. Yet I am a Hero! I must ignore my pain.. He yanked the dread blade L'Envey Piennhas from the gorgeous yet somewhat effeminate scabbard gift from the Lady of the Bowel, Not-Queen Saladriel, and removing himself from Merisuwyniel's whitened grasp, he strode forth manfully to meet his destiny. He had managed to retain the sword through their capture due to it's miniscule size at the time. The scabbard magically matched the sword, inch for inch.

His haircut was simply unbelievable and accounted for three of the enemy before battle was even joined. He shook his supreme waves of faultless folicles at their backs, as they scampered away, gibbering in fear and awe of his stupendous bouffant.

Even his companions seemed dumbstruck by Halfullion's grand charge, this flaming hunk of a man, all rippling muscles, superbly tailored tight leatrher armour pieces and a flying buttress cod-piece that bespoke of a quite incomprehensibly incredible masculinity. His charge was only slightly lessened by the sight of his sword, which in its current state would not have caused a softened slab of butter to tremble unduly. It was, to use the friendliest word available, stubby.

This did not stop the mighty impact of his first blow, a blow so strong that it clean knocked the head off the first marauding maruader. The head span, in a graceful arc, coming finally to the hands of Ororgarn Two, who had risen from the ground. Orogarn Two, that most athletic warrior, caught the flying noggin adeptly, slapped it down upon the ground, whereupon the springy turf sent it bouncing swiftly up again. Undeterred, he tapped it thrice more upon the ground, becoming more surprised each time it returned, finally jumping, spinning, and slamming the head down into a circle of rocks leading into a small ravine beside him, and inventing the game of Basketball in the process.

"Huzzah," mumured Vogonwe and tried to think of suitable words for the spell-binding action he had witnessed. He spent the remainder of the skirmish thinking of rhymes for 'hoop-meister'.

Halfullion meantime had rediscovered his heroic qualities. His sword now at a more appropriate size for a blade of such dread repute, he was busily chopping the heads of all the enemies that came at him. The pile of heads was growing rather rapidly and the other members of the party started to become rather nauseous. Seeing that they were not required, they walked off, heading where, they knew not, befuddled by the darkness and the difficulty of the way.

* *

Fearing for his safety, sometime later in the night, the Dwarf and the Dragon were sent back to discover what had become of him. They were gone for a long time.

When they finally returned, they bore with them the noble Hero, who was quite liberally coated in the life-blood of their would be captors. The Dragon seemed replete and immediately settled down to sleep.

"Where have you been?" questioned Merisuwyniel, with a note of hysteria in her voice, and more than a trace of Listerine on her mouth.

"I found him," said the Dwarven Merchant, grimly. "I found him, squatting atop a gruesome pile of heads, busily..."

His voice faltered and it seemed that it would not go on. Halfullion helped him out.

"I was cutting hair!" he said happily. "I have discovered a fabulous new hairstyle! It's business in the front, party in the back!!!"

"Eh?!" cried all the assembled in mass confusion, as dawn flooded the skies around them with a somewhat listless light.

"A mullet!" cried the wood-be hair-stylist, sword wielding hero. "To the French, mullét! Business in front, party out back, like I said. A mullet!"

And he had pictures.

http://www.mulletjoe.com/febgal3.gif http://www.mulletjoe.com/febgal6.gif http://www.mulletsgalore.com/classifications/!pix/I/classic.gif

And links. (http://www.mulletsgalore.com/)

Finally, all in the party knew true terror. More than pants-wetting, consciousness-fracturing terror, we're talking real, unadulterated, primal fear.

It was the grimmest part of the whole quest. It took them another dayus walking, in utter silence, with Halfullion uncermoniously tied to Tofu's back and gagged, before any of them could set the horror aside at all. However, Vogonwë managed somehow to lower the tone before they slept that night. In a dread tone, his aspect fell, he recited the grim words of the Mullet Haiku:

It's not a trailer.
Angry mullet man insists.
Manufactured home.

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Diamond18]

In the morning, Vogonwë awoke in a cheerier mood, visions of mullets successfully driven from his head by sweet and poetical dreams, not doubt aided in their sweetness by Saladriel’s gift.

Now that they were no longer floundering in the water, drifting downstream or prisoners of pirates, he saw that the time for blessing his companions with the third fit of his epic poem had now come. It was a tricky fit to write, but he had managed to finish it in his mind the previous day, whilst he had been cleaning the pirate blood from his arrows with a soft terry cloth.

His companions awoke, and he seized the opportunity their grogginess created to declare his intent. Pimpiowyn, who had a developed a lush and affectionate glow in her magnificently large and dewy eyes since counting the number of pirates he had dispatched with effortless skill, reacted favorably. Her little hobbit heart had gone pitter-pat to see her arrow-throwing love at work, but unfortunately the amorous mood was bound to pass with nothing more than a poem.

The others were, of course, groggy and unable to think twice about it.

“The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs,” he intoned, “Fit the Third, Lollyin’ in Topfloorien:

The Subway behind them, the woods before them,
The ground beneath them, the sky above them,
Food inside them, clothes upon them, air around them,
The Company rode along.

They entered the woods, under the golden boughs,
The leaves were falling, the birds were calling,
And Holdit met them at the gate, and led them to,
The Elven not-Queen who did them await,
In her treetop flet ornate.

Topfloorien, Topfloorien!
I’ll say it again, Topfloorien!
Your golden trees, your shopping sprees,
Fill female hearts with glee.
Such happy times we had then,
When we were in Topfloorien.

Saladriel welcomed them to Topfloorien,
And a sumptious feast they had then,
Again, I say Topfloorien.

The ladies fair went shopping there,
And came back looking even fairer.
Their beauty was, as ever, indescribable.
They looked so swell,
That the males flocked to them,
Like pigs to swill.

Pimpiowyn of the fiery curls,
Sets the senses awhirl,
In a dress of red,
To match her head.
Words fled at the sight of her,
And she’s all mine, so ha!

And Merisuwuniel…Merisuwyniel!
What can be said about her?
Her beauty is staggeringly, amazingly,
Breathtakingly, Unmistakably,
Wow.
Merisuwyniel, Merisuwyniel, Merisu;
Why do all the guys flock to you?
Well, duh!
Beauty like hers will probably not walk the earth again,
To that, Amen!

They partied some more, and then,
Saladriel took them to look then,
Into her Salad Bowl.
They saw different things,
Of cabbages, and kings,
And whether Balrogs have wings.
Et cetera.

And then, it was time to go.
They set out again, wistful for when,
They had been,
In Topfloorien.

When the poem was over, it was time for breakfast. Pimpiowyn’s mood had cooled considerably right around the fourth repetition of “Merisuwyniel”. She took her plate of fried mushrooms and bacon over by Lord Etceteron and forked her food with unusual gusto.

Merisuwyniel, meanwhile, sighed wistfully as she thought over the events missing from Vogonwë’s poem. It was a good thing, too, as under the influence of his leaden tongue the night would probably loose a great deal of its romance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After breakfast (three for Pimpi, who always ate extra when upset with her beau) they set off again. By mid-afternoon they reached the gloomy boughs of Workmud, Formerly Known as Greenwood the Untreated Lumber Yard. But it had been many years since the venerable old forest had fallen in shadow, a darkness emanating from the rotten heart of the woodland realm.

They looked into the dark depths of the trees and felt a distinct sense of foreboding. Whispers of doom flittered through the mind of all but Vogonwë, who said, “Ah, home sweet home! Why, the place has hardly changed at all in a hundred years! Still as dark and gloomy as ever!”

“Nevertheless, this is our road,” Merisuwyniel said gravely, leaving Vogonwë to ponder what the “nevertheless” was for.

Pimpi trembled a little, but was determined not to let on that she was afraid. She couldn’t help but cling a little closer to Vogonwë, though she had been determined to give him the cold shoulder until he noticed that she was giving him the cold shoulder.

“This forest has the look of a place where one could loose a wallet, or other things of value,” Orogarn Two said cautiously, protectively gripping his mithril fob.

“Looks a bit close, in you take my meaning,” Chrysophylax said, acutely aware of his own bulk.

Kuruharan assessed the tangled and overgrown path and gave up hope that there were any inhabitants with money to spend dwelling therein. “Aren’t there any other paths we might take?” he inquired hopefully.

“Why?” Vogonwë asked. “My cousin Throngduil will give us a royal welcome. Soon, Master Dwarf, you will sample the fabled hospitality of the Workmud Elves. Have you ever tasted ‘Mudwater? ‘Tis the finest (and most potent!) wine this side of the Sundering Seas.”

“More potent than Strangeeks?” Earnur asked doubtfully.

“Pfft. Child’s play,” Vogonwë said.

“I’m in. Let’s go, then,” his companion quoth manfully.

At the mention of the Workmud Elves, Kuruharan’s outlook brightened, and he ignored Chrysophylax’s doubtful hesitation. “Burn a path, then,” he said impatiently. “It’s all right; Pettygast isn’t around to whine about it.”

And so, they entered the sullied realm of the woodland Elves, and other things of lesser repute and not so squeaky-clean moral standing.

[ February 14, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel was astonished and secretly impressed by the tremendous demonstration of stereotypical male behaviour she had experienced in the victory over the pirates; so much so, as a matter of fact, that she herself reverted to stereotypical female behaviour.

“Let us make camp here,” she announced. “I will prepare a meal for us.”

Amazed silence greeted this prospect, coupled with not a little scepticism, since none of them knew whether this would be a consumption devoutly to be desired. Pimpiowyn recovered first and heartily agreed, being inclined to think that any meal was preferable to none. They dismounted, but instead of the rest they hoped for, they were assigned tasks by their leader-turned-cook.

“Vogonwë, you know the plants of this forest, and Pimpi recognizes anything edible – you will search for vegetables, roots and fruits. Chrysophylax will light the fire, but Kuruharan needs to find firewood first. Orogarn Two and Halfullion, your weapons have slain so many foul creatures; now you can show if you can slay some fowls for our stew.”

Halfullion protested, “But I refuse to kill living creatures just so that we can eat them!”

“I’m not suggesting that we eat Tofu,” she snapped somewhat irritably.

“Can’t Earnur do it?” he asked.

“No, I have a different assignment for him,” came her answer, as she turned to Etceteron. “You are knowledgeable in the matter of herbs and spices, are you not? Search for some to season our meal; I especially need curry.”

“But where shall I find curry?” he queried, rather puzzled.

“Curry can be found in the most unlikely places,” she replied.

All of the companions took off to complete their assigned tasks, since a warm meal and rest could only be had afterwards. All, that is, except for Halfullion. He sidled up to Merisuwyniel, laid his arm around her waist and said coaxingly, “Can’t I help you here? Orogarn Two can hunt well enough without me.”

“Well,” she retorted, “perhaps your mighty sword can be useful for dicing the vegetables. It should be just the right size!”

Offended, he left, muttering under his breath something about showing her the size of his sword. Little did he realize that watchful eyes had observed him and the Elven maiden…

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë skipped lightly down the path, and Pimpiowyn trailed behind with somewhat lesser enthusiasm. “I’m tired,” she pouted, “and I don’t like the look of these woods, and I don’t see how we shall find anything edible in this tangled mess of nasty trees.”

“Where’s you sense of adventure, darling?” Vogonwë replied glibly. “Come on, you’re with me, and I know the ins and outs of this place, so the very idea of having anything to fear is utterly preposterous.”

This heartened Pimpi a little, and she declared Tookishly, “I never said I was afraid. I just don’t think we’re going to find anything tasty and worth our trouble.”

“That’s because you don’t know where to look. I roamed these woods freely as an elf-child, and then as an elf-teenager, and still more as a grown elf. Follow me and we will bear the most food back to Merisuwyniel,” Vogonwë declared.

Pimpi was about to make a clipped observation about his eagerness to impress Merisuwyniel, when he suddenly skipped lightly off of the path and gamboled into the dark and dreadful looking forest. Pimpi froze and watched him with an expression of mingled surprise, consternation, worry, confusion, and secret admiration. “Eh…” she said.

Now, Workmud is known far and wide as being an unsavory place, though it was once peachy-fine, they say. But everyone knows that in this day and age, gamboling through the woods off the beaten path is not generally what one would classify as a “good idea”. Besides the abundance of queer noises such as grunts, groans, moans, hisses, scufflings, scurryings and hurryings in the undergrowth (plus the black skwerlz poncing about) Pimpi saw nasty cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. They looked dreadfully sticky and clingy, not to mention extraordinarily thick. She thought it very queer. But Vogonwë seemed not to mind, as he effortlessly pranced his way through the undergrowth and the dangling cobwebs alike. The grunting etc. toned down a bit as he passed by—no doubt the purveyors of the noises were also shocked at his nonchalance.

For a moment Pimpi debated whether or not she should stay on the path or tag along after him, but some odd grunting noises behind her sealed the deal, and she cautiously followed in his footsteps. “Eh…” she said again, then mustered a more loquacious, “Vogonwë, dear, wait up a bit.”

He paused. “Oh, one thing,” he said as if being struck with an idea, “on a scale of one to ten, where would you rate spiders?”

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Little ones, or big ones?”

“Smaller than some, bigger than others.”

“Bigger than a breadbox?”

“Depends on the age,” he shrugged.

“You’re scaring me.”

At this Vogonwë laughed in a forced sort of way. He waved his hand gracefully. “It doesn’t matter then, don’t worry your pretty little reddish golden curly head about it. We probably won’t meet up with any here, unless…um…I mean, I was thinking about composing a poem about spiders. Perhaps, ‘The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the—’”

“Oh, look!” Pimpi cried all of a sudden.

“What?” Vogonwë said, yanking an arrow from his quiver.

“Mushrooms!” Pimpi replied, squatting down and pointing at a patch of luscious looking mushrooms growing under a log. “Great big ones, too!”

She began to gleefully scoop the fungus up into her sack, and all thoughts of gruntings, scurryings, spiders, and other unpleasant things were forgot for the time being. It didn’t even worry her when Vogonwë turned and struck up a chattering conversation with a black skwerl. And she didn't think twice when Vogonwë turned back to her and said, "If you're done there, I've heard of an excellent little grove not far from here where we can find some grapevines."

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Mithadan]

The pirates, fifty strong, advanced in a ragged line against Gravlox and his troops. They were all heavily armed with spears, swords and other assorted pointy implements and WMD. Behind the line of pirate warriors, Merisu and her companions were tied to stakes. The pirate captain stood nearby menacing her with a flaming brand. She twisted her head from side to side, gasping in horror and wiggling in an attempt to free herself from her bonds. The captain leered at Merisu, then drew a jagged knife which he ran along her troat until he reached the first button of her bodice, which he cut off with a deft flick of his wrist. Gravlox roared in anger and with one hand drew the ZigZag sword. In his right hand, he brandished his spear. In his left, he raised his bow. He raised the ZigZag sword and screamed as he charged the pirates, letting arrows fly as he went and waving his spear frantically, while avoiding darts from the pirates with his shield. The pirate band withered before him like a perfume merchant before a dog's breath. He slew ten with a single swipe of his blade and twenty more fell with his arrows in them. Five more were spitted on his spear, three were clubbed with his shield and one broke a nail kicking his wooden leg. At last he stood before the pirate captain. Merisu's eyes shone as she looked upon her hero. Even her comapnions cheered the mighty Gravlox...

"Captain?" asked Buzzcut as he shook Gravlox gently. The Uruk's eyes opened and he shook his head to clear it of sleep. "What...what is it?" he replied.

"They got away, sir," answered his lieutenant.

"The pirates?" aked the groggy Orc Captain.

"No, sir," responded Buzzcut as he edgily took a half step back. "The Elves and their friends."

Gravlox shot to his feet with burning eyes and advanced upon his subordinate. "We did as you said, sir," Buzzcut protested as he began a prudent retreat. "We floated a case of Orc Draught Lite down the river to the pirates. They got roaring drunk. Then that bloody warrior got loose somehow and managed to kill them all. Damn near cut off his own nose doing so, but he did it. The Elves are heading towards Workmud."

Gravlox smiled...

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

Several hours later, Gravlox and his band were spying upon the Elves from behing a portcullis. They watched as the males wandered off in various directions seeking food. Again, Gravlox smiled...

[Bêthberry]

The Voyage Out

A crashingly adventurous sound broke heroically through the tumult of the trees. Then, a swayingly swinging grapevine swung down, ridden by a lithe, long-limbed, long-fingered , long-haired non-gender-specific vision of pulchritudinous pleasantness whose long locks trailed clouds of Gloréal hues.

As the grapevine plummeted to its precipitant perigee, the apparition of pulchritude which rode it reached out to take up into his arms luxuriatingly the lovely and luscious Pimiowyn, intending to comfort her of her fears. The vine shuddered and spread itself thin, thin, and thinner until finally it broke, dropping somewhat unceremoniously the half-hobbit and her elven hero onto Vogonwë, who had promptly cast off his webbed thoughts and given chase to retrieve his darling. For a long, long moment there was a tumble and a tussle amongst the three on the ground as the elven hero grouped indiscriminately in search of something.

'Oh pardon me, forgive me. The things I have seen I now can see no more. I cannot tell a sparrow from a finch a league off without my Foster Grants. I saw that you have been pursuing the peatmossed pediments and purloining puffballs and wondered mayhap if perchance you had found them. And I heard the darlingly dear maiden speak of her tremulous trepitation and so I risked relieving her of her perilous position.'

"My pardon, gracious lady. 'Twas but my natural piety which strove to ensure that your glory would not pass away from this earth."

Pimpiowyn's ears reddened and her cheeks flushed with excitement at her close encounter with this most winsome elf and she allowed herself more than a single thought about winning some. Vogonwe's protective posturing was abated, however, as he took a closer look at the pouncing hero.

"I'll be!" he cried.

"You'll be what?" answered the elf, squinting his eye towards the other vision of loveliness which had bespoke him.

"It's you. O Lando L'oréal Bloom. Third cousin Bloom," ejaculated Vogonwë with confounded cupidity.

Bloom submitted the voice to the gaze and amazement rose in his eyes.

"Oh pishpash. Behold the light and the vision splendid. My nature yet remembers what was so fugitive. It is Third cousin Vogonwë, thrice removed from Workmud. What thoughts that too often lie too deep for tears have brought you back here, to a forest of one's own?"

[ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

'Twas brillig, and in a wabe somewhere toves were gyring and gimbling slithily, as is their wont. But there was nothing at all mimsy or borrowed about the lone black-clad figure who strode with almost cretinous fearlessness through the pathless eaves of Workmud the Okay-I-Guess.

Lord Earnur had gladly accepted the fair Merisuwyniel's herbal challenge, with its fringe benefit of making that smug git Lord Gormlessar look bad. Not for the first time he considered how much restraint he had shown in not simply cutting the hole hand ("whole", he corrected, briefly wondering how he could be mis-spelling his own stream of consciousness).

Finding all of the ingredients for a vindaloo in this part of the world wasn't going to be easy; but fortunately he happened to have in his saddlebag some rare and exotic spices, which he had bought from the venerable herbalist Madhyr J'Affrey during his last trip to Far Harad. For some reason in that searingly hot part of the world it was impossible to get hold of a cold beer, and the natives quenched their parched throats with tiny thimblefuls of something that could have floored a rhinoceros at fifty paces. He would have to return when the quest was over, he reflected: some people there were still unscrupulous enough to sell it to tourists in pint mugs.

This gave the Lord of the Castle of Dun Sóbrin another brilliant idea, as he suddenly remembered the bottle that had been his salvation from the pirates. Captain Strangereek's Olde Amber Amnesia Special Reserve (aged ten minutes within a mile of oak casks, and guaranteed no more than 30% turpentine per bottle). He inhaled some of its heady aroma, which was far less painful than plucking his nasal hair, and took a deep draught.

Unfortunately not even so seasoned a boozer as Lord Etceteron should take a draught of the Special Reserve, deep or otherwise; for draught-taking is close akin to quaffing, and some drinks just aren't intended to be quaffed. The world spun crazily on a shifting axis; the sky did things that no self-respecting atmosphere should even know about and the ground chose a bad moment to take up ballet. After what seemed an eternity of falling he found himself lying on his back, gazing up into an infinity of azure sky.

Suddenly he realised with a cold stab of fear that he was remembering things that had happened more than two days ago. He must reach the bottle again. No, not the bottle: that way madness lay. He needed good, friendly, perpetually-replenishing Elven draught; or even at a pinch the bottle of balsamic vinegar that he'd taken from the uncourt of Celery and Saladriel in case of an emergency. Even Athelas would do, if he could reach his pipe. If this went on much longer he'd start to remember... what? Curse his manly ability to achieve his goals: now he could no longer remember why he wasn't allowed to remember what it was that he couldn't remember. "Ah, pour the meths an' stone me well!" he cried in his anguish, as he tried in vain to reach some alcohol, any alcohol, and slip the surly bonds of memory.

Too late! He was from his womb of substance abuse untimely wrench'd, and a curtain of long years was swept aside. Now once again he was the young apprentice dashing hero, trying hard to look manly as he hefted his father's impressively-beruned, yet as it had turned out atrociously-made brand Windósil, the sword-that-was-on-sale. Once again he stood in memory within the glade of Careless Gardenhon; suddenly realising why the place had looked so familiar before and why he had drunk half his bodyweight in armour polish every night he had spent there.

O Vinaigrettiel! O Fair One! No wonder he had momentarily gone all gooey over her goose of a sister, who had clearly forgotten all about him. Great had been their love when first they met beneath the clouds, near lunch-time on the fourth day of Autumn. He had come upon her unaware as she practiced her scales in the drizzle; and he had touched her soft arm and she had half-heartedly fled from the smooth, well-muscled young man with the imposing yet apparently crooked mythic sword.

You wet bleedin' ponce. If yore gonna think abaht that wet blanket I'm gonna find anuvva pirate ter kill yer wiv.

Suddenly Earnur's brain and arm resolved their differences and joined forces. Slowly, dreamily he drew his sword and threw it into a nearby pile of goat droppings.

"Mmmmm?" he said distractedly, wishing that the sword wasn't so indispensible to his work. It had, with characteristically crass insensitivity, reminded him of the very memory to quell which had taken two bottles a day of Orc-draught (or the nearest equivalent in lamp-oil and furniture polish) for the last ten years.

They had been so happy. Her father had cut up rough at first, demanding that he go on a wild-goose chase after some stolen jewellery; but Earnur had made a secret counter offer, which was that he simply ran off with Vinaigrettiel anyway and sod whatever problems Thingy was having with the finance company. For two years they dwelt in blissful harmony, for being immortal she didn't receive his mortality, and being chained she received his freedom. And her bliss was greater than any other bored rich girl has known.

Why, oh why hadn't he stuck with Windósil? It wouldn't cut butter and broke if you looked at it in the wrong way, but it had belonged to his father and at least it wasn't forever swearing at him. Oh, and it had never killed his girlfriend's cat and then called her a toffee-nosed cow. "The sword or me" she had said; but there had been a lucrative adventuring offer on, and his participation had been conditional on taking the legendary black sword. And he was going to get her the biggest, most tastelessly overpriced piece of Dwarven jewellery he could possibly find with the money. He didn't think she was serious until he'd awoken to find himself very alone and sleeping next to the sword, which had laughed at him.

Finally buggered off 'as she? Good riddance. Right, when d'we kill summat

That recollection was the last straw. He determined to leave the sword where it was for the next sucker who came along. Finding that his long bout of crying over spilt milk had restored his motor functions, he went off in search of some wild garlic, swigging the suddenly very strangely flavoured Strangereek's.

All of a sudden, and without warning, the sun disappeared. He had blundered into a small copse of withered, weather-beaten and strangely hairy trees. What was more, they seemed to be moving independently of the breeze. Horrible realisation began to dawn as he looked up to see a pulsating and luminous mass above him and a massive sting dripping lurid fluorescent-green venom in front of his face. Actually he had already walked into it, but since concentrated spider venom is one of the main ingredients of Harvest Haemorrhage (whence came its unusual name), he had remained unharmed. Drawing his black-bladed dagger, he made ready for a fight, but without warning the creature emitted a scream of deafening proportions and leapt ten feet into the air before running off, gibbering incoherently. As the demented racket dopplered into the distance all he could remember was "...Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! A human! There's a human in my bedroom! Help!"

Rather sheepishly Lord Etceteron sheathed his dagger and went to collect his disreputable weapon, happily finding the very bulbs he required growing right next to where he had thrown it. Wylkynsion would get the roughest whetting of its long life when he reached camp; and it was the thought of this, along with the last dregs of what he now realised was the bottle of vinegar that caused him to sing the Lay of the Broken Sword as he walked back to join his companions.

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Rimbaud]

A campaigner as experienced as the Lord Gormlessar should have known better than to separate himself from his noble Companions and lay down to rest in an Elvish Glen. Especially, in an Elvish Glen where a great sign advised to ‘Sleep Here’. And indeed the pixie spirits that only children should believe in betrayed him.

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

In his sleep, he was drowning in sorrows, and his sorrows, they learned to swim. Surrounding him, going down on him, spilling over the brim. Waves of shadow, waves of joy, he reached out to the one he tried to destroy. Like a candle burning at both ends, Halfullion’s Dreme waxed lyrical, balanced on the edge of music. In all things, was his mind bewildered, and this is why.

Halfullion was a Hero. Not in the inaccurate sense of being heroic, but more in that sense of unavoidable and undignified Fate. He was Fated to be a Hero, as this Sentence is fated to be over-capitalised. Capitalisation being always a dubious crime. Yet, this appointment (for such it is, for a true Hero) preyed ever heavy on his subconscious. He had the unfortunate tendency of being present at great events, and of being depended on by those whose Quests were of vast significance. Not being the most mentally alert of the world’s great heroes (his horse regularly beat him at chess) he found himself disoriented to the point of despair, as quest after mission after thing beset him. The tragedy now, more than before, was that in his heart of hearts, he knew what he would like his destiny to resemble, should he force himself from the Path of Heroism.

Halfullion Gormlessar, the world’s foremost knight and worst poet, longed to cut hair. He longed to curl up and dye. He wished to blue-rinse damsels, not rescue them. Rapunzel would have remained pertinently un-rescued had he been that knights, for fear of damaging those truculent tresses. He wished to fondle folicles, brush bouffants, to pay the toupe. He was beginning to feel his masculine martiality as a malevolent malpropism maliciously miring him in mores of mild moral malfeasance.

In the heart of Halfie, there dwelt a fear. A fear to him nameless it was, yet called by some Cowardice. He feared Death, feared its beady eye. He knew both branches of the Elvish tongue, both Quixotic and Simian (the latter being mostly a series of aahs and ooks, with an over-abundance of accents grave and acute, umlauts (diaerises) circumflexes, cedillas, tildes, stregs, eths, bolles, ligatures, macrons, hácek and breves) but did not know how to communicate with this fear. He knew that one day, a day which drew ever closer, even his dread blade would fail him and the enemy would cut him down. Yet what he truly feared was capture. For when the enemy became aware of his Cowardice and his Ignorance, his Myth, his Repute would become decapatilised and he himself decapitated, deprecatingly and not with the dignity and pride he would want in a good death scene. He would want a good deal of screen-time, especially if he wasn't coming back for the sequel.

He tossed and turned, and finally awoke. He was trussed, bound hand and foot. He was strapped to the saddle of a horse, a horse trotting, seemingly protesting. The stench of orc was all around him. He knew not what had become of his companions.

A fierce blow to the back of the skull sent him back to delirium.

[Diamond18]

An hour or so had passed since O Lando L'oréal Bloom queried his question curiously, and Vogonwë had proceeded through a revolting ballad about Pimpiowyn’s family history and was nearly done reciting Fit the Third of the Lay of the Entish Bow etc. for his listening pleasure.

Pimpiowyn was primly plucking the plump produce from its voluminous vines, but her sapphire eyes wandered from time to time to the vine-swinging elf who had swung so sweetly to her rescue. The fact that she had not needed rescuing was entirely beside the point, for the thrill of the event had not paled from her cheeks.

The object of her wandering eye himself had passed the time by listening politely to Vogonwë’s roundabout way of explaining his presence. At the end of the recital Bloom declared, “It has been many long years since the bows of Workmud echoed with your invidious verse, cousin Vogonwë, and I must say that to my ears the sound is like unto that of a memory long repressed by sheer energetic determination, only to be relived when caught unawares in the state of dreaming when one settles down for sleep once a week.”

“Thank you,” Vogonwë smiled smugly, the meaning behind the convoluted words unable to penetrate his raspberry wreath. “And what have you been up to this past yén, Lando?”

“It would not be entirely inaccurate to say that my time has been expended upon activities ranging from the equestrian arts, the ancient and venerable art of archery, the occasional lembas commercial, and random instances of rescuing elven damsels in distress, who fall madly in love with me and write epic tales which feature our supposed nuptials as prominent plot points.” So said O Lando L'oréal, his loquaciousness in full Bloom.

“You’re married?” Pimpi said, nearly choking on a grape seed.

“As much as I revere the custom, and admire the lovely ladies in question, the truth of the matter is that I remain under the classification of a bachelor,” the elf with the really long name replied.

“A swinging bachelor,” Vogonwë punned perniciously, not entirely opposed to murkifiying the morality of the elf in Pimpi’s perception.

“But enough about me, let’s talk about you, you, beautiful you,” OLLB said winsomely to the happy half-halfling.

Pimpi primped prettily and was about to reply when a sudden stream of dark blue liquid rained down from above and landed with a splash on the forest floor. It missed staining Pimpi’s frock by a matter of inches. She squealed and threw herself into the arms of the elf who was not Vogonwë.

“Ha! The infamous Ink Skwerlz of Workmud!” Vogonwë cried, deftly avoided another stream of not-so-well aimed inky excretion. “I should have known! That black skwerl who directed me to this place had an unsavory look in his beady close-set eyes.”

He glanced over at his hobbit love and pulchritudinous cousin (the former clinging to the latter in a manner not even his raspberry wreath could hide from him) and utilized some manly phrases he’d picked up here and there from his companions in the Itship: “Don’t worry you’re pretty little heads, I’ll take care of these rascally rodents.”

With that, he adroitly drew two arrows from his quiver. They whistled through the air as they arched attractively over his head. With a cocky smile he twirled an arrow in each hand, and called up into the foliage, “I’ll bet you wonder how I knew about your plans to make me blue, eh?”

Then he threw one arrow up into the dark obscurity, and as he did so he affixed an old Workmudian aim-well-spell onto it, voicing the incantation, “Is Lotr a spiritual allegory?”

A second later a small, fuzzy blue skwerl fell from tree top, impaled by the arrow.

He winked at Pimpiowyn and tossed the other arrow into the murky midsts, chanting, “Who is Tom Bombadil?”

Ditto.

Desperately digging another manly quip from his databanks, Vogonwë smiled jauntily at Pimpiowyn and drawled, “They won’t be giving you any more trouble, ma’am.” For good measure he picked up his arrows, and flung them carelessly back into his quiver. And just in case that wasn’t enough, he tweaked Pimpi’s chin and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“Oh, Vogonwë, my heeero,” Pimpi sighed, and suddenly she was struck with a dilemma. Two positively plentifully pulchritudinous Workmud Elves stood before her, one with a mane of the softest and well-shampooed hair (though in the dim light it was hard to say what color it was), and the other with a pair of bloody arrows in his quiver. A decision lay before her…which one to fix her enormous blue eyes on in an amorous fashion? She put a hand to her head in a fetching manner and looked confused.

Then her stomach gurgled, and she decided to think it over later, when her mind would be clearer and her tummy fuller.

“Let’s go back and join the others,” she said, “for no doubt Merisuwyniel is eagerly awaiting our contribution to the afternoon repast.”

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Left alone, Merisuwyniel had time to ponder the adventures of the past weeks. As she reflected on all that had happened, she realized that she was lacking in character scenes, compared to the others of their company. It almost seemed that her part in the story was merely that of a token female, a beautiful Elven shieldmaiden to attract the male audience and give the teenage girls someone with whom they could identify. Why, she thought, it’s as if I were one of those untalented models-turned-actress who get camera close-ups on their pouty lips and swelling bosoms. I’m more than just a pretty face! I haven’t had a single flickering flashback, dramatic dream sequence, not even a split character discussion. I want to do some serious acting for a change! Besides, Dead Mothers’ Month is almost over, and I haven’t seen my parents in a vision.

Tears welled up spontaneously in her luminous violet eyes as she felt the depths of despair in her loneliness. It seemed to her that sad music accompanied the strange emotions, until she realized that the sound she heard was the gentle snoring of Chrysophylax, who had curled up at the edge of the clearing and was sleeping. She was not entirely alone after all. She sat down next to him and, leaning her head against his warm flank, was comforted and fell asleep.

Her thoughts flew miles and miles away, until she saw a figure riding over the plain beneath her on a Warg. It was heading for a precipice, and she shouted out a warning that was not heard. Down, down, down into a rushing stream they fell, and she mourned, realizing that the rider had been her beloved. Yet lo, she beheld him, miraculously floating on the water despite his heavy armour. Desperately, she reached out with her thoughts to push him toward the shore, finally succeeding after a long effort. She bent down to kiss his warm lips – and was rudely awakened when the dragon shifted restlessly in his sleep, possibly sensing her passionate mood.

Then, whether she was awake or asleep, she knew not – a bright light approached, and in the centre of it, a female figure stood before her, visible only as a dark silhouette. Did you really think I would forget to visit you during Dead Mothers’ Month? the voice asked. After all, you still think I’m dead, don’t you? Well, keep mourning me, but don’t be surprised when we meet someday soon. Then we shall see whether my daughter wants to share my fate or not!

The light faded and the figure dimmed, leaving only the echo of derisive laughter to haunt Merisuwyniel’s memory.

[Kuruharan]

Under normal circumstances Kuruharan would have been mightily hacked off at being summarily told what to do. Normally, he would have thrown a tantrum complete with kicking and screaming. But not this time. This time he had an ulterior motive.

He strode purposefully through the woods with a map in one hand and a bag over his shoulder. He was on a Quest of his own.

There was a Great Foozle, as if straight out of some hackneyed adventure story, buried somewhere in the area. At least, that’s what the treasure map that he bought for $1.80 in a little rat-eaten antique shop in Topfloorien said. According to legend, a Grand Oom-pa-pa of legend and song had buried his Great Foozle in Workmud to hide it from his enemies.

Now, Kuruharan was not sure what this Great Foozle was. However, all great stories had a quest for some mystically, magical Foozle of some sort and said Foozles could usually grow giant beanstalks, cause mountain ranges to spring up, or at least put on a sparkly light show. Whatever it did, Kuruharan was sure that it would sell for a hefty profit.

As he trudged through the trees he suddenly came upon an old wood woman woolgathering.

"Hail and fair weather good dame!" said Kuruharan. "Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Kuruharan the son of Khoreth, a renowned Dwarf of immense wealth and outstanding reputation!" Kuruharan bowed low in proper dwarf fashion.

"A dwarf!" said the old woman with a voice that sounded like an old branch breaking. "We don’t see many of your kind ‘round these parts."

"Allow me to introduce my pet," said Kuruharan. "This is Chrysophylax Dives, a dragon of ancient and imperial lineage."

"Where?" said the woman.

"Right behind me," replied Kuruharan.

"Where?" repeated the woman.

"Right ther-whoops!" said Kuruharan, turning around and noticing for the first time that his business associate was not keeping station. "I thought that the sounds of rampaging dragon were noticeably absent," Kuruharan muttered to himself. "Now I wonder where he’s gone off to. I hope he doesn’t damage anything that I’ll be expected to pay for."

"Well, I’m very pleased to meet you and your imaginary friend," said the old woman graciously, evidently concluding that she had a lunatic on her hands.

"Oh, Chrysophylax is not imaginary, he’s just not here right now. Off chasing rabbits, I fancy," said Kuruharan.

The old woman gave him an odd look.

Realizing that the metaphorical ground was rapidly sinking under his feet, Kuruharan changed the subject.

"Perhaps you could aid me. I’m engaged on a glorious quest in search of a Great Foozle. Do you by any chance know of one buried around here?"

"A whoozle?" asked the old woman.

"A Foozle," explained Kuruharan. "The Grand Oom-pa-pa’s mystically, magical Foozle."

"I’ve never heard of a foozle," said the old woman.

"Well, I’m totally bamboozled!" exclaimed Kuruharan. "According to my map, this is the site of the Foozle."

"Let me see that thing," said the old woman taking hold of the map.

"Ohh, right! The Foozle!" cried the old woman. "How could I forget?! I must have been out of my noodle!"

"If you’ll tell me where it is, then I will say ‘toodles!’"

"Nobody knows where it is," said the old woman. "If I did do you think that I would be out woolgathering in the forest?"

"It’s a possibility," said Kuruharan.

"Tell you what," said the old woman. "I’ll take you back to my village. We’ll have a nice heap of chitlins, and we can discuss your little problems."

"That’s okay," said Kuruharan. "I’d better get on with my quest."

He turned to go.

*WHACK*

------

Kuruharan came to in a little wooden hut. He could hear voices outside.

"And he was looking for the Foozle?" asked one voice.

"Yes, and he had an imaginary pet dragon," said the old woman.

"Hand me another flagon," came the first voice. "Now, we’d better re-hide the Foozle underneath the floor."

"But we’ve already hidden it there before."

"Be careful, he might be listening on the other side of the door."

"Not him, just this moment I heard him snore."

Another voice asked, "Do you think he sells sea-shells down by the sea-shore?"

At that point Kuruharan had heard more than enough. This was like listening to Vogonwë, only worse!

He pulled an axe out of his myriad of robes and started chopping a hole in the back of the hut.

"Hark!" cried the first voice.

"It is only a lark!" said the old woman.

Cried the first voice, "The hut seems to be emitting pieces of bark!"

Kuruharan suppressed a scream and continued chopping.

"I see what you mean," said the old woman. "Call out the troops."

"But the troops are engaged in a brisk game of hoops!"

"Who cares?" cried the woman. "Make haste and fetch me those dupes!"

As the footsteps of the first voice receded, Kuruharan could take it no more.

He burst through the door of the hut and found another man with the old woman.

"Ooops!"

Kuruharan dispatched the man with a blow to the noggin with the flat of his axe. He seized the old woman.

"No more bad rhyming!" said Kuruharan, making threatening motions toward her head with his axe. "Take me to the Foozle or I’ll split open your melon!"

The old woman snarled at him, "You’re nothing more than a common, ill-meaning felon!"

Kuruharan screamed in agony.

"Just give me the Foozle!" howled Kuruharan.

"Oh, very well," said the old woman. "One of our farmers is keeping it down in the dell."

She led Kuruharan down a path. Looking back Kuruharan saw a large number of very angry woodsmen converging on the hut.

"Why did you hit me?" asked Kuruharan.

"Because you came for the Foozle," replied the old woman. "It has been ours from time long forgotten."

"That may very well be, but you treated me rotten," said Kuruharan. "Oh-no!! Now you’ve got me doing it!"

The old woman cackled as she led him into a barn. She went to a corner and pulled something out of a pile of straw.

It was a shortish, longish, roundish, squareish, thinish, fattish, shapely, shapeless piece of wood. It was secured in a leather harness.

"This is the Foozle?" asked Kuruharan puzzled.

The old woman started taking off the leather harness. "It looks so strange because it’s currently muzzled."

She handed him the Foozle.

"Help me, help me!" cried the Foozle. "These nasty woodfolk chop down the trees and keep me locked up to impress passing traders."

"Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-orc!" exclaimed Kuruharan. "It’s the Ent that was Broken!"

"The what?!" asked the old woman.

"Never mind," said Kuruharan. "I’m afraid that this will have to come with me. I know where the rest of it is. I’m sure that the Oom-pa-pa would want it this way."

The old woman grabbed a pitchfork. "You’ll not take that so long as I’m alive!"

"That can be fixed," said Kuruharan airily, pulling a multi-shot crossbow out of his boot.

The old woman dropped her pitchfork. "You would not kill an old woman would you?" she asked piteously.

"Not out of hand," replied Kuruharan cheerfully. "But I would bop her on the head, tie her up, and toss her in a horse stall if she gave me any trouble."

"I’ll sit right here," said the old woman.

"I’ll bet," said Kuruharan. "You never did tell me your name."

"Lenore," replied the old woman. "Do you ever plan on coming back to our vale?"

"Nevermore," replied Kuruharan.

He abruptly smacked Lenore on the head with the Foozle. She flopped down unconscious.

"Thank you! I feel cleansed!" said the Foozle.

Kuruharan then went plowing through the barn to see if there were any other prizes to be found. There were a few other wondrous artifacts of majesty and splendor, but they don’t come into this tale. Suffice it to say they eventually fetched a hefty profit.

When Kuruharan judged that there was nothing else worth taking, and that the sounds of the approaching lynch mob were getting too close for comfort, he theatrically bowed to the insensate Lenore. Then with a skip and a hop, he darted off into the woods, back to share with the Questers all of his good news.

[Bêthberry]

The Waves

They walked in single file, O Lando L'oréal leading Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë through the gloomy path where the great trees seemed to lean together, old and strangled with ivy and lichen so thick and matted that, had their feet not drummed firmly upon the ground, had they stooped to stop and linger in the greenwood trees and laid upon the brackish moss, why, they might very well have forgotten which side was up and which down, for dark was the overhang and no sky showed through. The lack of light hampered O Lando not, for without his glasses his keen sense of smell took over and he sniffed his way forward.

The third cousins took to recalling the days before the fading times while Pimpiowyn satiated herself with at least one of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

"I will tell you enough of our fading here," said O Lando to his cousin, "for there was grief at your parting and often now I feel the horror and the shadow of the fangirls." (Here our valiant wood elf struck a particularly lithesome pose, elegant hand held aloft to his brow, his wrist held just so.) We know not now the like of our discussions of eld, the devastating wit, the pedantic jab, the po-faced oneupmanship, the arcane analysis, the sheer delight of sharing line upon line of the most obscure quotations from the ancient texts. Often, my cousin, have I longed for our FAQ about whether spiders are maiar, since they speak, or whether the White Tree could photosynthesize or not, of whether the Wood Elves differ from the High Elves and if perhaps that difference arises from the variance of mushroom grown."

Hereupon Vogonwë interrupted his comely cousin.

"I have heard tell of even more, fair cousin. For in the Wide World from whence I come, it is said that there are Lake-Elves and Pond-Elves, Boreal-Tree-Elves and Coniferous-Tree Elves, Deciduous-Elves and Scrub-Bush-Elves, Muskeg-Elves, Cave-Elves, High-Hilltop-Elves and Middle-Hilltop Elves and Bottom-Hilltop-Elves, to say nothing of Swamp-Elves. And they have grown more tree-hugging and culture-jamming as the years have passed unto the ages, for they have smoked the finest Pipeweed ever since the Age of Aquarius. Yet the coming of Men has harmed them too, sullying them with vain and empty ceremonies and forcing clerical witnesses upon their private rites. They are grown mechanical and sterile and loveless in their ways."

Here O Lando looked with horror upon this news for certainly he had hoped himself one day to partake of the open pledging of troth unhampered by any societal encumbrances and gaudy shows of shower games and Brand Name gift certificates.

Sudden squeals and cries and exclamations resounded through the gloomy forest and the three looked up. Coming upon them pell-mell was a frightful hoard of, of, FANGIRLS.

"Oh, he's mine, he's mine," shouted one, who claimed to be Chixinluv.

"No, no, I saw him first. You can't marry him," screamed another, DesiriaBloom by name.

The two were elbowed out by a third. "Who said anything about marriage?" protested she, one Bloomwinner by name.

"Oh, look, there's two of them. Is he a twin?" gasped Lecheria.

"Ew, he has such bad taste in clothes," protested Orlophoria.

"There's no Gap in Workmud, silly," retorted Legosassy.

"Take my socks, take my socks," begged PinkChihuahua while Gayflowerhottie offered up other pieces of clothing which were rapidly being stripped off. A third of this menagerie simply shouted, "Yoo hoo."

"A'maelamin," screamed two more.

"Asi i-Dhúath -û-orther, a mîn," proclaimed yet another.

"Annon vanimelda, edro hi ammen!" crooned more.

"Elen silly lummen omentioliveo," screamed yet one again.

"Noro lim, noro lim, O Lando L'oréal," called a more adventurous sort.

Pimpi looked at Vogonwë. Vogonwë looked at O Lando. O Lando looked at the FANGIRLS.

"They're speaking in tongues! Run," he shouted. "Naur dan i ngaurhoth! Every man for himself."

"Take prisoners," retaliated a voice from among the FANGIRLS.

"I'm not a man," proclaimed Pimpi, who whimpered tearfully before being knocked over in the mad tumultuous assault. She tumbled, roiling and coiling and moiling, into the enchanted stream, which fortuitously, as occurs in all fairy stories worth their salt, produced in her a deep slumber, the dreaming of which produced palpable flushes upon her beautiful features.

Alas the two elves were not to receive such a merciful respite. Their retreat was hampered by their quivers, which persisted in falling off their shoulders and laying waste their precious arrows. Forsooth, they were outstripped as it were by the howling mob, who bounded upon the terrain as pounding surf upon a sandy shore. The FANGIRLS overcame their last acts of resistance, trussed up both elves, and hurriedly dragged them off. Exit stage left, followed by a bear.

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Birdland]

"Hey, said the other bear, "Somebody's sleeping in my stream."

The first bear stopped in his track, as the frantic, triumphant fan maidens ran off into the forest with their booty. As they retreated, Chixinluv raised her delicate hunting horn with the pink "Hello Kitty" motif and alerted the other far-flung fan maidens with the rousing tones of the Booty Call. Then they were gone.

Only the two bears, who were actually Beorns, remained in the now silent glade, gazing down soberly at the sleeping Pimpiowyn. The first sat down on his haunches and thoughtfully scratched his left ear with his hind leg.

"So there is." said the first Beorn, who's name was Bjork. "What is it? A dwarf, you think?"

"Not sure." said the second Beorn, whose name was Bjorn. "Never seen a female dwarf. Could be a dwarf. Could be anything."

"Feet are rather...furry. Could it be a Beorn?"

No, no. I don't think so. Unless she's a Half-Beorn. If she was a born Beorn, she'd be furry all over, now wouldn't she?"

"True enough. Should we fish her out?"

"Well, she looks comfortable enough. Though I dare say she's scaring the fish. Seems a silly place to be sleeping though."

No sillier than the rest of Workmud. I suppose we should pull her out. I think the water is getting in her nose".

So the two Beorn thoughtfully pushed the slumbering Half-Halfing out of the stream with their noses and up onto the muddy bank, where she lay in a sodden heap of designer fabric. Bjork licked the mud from his paw and sat down again with a wheeze.

"Well, she's still sleeping. Should we try to wake her up?"

Oh, I don't know. She might start squealing, like those others. Not sure I could take much more of that."

"Noooo, best not to stay around for more of that. Well, I'm sure somebody will be along eventually to find her. Meanwhile, there's still enough daylight left to swat a few trout. Shall we?"

Don't mind if I do. Lead on, Bjork."

The two faux-bruins waddled off into the forest, leaving our sleeping heroine laying on the muddy bank, where she smiled in enchanted, soggy dreams.

Then came the spiders...

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sent his boys off to amuse themselves. Surely, with the members of the Itship going this way and that, they could find some object for their attention. And so, his own waning interest in mayhem might be concealed from his superiors at Gol Dulldor. For his heart was no longer in it.

As he crept stealthily through the forest, his thoughts turned to his own father who had lost his taste for chaos and violence. When therapy had been unavailing, his father had been dispatched by...Her. Gravlox had not understood at the time. He had asked his ill-fated sire, why, but had not understood the response...until now.

Gravlox, my son,
every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the world,
and ends up making payments on a sofa or a girl,
love and hate tatooed upon the knuckles of his hands,
hands that slap his kids around 'cause they don't understand,
how death or glory,
becomes just another story...

A tear came to his eye. Perhaps his father had been wise after all. But for now, he had other concerns. He crept up to the edge of a clearing to find Merisu slumbering alongside...a dragon? Now this was a potentially unpleasant wrinkle. Nonetheless, he decided to take his chance.

"Pssst," he hissed, tossing some pebbles at the sleeping beauty. "Merisu!" She tossed and turned but did not open her eyes. He lifted a more sizeable rock and considered heaving it at his love, then paused. "Charming, prince," he muttered, setting down the stone. Then he slipped into the clearing and knelt next to the vision of beauty. "Awake, fair maiden!" he said quietly. Then he kissed her lips...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel felt her lips tingle like the ringing of an alarm clock. Loth to open her eyes, she yielded to the sensation, savouring its sensuous sweetness. Involuntarily, her arms stretched out to pull sinewy shoulders closer. If this was a dream, she wished never to awaken.

Yet what was the sound of a chainsaw doing in her dream? She felt a deep rumbling at her back and became conscious of Chrysophylax’ loud snores. Startled, she opened her eyes and realized that the kiss was real and that the one person she had tried unsuccessfully to banish from her thoughts was holding her in his arms. His burning eyes looked into hers yearningly, hungrily. Carefully, so as not to wake the dragon, he pulled her to her feet, took her hand, and led her into the woods.

“I must investigate some of the bridges over the river,” he whispered. “Will you come with me?”

She nodded dreamily, allowing him to lift her onto his strange mount and leaning her head back on his mighty chest as they rode swiftly and silently into the dark forest. The Warg soon reached the bank of a river and followed its course.

They passed several bridges, one wooden, covered with a roof; another made only of ropes; a third broken and replaced by a boat, tied on the far bank. The Orc dismounted and inspected each of them, warning Merisuwyniel not to touch the water.

Suddenly, they heard voices ahead of them in the darkness.

“It is not very big,” the first said.

“But it will make fine eating when it’s hung a bit,” a second responded.

“Don’t hang it too long,” added a third. “It’s none too fat to start with.”

Merisuwyniel turned her head to look questioningly at the Orc warrior. His eyes widened and he whispered, “Spiders! They have captured someone, either of your company or mine.”

“But aren’t spiders more afraid of us than we are of them?” she questioned, puzzled.

“These must be the males,” he explained. “They do not fear anything.”

“Can you help the poor victim?” she asked anxiously. Her Bow was lying back at the camp, and she felt helpless without it.

“I will sing an ancient incantation to bewilder the spiders,” he said. “Then we can free the captive.” He hoped fervently that it would not be one of his men; if so, he would have some serious explaining to do – or he would have to kill him without frightening his sensually sensitive beloved.

He began to sing:

Old fat spider spinning in a tree!
Old fat spider can’t see me!
Attercop! Attercop!
Won’t you stop,
Stop your spinning and look for me!

The voices ceased speaking, and the rustle of many legs running in their direction could be heard. The Warg ran to the left, where the singing was repeated, with the same results. Swiftly running to and fro, they came to the centre of the dense black shadow ahead of them. With surprising ease, the warrior pulled his magical sword from its sheath and slashed the webs that obstructed their path. Merisuwyniel’s sharp eyes discerned a bundle hanging from a tree. “There!” she cried out, and the mighty ZigZag sword slashed the thick strand that tied it to the branches. It fell into the Elf’s arms; she held it tightly as they galloped away.

When they had reached a safe distance, they halted to open the cocoon. Soon, red-golden locks appeared; Merisuwyniel gasped. “It’s Pimpiowyn!”

“She is one of your companions,” he stated, secretly relieved. “What shall we do with her?”

“We must bring her to our camp,” she answered. She gazed fondly at the lovely face, its lips smiling in pleasant dreams – no doubt there were visions of sugarplums dancing in her head, Merisuwyniel mused.

Swift as a breeze the Warg bore them back to the clearing. They bedded the slumbering Quarterling gently next to the warm body of the still sleeping Chrysophylax. Before she realized what had happened, Merisuwyniel was again riding into the dark, dank, dreary, dangerous forest.

“Where are we going?” she queried.

“I want to show you my favourite place,” he answered.

The Warg slowed its pace to pass through thick shrubbery, then they entered a small clearing. Fireflies fluttered and flitted about, playfully lighting the darkness. Their shimmer was reflected from the surface of a wonderfully clear pool. Without hesitating, the Orc stepped into the water, from which a mist rose. “Come,” he coaxed. “It is quite warm.”

She clasped his outstretched hands and waded toward him. Soon she was seated in the shallow water, leaning her head on his shoulder. With a deep, contented sigh, she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace.

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë lay in a dark and troubled dream: it seemed he could hear his own silvery voice echoing in black tunnels, calling Pimpi, Pimpi! But instead of Pimpi, hundreds of lustful fangirl-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, hundreds of feminine arms grasped at him from every side. Where was O Lando?

He woke. Cold perfume blew on his face. He was lying on his back, trussed up like an old mathom wrapped in spaghetti straps. Beside him O Lando lay, white-faced, with a piece of lingerie bound across his bleeding head. All about them sat or stood the company of Fangirls.

Vogonwë struggled a little, but it was useless, pointless, and rather depressing in its utter failure to do anything worth this long a sentence. One of the pretty young maidens sitting near laughed and said something to a companion in their abominable tongue, “Ummmmmm, luk at him trie 2 get away, he’s jsut 2 cute, LOL!”

Another responded in the Common Tongue, making it sound almost, but not quite, as hideous as her own language; “Stay away from him, you, this one belongs to me and my lasses. You get to have the other one.”

Then she turned and stooped over Vogonwë, bringing her teal colored braces close to his face. She had a pink feather with a long fluffy plume in her hand. “Lie quiet, or I’ll tickle you with this,” she giggled.

Terrified Vogonwë lay still, though the spandex that bound him was beginning to hurt. “I wonder if poor O Lando is much hurt. What has happened to Pimpi? Why didn’t the fangirls ravage us? Where are we, and where are we going?” he thought.

To take his mind off these thoughts, he listened intently to what was going on around him. He found that most of the talk was intelligible, for apparently there were members of one or two different websites present, and they could not understand one another’s chatspeak. He mentally kicked himself upside and downside the head for mistaking the fibrous strands of filament in the trees for that of mere spiders, harmless Pawns of Uncooliphaunt.

Vogonwë did not know the tale completely, but since he had last been in Workmud, a war had raged between the Pawns and the Fangirls for supremacy over the Webs. When he had left, the Fangirls were but a small and obnoxious cult that confined themselves to fansites and the like. But their ranks had swollen like a dead raccoon left to fester on the roadside, and in the end it was the Fangirls who had won out over the Pawns, and traversed the forests of Workmud in search of a Good Time.

The spiders were still there, of course, hiding out wherever they could find a deserted spot of webbing. Their hatred for the Fangirls was intense, and though they could not face a pack of them at once, they took delight in devouring any maiden who wandered away from her friends. Even if she appeared quite harmless and innocent, and was minding her own business, lying on a riverbank and dreaming, or some other such innocuous activity. Yes, even if there was no immediate proof that she even was a Fangirl, their wrath was swift, for in their multitudinous eyes any girl was a Fangirl, and the only good Fangirl was a juicy Fangirl.

But enough about that. Back to the insanely interesting present:

Vogonwë was giving himself a mental bludgeoning for not anticipating the Fangirls, and yet more for allowing himself to be overwhelmed and captured by a bunch of girls. He, who had dispatched a fair number of pirates with his arrows, a captive of a bunch of nubile elfophiles! He tried to swallow this bitter pill, and turn his mind to methods of escape. He tuned his ear to their chattering, and realized that they were fighting amongst themselves.

Unfortunately, due to the PG-13 nature of these documents, it can only be said that what he heard told him this:

One of the bands wanted to waste some width and set up camp where they were. They were looking forward to getting it on with their prisoners. As their leader, Goshtalk the Doe-Eyed and Horny, put it, “Why not jump them quick, jump them now? They’re so darn cute, and we’re in a hurry.”

The other band, led by Oolalaluk, wanted to continue on to wherever they were going. “Orders, LOL!” she said. “‘Bring two of the cutest Elves back unspoiled, as quickly as possible. That’s my orders, and if you don’t like them you can eat my bubblegum, LOL.”

After going back and forth about it for a while, a catfight broke out. Meanwhile, Vogonwë was doing what he did best, composing a poem.

How do I loathe thee?
Let me count the ways.
One, You hit me in the head and put me in a daze.
Two, You did the same to my cousin.
Three, You stampeded my dear Pimpiowyn.
Four, You trussed me up with your drawers.
Five GOOOOOLDEN RINGS!
Six, I hate the way you cling,
And treat me like your plaything.
And last but least, there is this thing that I can’t stand in the least,
No, it’s not when you feast, feast, feast, feast—
It’s just that if you say LOL one more time,
I may lose my mind.

The tumult increased, and cautiously Vogonwë rolled over, hoping to see what would happen. It was, after all, rather muddy where they were.

His guards had gone to join in the fray. In the twilight he saw a tall, big-boned Fangirl, probably Oolalaluk, standing facing Goshtalk, a short petite little creature. They had drawn their replica swords and knives, but hesitated to attack each other. The other girls were screeching and clawing at each other, but the two leaders stood still, their budding bosoms heaving as they glowered at each other. “We march day and night,” Oolalaluk hissed, “and when we get to where we’re going, then you can have your sport, LOL!”

“Pffh you!” Goshtalk screeched back.

Suddenly, Oolalaluk reached out and yanked out a goodly portion of Gohstalk’s bleach-blonde hair. This was, as can be imagined, rather painful. Oolalaluk raised the clump of bloody hair above her head and proclaimed, “I am Oolalaluk! Go me! LOL!”

Vogonwë gritted his teeth and tried not to scream. Goshtalk, sobbing and whimpering, called off her lasses, and Oolalaluk ordered triumphantly, “Pick up those prisoners! And don’t try any tricks on them!”

A trio of heavily perfumed Fangirls hoisted Vogonwë up onto their shoulders, all the while muttering dark and petulant things in their own tongue. O Lando, still unconscious and bound with a brassiere, was given the same treatment. And then they were off again, heading for wherever they were going.

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Bêthberry]

To The Treehouse

O Lando should have been exhausted by the cruel pace set by these FANGIRLS, the prodding, the touching, the oogling, the fingers run through his hair over and over again. Instead, he had felt himself strangely empowered by the libation of that draught they had forced upon him. He felt his strength rise and realized his stamina had been fortified for whatever task they held in store for him. Yet, yet, that was not all. His head and heart seemed strangely overwrought and he found he could begin to devise cunning plans to deceive these FANGIRLS. This was something unlike any other libation he had drunk before.

Then felt the wound in his head; it had healed, but he feared he would be scarred for the rest of his fifteen minutes of fame.

"O Lando, O Lando," Vogonwë whispered, "Why does your name sound like a brand name for butter in the Seventh Age?"

"Deep in the heart of my family's ways lies the truth and meaning thereof. It derives I say from the noble spirit of a warg who did great deeds at a place by name of Hogwart's Press."

"Well, we're on this expedition now. Where do we get bed and breakfast?"

"Now, then," intruded Chixinlov. "None of that! Hold your tongues. You'll get your bed and breakfast too, at the end of it, if these girls have their way. But we're tired of lugging you about."

Where upon the brazen hussy cut the thongs about the two cousins, and forced them to run unhampered. A sudden thought leaped into O Lando's mind and he acted on it at once. He swerved aside away from the Path, landed on some mossy keyboards amongst the low hanging websites, and quickly brooched a message which he hoped might frighten the FANGIRLS, Spiders with malice aforethought. (http://www.sekhmet.org/~malice/spider.html)

"Hey, you, there's no time for that stuff now," cried out Gayflowerhottie as O Lando was rudely picked up and roughly pushed back along the Path.

Neither O Lando nor Vogonwë remembered much of the later part of the journey. They ran and they ran, kept going only by the stimulation of the orc draught and the licks every now and again of the FANGIRLS. Finally, however, it seemed they reached a goal.

"Oooww, look," cried Legosassy. "It's the Black River boutique. And it is stocked with all the oldest Gothic fashions of satins and velvets and leathers and feathers and chains and hair gels and hair sprays."

The boutique was cordoned off by a rope, with a security guard outside holding a long queque of FANGIRLS at bay.

"How many do you think there are?" asked DesiriaBloom.

"I shouldn't think above twelve," answered Lecheria.

"Twelve! I should have thought it was thirty at least, but my eyes don't see as well as they did. I must need glasses," retorted Orlophoria.

"Does anyone have more rope?" asked PinkChihuahua. "We could lasso the lineup and draw them away."

Gayflowerhottie was deemed the strongest armed and threw the first lasso.

"Not far enough!" claimed Chixinluv."A couple of feet farther and you would have had them."

Gayflowerhottie picked up the rope and threw again, this time with greater strength. It overshot the queque and had to be drawn back gently.

These maneuvres went on several times, again and again, until finally it dawned on O Lando and Vogonwë that they were on longer being watched. O Lando had so wanted to enter the Black River Boutique too that for the time being he didn't mind being captive.

A squeal and loud uproar then proved that the lasso had finally found its mark and the wildest quarrel ensued with all clamouring for entrance to the boutique.

"Get to it now," Vogonwë cried. "Run! Here's our cheap deus ex machina."

There was a flying sound of hooves on the Path and out of the gloom came the shape of a flying deer. It gathered itself for a mighty leap and the two elves sprang onto it. It flew high, high, higher into the air, up and over the Black River Boutique and the ugly fight among would-be patrons.

It soared, but the hold of the elves was tenuous. Vogonwë held on by the thinnest caesura and finally that broke the sentence. As the deer ran on, O Lando could hear the poet fulminating his anathemas as he tumbled earthward in his finest hour.

Flowers bloom as black as night
Removing color from your sight
Nightmarish vines block your way
Thorns reach out to catch their prey
And by the pricking of your thumbs
Realize that their poison numbs
From frightful blooms, rank odors seep
Bats and FANGIRLS fly and creep
'Cross this evil land, ill winds blow
Despite the brand name bargains down below.
All will rot and decompose
For something wicked this way grows...

"Noro lim, noro lim," cried O Lando, holding on for deer life.

"Shut up you fool," said the White Deer. "I'm your agent in disguise. And I've come to take you to cement a deal. There's a dwarf here who is crazy for a deal."

When they were far enough away from the calamitous scene, the White Deer finally halted, knocked three times on the nearest tree, did the hookey pookey and turned it all about and suddenly became O Lando's agent, PeeJay13. They walked to a familiar treehouse, where Kuruharan was waiting, holding the precious Foozle closely in hand. The negotiation O Lando found difficult to follow as the slow tongue of business was unknown to him.

"It is like the market itself, rich and rolling in part and else hard and stern, torn between the Scylla and Charybdis of the bull and the bear. I cannot guess what it means, save that it is laden with profit for me."

"Shut up you fool," said PeeJay13, who turned back to Kuruharan and said, "You now have exclusive rights to the name."

"Really?" said Kuruharan. 'That's great. My own line of hair spiking glue. L'oréal will draw those gothgirls in for sure."

The deal concluded, PeeJay13 left in search of kiwi profits elsewhere while Kuruharan and O Lando just-Bloom-now wound their way back to camp and the beautiful maid MeriSuewyniel.

[ February 18, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Mithadan]

"Get your hands off her!" came the cry from the underbrush. Gravlox leapt up and backed away fumbling for his sword. From the bushes sprang Holdit and two other wood-Elves.

"Oooo, wood-Elves," cried the wooden foot. "I like wood-Elves." "Shaddup!" growled Gravlox as he turned to face his foes.

"Saladriel sent us to ensure the safety of you and your credit lines," shouted Holdit as his companions dragged Merisu from the enchanted pool.

"Wait!" cried Gravlox and Merisu as one. But the Elves paid no heed. Holdit drew his sword, a replica of the mighty Bamding, the Toeslammer, the blade of Clapon the King of the ancient city of Round-and-In. As Holdit advanced, Gravlox raised ZigZag to parry a slash from the faux Bamding. The replica shattered when it came into contact with ZigZag and Holdit was pierced by the shards of the blade that was broken. As he slid down to the ground, the dying Holdit muttered, "That's the last time I buy seconds."

His companions turned to face Gravlox. "Oooo, we're gonna get you for that," they shouted. They raised their weapons and charged Gravlox. The first aimed a mighty swipe at the Orc's head which missed by a good two feet. The momentum of the swing caused the Elf to spin around and fall to the ground. His sword flew from his hands and spitted the second Elf, who in turn fell blade first onto his companion.

Gravlox rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Elves..." he chuckled. But then he saw Merisu standing at the far side of the pool with a horrified expression on her face.

"You killed them!" she cried in grief.

"That would be a matter of interpretation," replied Gravlox, who stepped forward, dropping his blade and raising his arms toward his beloved.

But Merisu turned and raced from the clearing into the forest, weeping as she went...

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë gradually returned to consciousness, having momentarily lost himself by landing headfirst on the ground. He found himself now, sprawled out in a clump of briars a little ways away from the swarm of Fangirls by the Black River Boutique.

Cautiously, he untangled himself from the mess, and such was his prowess that he escaped with nothing more than two small snags in his breeches. He looked around and saw no sign of the White Deer or his third cousin thrice removed, but an odd twinkle of light far off the beaten path caught his eye. He peered into the glowering gloom of Workmud in the evening, and wondered whence the strange light cometh. A shadow and a thought began to grow in his mind, and with a glance in the direction of the frightful Fangirls, he slipped away into the murky woods.

He threaded his way through the density, and on his way he passed by a pool, with three dead Elves floating therein. They seemed vaguely familiar, but he didn't stop to look any closer. He did, however, compose a short poem in his mind:

The dead Elves lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.

Presently, Vogonwë came to a small clearing, where the trees had been hacked down mercilessly and the ground had been bulldozed till it formed a nice looking dance floor. There were many people there, Elvish looking folk, all dressed in tuxes and smart little black numbers. There was a jazz band in their midst, and there were Chinese lanterns hanging from some of the lucky trees which had not been whacked. But the most splendid sight of all was the table of hors d’oeuvores and the giant punch bowl as the centerpiece.

Vogonwë’s stomach rumbled as he recalled that it had been a long time since he’d eaten: was it breakfast? Yes, for he had set out to find some comestibles for lunch hours ago, and the shadows of night were now falling like a cheap backdrop. Cautiously (for he knew that the party-elves of Workmud were notoriously snobbish) he stepped into the clearing.

As soon as he did so, all the lights went out with a mighty poof, and in a gratuitous display of magic, the party disappeared.

“Oh, fuss and bother,” Vogonwë muttered, feeling worldly-wise and above such childish nonsense.

It was not long before he saw the lights renewed a little way off, and he strode purposefully toward the sound of tinkling glassware and affected laughter. They’ll not keep this wood-elf, or half-elf, or whatever I am, from their party, he thought to himself, as there was hardly another person to be thinking to at the moment.

Again he stepped into the circle of atmospheric party light, and again his sudden appearance was met by a puff of smoke. “This seems to require strategy,” he mused. “Ah well…third time’s the charm.”

For the third time, he advanced upon the lights, which were brighter than ever. Apparently, they had added a Discotír to their decorations, and as is turned it showered the partygoers with multitudinous shades of sparkling colors.

Vogonwë sidled up to the edge of the glimmering light, and nonchalantly knocked three times on a tree trunk, two long strokes and one short tap. Presently, a tall and pudgy looking Elf appeared at the edge of the clearing and said, “No admittance except on party business.”

“Hullo, Roomeal,” Vogonwë said, “what’s the word on the path these days?”

“Vogonwë Brownbark, could it be?” the Elven-bouncer looked stunned. “And yet, I have never seen another hairbow like unto yours…but how do I know you’re you, and that you didn’t kill Master Brownbark and take his bow?”

“Don’t I look like me?”

“Well…you could be a servant of the Enemy, in disguise…”

“A servant of the Enemy would look fouler and feel fairer,” Vogonwë told him.

Roomeal stared at him blankly for a moment, then said, “All the same, I’d feel better if you would give some kind of sign that you are a friend, not a foe.”

Vogonwë gave him a withering look, but recited an old poem by which he had been known:

All that glitters is not gold,
Diamonds are sparkly too.
The wood that was weak did not stand long,
Its roots were not deep, and that’s why it fell.
From the bark a new life shall waken,
A lithe form from the shavings shall spring;
Renowned shall be the Log that was Rotting,
And the living boy shall grow like a sapling or something.

Roomeal shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, that is the verse Geppettuil wrote for his son, but just like the second-to-last line says, it’s become renowned throughout Middle-earth. They say you can hear it sung in every pub and inn from here to Harad.”

“Silence, fool!” Vogonwë said impatiently, “I have not passed through Fangirls and Skwerls to bandy pointless passwords with a pudgy ponce. Let me in or I’ll blow your party down again.”

Roomeal meekly stepped out of the way, and Vogonwë proceeded into the party with a put-out look upon his physiognomy.

Once safely into the Clearing Club, he searched out the largest cluster of Elves. Surely at the center of such a group he would find whom he sought, he reasoned. And sure enough, he was in a glade full of people hanging on one person’s breath (they would all vote him most likely to be loved to death). “I hope he still wants it, but it might remind him of when he aimed for the bullseye and hit it nine times out of ten,” Vogonwë mused. “That one time his hand slipped and I saw the dart sail away. I don’t know where it landed, but I’m guessing between green and grey.”

He pushed through the throng of fawning Elves, who were clutching their martini glasses and laughing stiffly at the discourse of the Elf at the center of their attention. Finally Vogonwë came before the Elven-partyking’s throne, an art nouveau chair that looked like a pair of giant lips.

“Dad!” he said.

Geppettuil of Workmud broke his attention away from the elf-maid hanging on his arm, and said, “Well, if it isn’t little Voggy! How are things swinging these days, eh my boy?”

“I need to talk to you,” Vogonwë replied.

“Sure, sure,” Geppettuil said with a smile.

“Alone, preferably.”

The looks that the other Elves were giving him were positively murderous. They surreptitiously tried to shove him away while laughing glibly through their clenched teeth. “Have a sandwich,” one hissed threateningly in his ear.

Vogonwë elbowed the two nearest him in the ribs, and calmly said, “If you can find the time, that is,” while they fell to the ground gasping in pain.

“Of course, of course, I can always find time for my boy,” Geppettuil said smoothly.

A half an hour later, Vogonwë was standing on the outskirts of the group, drinking punch and munching on some breaded frog legs, while Geppettuil regaled his entourage with a tale of the olden days.

Roomeal walked by him, and Vogonwë called him over. “Do you know how to distract those pathetic clingers?” he asked.

“Well…they like to dance,” Roomeal said. “But the band is on their break; they get a break every twenty years, and—”

“Round up the band and make them play something,” Vogonwë instructed.

“But, the singer is down with the flu,” Roomeal said.

“What kind of Elf comes down with the flu?” Vogonwë asked in shock.

Roomeal squirmed. “He’s not an Elf…you see…none of the bandmembers are Elves…they’re…”

“They’re what?”

“They’re spiders,” Roomeal blurted. “Shishkebob and the Eight Legged Freaks, the Coolest Pawns of Uncooliphaunt Around, Swingingest Jazz Band From Here to Harad. But you can just call them the Pawns.”

Vogonwë paused to take this in. “But…but what about the spider leg collection my father has mounted behind the bar?"

Roomeal glanced over at the bar and said, “He took them down. Listen, Voggy, times have changed. Ever since the Fangirl Wars, the spiders have been looking for jobs, y’know? You can’t go very far in Workmud without seeing some poor arachnid holding a sign that says ‘Will Work for Blood’.”

“All right then, round up the Pawns, and find a new singer.”

“On so short a notice? I—”

Vogonwë was, understandably, growing somewhat impatient with his woodland kin. “Listen, Roomy,” he interrupted, “I’ve been away in far reaches of the world where people have short lives and even shorter tempers. Now, I can’t say for sure, but in that time I may have picked up a violent streak myself. And I may be an Orc in disguise, so you don’t want to make me angry, capice?”

“Oh…whatever you say, cousin Vogonwë,” Roomeal nodded nervously.

“I’m not your cousin, you stupid lump of a serving Elf. Now get! I have things to do, places to go, and people to meet.”

Roomeal closed his mouth with a snap and scurried away. But when he was at a safe distance, he yelled over his shoulder, “Well, I see someone has been hanging around Men for a few too many years!”

[ February 20, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Rimbaud]

As Halfullion Gormlessar awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in a strange bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armour-plated, back (he was tied to his shield) and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments, where fiercely tight ropes cut across his flesh and muscles, forcing him into ridges, on top of which his ragged cloak could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His two legs, which seemed pitifully far from the rest of his bulk, and out of sight, waved helplessly out of his view.

What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream.

And I look to my left
And I look to my right
And I’m looking for a man
I’m looking for a sign
I don’t wanna be the prisoner.

He was in a cell, and it reeked of orc. The pungency was so nefarious, that it threatened to send him into a vaporous swoon, as if of hemlock he had taken. Avoiding any real purpose to the third line of the paragraph, he left his action to the fourth. He studied his surroundings, with the keen senses of a blancmange at its most alert. Only a lightly salted kipper would have proven more observant.

Lurching into another paragraph of confinement, he realised he must be in the dread Fortress of the dark known to all and Sundry as Gol Dulldor. Just at that minute, Sundry came in. “Do you know What?” he asked, pre-empting any comment from the bound Hero.

“Eh, gsnuffle nibby-slimpy, rapsfragginglyslinityou hershanitzilitzu,” replied Halfullion succintly, through the gag.

“What, come in!” exclaimed Sundry. What entered. He was a stooped little Orc, much smaller than the rather innocuous Sundry.

“Hello old boy,” said What brightly. “I’m What, what?!”

“What?” asked Halfullion, the gag disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.

“Yes,” said What. The conversation seemed a little flat and rather forced.

“What, send for Water,” ordered Sundry.

What ran out of the door, and soon returned with Water, a tall Orc with an evil scar across his face. He was with his cousin Which.

Which, Water and What approached Halfullion with some trepidation, knowing of his legendary martial prowess. The great sword L’Envey Piennhas had been taken from him and was to be destroyed, once they got the disposal unit working again. The plumbing was just dreadful.

“Water, What, untie him!” ordered Sundry.

“Which?” chorused What and Water, tremulously.

“What?” asked Which, confused.

“What a confusion,” muttered Halfullion.

“What?” asked Water. “You said something, Prisoner?”

“Yes, Water, what is it?” said What, thoroughly bemused.

“LISTEN!” screamed Gormlessar, taking control, despite his indisposition. “Stop shouting to all and Sundry…”

“Eh?” interjected Sundry, but Halfullion talked over him.

“…and listen to me. You,” and he pointed to Water, “untie these ropes, before they suffocate me. And you, What, bring me some water.”

They looked a little confused but did as he ordered. Finally, he was watered and the bonds loosened and he ended up having quite a pleasant night, for the Orcs were amiable, if slow-witted, fellows, and Halfullion blended in well. They were very frightened of him, to be sure, but Orcs were scared of most things, especially their brethren with the letter ‘k’.

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

Far away, roaming loose in the Dark and Mysterious Forest, the great Steed Tofu was feeling rather listless. Despite his contempt for the Lord Gormlessar, he found himself missing the huge warrior more than he would care to admit. The chap had been blasted good at finding good grub, anyway, that was for sure. Many’s the good nose-bag they’d shared. Tofu was wasting away and malnourished. He didn’t know it, but he was scant feet from the others, blundering around in the Forest. Indeed, the Forest of Workmud was really only a copse. Its greatest magic was in persuading that it had more than seven trees, which it didn’t. Tofu, however, was unaware of this, and slipping dangerously into poesy. He, unlike his master, was rather good at it.

When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, quote the grand equine, in a low, sad tone. He recited all of the melancholy letters, until his soft voice faded away with. …Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Her eyes blinded by tears, Merisuwyniel stumbled, tripping over a tree root. Instead of landing on the ground in a most undignified manner, as might reasonably have been expected, she was sustained in the sir, held by two strong arms.

“Why are you running away from me?” the Orc asked, troubled by her reaction.

“You killed my kinsmen!” she sobbed.

“I did not even touch them, nor did they die by my sword, but by their own clumsiness,” he explained.

“Fair Holdit, robbed untimely of his immortality,” she mourned.

“Had he stayed in Topfloorien where he belonged, he would still be alive,” he answered, not unreasonably.

While she yet hesitated, longing to believe his words, yet horrified at the bloody sight she had witnessed, Fate separated them cruelly. In this case, Fate took on the forms of a bevy of Fangirls, called the Holdithotties.

“I know he went in this direction!” one of them shouted.

“But this is the wrong forest,” said another. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Hey, I have that face on posters all over my room,” the first answered. “There’s no mistaking him – he’s sooooo dreamy!”

“Yeah,” exclaimed a third. “And we’ll show those Figwit4ever girls who’s the coolest Elf!”

“Holdit!” All stopped suddenly, running into each other rather ungracefully.

“Where? Where?”

“There!” A shocked Fangirl pointed to the prostrate figure lying in the clearing. “Oh no! He’s dead!”

“And there’s his murderer, trying to capture one of us!” They approached Gravlox menacingly, seeing him with sword in hand, holding Merisuwyniel by the arm.

“How dare you kill the cutest Elf that ever lived, you ugly Orc?” the loudest of them shouted. “Now we won’t be able to see him in the sequel!”

Gravlox had faced armies of fierce warriors unafraid, but this foe was too terrifying for him. Who could blame him for letting go of Merisuwyniel’s arm and fleeing, back to the safety of the fortress of Gol Dulldor…

Weeping, she knew not whether for the slain Elves or the disillusionment of her lost love, Merisuwyniel made her way through the trees, back in the direction of the camp.

[Bêthberry]

"Is this a Tofu I see before me?" queried O Lando, who still had not yet found his Foster Grants.

"I am Tofu's spirit at least," answered the starving steed, "for this to, too solid flesh is withering and I am doomed for a certain term to walk the Workmud in fast in search of Halfullion's grass."

"What alas! Have foul crimes been done? Is our Lord Gormlessar done away?" bespoke Bloom.

"But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of the prison-house, I could unfold a tale to harrow up your soul. If thou didst ever the Lord Gormlessar love--"

"Oh God!" ennunciated O Lando.

"Avenge his most foul and unnatural kidnap."

"Kidnap! Haste me know that with feet as swift as the thoughts of love and arrows as twangy as any space wars sword I may avenge this foul deed."

"First feed me," negotiated Tofu. Whereupon they scoured the greenwood for succulent sustenance and O Lando did commend Tofu for his poetic turn of voice, attempting to do justice to the Lord HighHairdresslessar, who he had hoped would market the L'oréal line of products.

'Alas, poor Halfie! I knew him well, in an old manner of speaking. A man of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me--"

"There's room for only one good poet here and I am he," retorted Tofu.

"So be it, noble Steed. Let us hence to the camp. Your telling's the thing wherein we shall catch the conscience of the Itship. Thence let us take arms against the slings and arrows of this outrageous kidnap and so by opposing the orcs to--"

"For pity's sake, desist!" begged the equitable equine. "Or I'll challenge you to a skate boarding duel the likes of which you'll never see in any movie."

O Lando recoiled with this raucous rebuff and, feeling rebuked, retorted with a reboundingly retiring, "Lead on, McTofu."

[Diamond18]

Shishkebab and the Eight Legged Freaks (minus Shishkebab), the Coolest Pawns of Uncooliphaunt Around, Swingingest Jazz Band From Here to Harad, were really quite a good band. There was actually only two of them besides Shishkebab, but they had a real big band sound, due to the fact that they could each play four instruments.

The party-elves gradually dispersed at the suggestion of dancing, and that finally left Geppettuil alone. Vogonwë pounced on the moment, and as Charlotte Fuzzthorax hit a high note on the sax, he chomped down one last frog leg and nonchalantly tripped a maiden who was attempting to ask Geppettuil for a dance.

“Isn’t this a great party, son?” Geppettuil observed happily, tapping his foot as he watched the other Elves swing dancing where ancient trees had one spread their branches toward the sun. “I say, it’s one of the best I’ve ever thrown.”

“Dad, this is the only party you’ve ever thrown,” Vogonwë pointed out. “You started this party five hundred years ago and you haven’t stopped since. You never came to any of my archery contests or watched me win the Best Horse Mounter of the Third Age So Far Award, because you were too busy sucking down martinis and entertaining socialites. And it’s been the same group the whole time!” He waved his hand toward the dancers, who still had with them their five-hundred-year-old invitations and name tags.

While they were talking, Roomeal stepped up to the band and crooned in a low voice, “Let’s give a hand to Ms. Fuzzthorax and Ms. Fluffilegs for their excellent work.” While the dancers politely clapped, he gave each spider a hand, and as they happily sucked away at them, he picked up a guitar and said, “And now, ladies and gentlelves, let’s sloooooow dance.”

He began to sing,

A child arrived just the other day,
He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were invitations to write and party hats to buy,
He learned to talk while I was away;
And he was waxing poetical before I knew it,
And as he grew he'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, Dad,
You know I'm gonna be like you."

“Yes, aren’t they a blast?” Geppettuil replied absently to Vogonwë.

“Dad, don’t you get it? Out there, in the world, things change. Do you know how many lives of Men five hundred years is? Kingdoms rise and fall in that amount of time, and—”

“Vogonwë, Vogonwë, my hasty son, always you were so obsessed with the lives of mortals,” Geppettuil swirled the drink in glass languidly. “What does it matter what goes on outside the borders of our swinging party? We must do what we have always done, and that’s have a good time. Don’t concern yourself with Men and Dwarves and those other things so much.”

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy Brown and the Elf in the Moon.
"When ya gonna stop, Dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then,
You know we'll have a good talk then."

“Aha! And that’s another thing!” Vogonwë exclaimed. “You always said I was too obsessed with death and mortality and gravesites and the fleeting nature of human life, but you never said why! But now I know, the cat’s in the cradle—I mean, the cat’s out of the bag!”

He paused for deep effect, and declared, “I know that my mother was a mortal!”

In his surprise Geppettuil spit out his drink in a shower of spittle that landed upon Vogonwë’s face. “How, how did you know? I mean, how preposterous…”

“It was a bad hangover and a magic Salad Bowl,” Vogonwë said, “but it was enough to show me my true heritage. Were you or were you not married to one Darthana of Chippendale?”

“Well, you see, that’s a matter of debate,” Geppettuil demurred. “Some say it takes an official ceremony, others say all you need is love, and others don’t have much of an opinion but post anyway.” From there he went into a long thread about what constitutes a marriage.

Vogonwë finally cut him off and said, “Let me rephrase that: was she my mother?”

Geppettuil sighed. “Yes, yes she was. I only hid it from you because I knew that if you knew that you would chose a mortal life, and then both my not-wife and son would be dead and I, I would be forced to live out my life alone until my days are utterly spent. Or something.”

Well, he came home from wherever he’d been just the other day,
So much like a Man, l just had to say,
"Son, I lied to you, but it was for your own good,
"I didn’t want you to go the same way your mother did.”

“I haven’t been giving that much thought,” Vogonwë said, skirting the fate issue. “I just want to know this, Dad, how did Mother die?”

Whimsina Fluffilegs had finished her hand and picked up a violin, which she played sweetly to back up Roomeal’s singing.

Oh where have all the mothers gone, long time passing?
Oh where have all the mothers gone, long long time ago?

“She drowned in the kitchen sink,” Geppettuil sighed. “She splashed some water on the floor, slipped in the puddle, fell, struck her chin on the edge of the counter in the process, and was knocked unconscious. There she lay with her face in the water, and I…I was off buying crackers and cheese for my next party.”

Here he started to sob, and downed the rest of his drink. “Be a good son and get me some more alcohol from the bar, Voggy?”

“What would you like?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s strong…” Then, on second thought, he sniffed and said, “Make it a ‘Mudwater.”

As he walked away it occurred to me,
He wasn’t gonna be like me, no, he wasn’t gonna be like me, he was gonna choose the fate of his Mommy.
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy Brown and the Elf in the Moon. "When you gonna decide, Son?"
"I don't know when, But then you’ll never see me again, Dad, you’ll never see me again."

Just about every Elf in the glade was crying by the end of Roomeal’s song, and Geppettuil was blubbering to beat the band. Vogonwë left him to drown himself in his sorrows, and Roomeal left the stage to assume his duty behind the bar.

“You want a drink, Voggy?” he asked.

“I gave up strong drink a few days ago,” Vogonwë said. “A bad experience with an experimental medicine.”

“That’s too bad,” Roomeal said, mixing him up a Double ‘Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise. “So what are you going to do now, Voggy?”

“Would you stop calling me that? It’s so not poetic.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, since I looked into the Salad Bowl of Saladriel, which shows things that were, things that are, and things that are bizarre, I’ve been considering going to Chippendale to meet the other half of my heritage,” Vogonwë told him. “But first, I have to rejoin my friends. The last time I saw my true love she was rolling down a hill.”

Absently he accepted the drink and took a swig. “See, I think she may need rescuing, and if O Lando finds her before me, I don’t know what I’ll do, because—”

But, alas, he did not finish his sentence, for the Double ‘Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise hit him, and hit him hard. He slipped from the barstool and lay on the ground in a heap, kind of like when a curtain falls off the rod and piles itself on the ground in a mass of fabric that will surely need ironing later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, he awoke with a clearer mind, and knew what he must do. Geppettuil, who had drunk several ‘Mudwaters during his son’s period of unconsciousness, was now dancing in a half-crazed manner to the music of the she-Pawns. Vogonwë, fearing more delay, purloined some of the party food for Merisuwyniel’s meal, and filched a flask of DMGS for Earnur, for he knew him to be a connoisseur of all things intoxicating, and also since he could vaguely remember having drained some of the poor mortal’s drink in Topfloorien.

With these items he made his way back to the camp in a stunningly easy fashion, and very fashionably too, in his spiffy Elven-attire. When he arrived he found Pimpi fast asleep, a smile spread across her by now well described face. He tried various methods of arousing her, and she may very well have been aroused in her dreaming, but still she dreamt.

It finally occurred to him to pour a little ‘Mudwater Surprise into her mouth, for that liquid is rather remarkable in its ability to knock out the conscious and awaken the sleeping.

She did awake, and said dreamily, “Oh Vogonwë, I was having the most wooooonderful dream…I was at a feast, and I feasted and feasted and feasted on foods that were yeasted and greaséd. I fed on who-pudding, and rare who-roast beast, and I never thought that I’d cease!”

“That nice—”

“And you were there, Vogonwë, and you were reciting the most beautiful poem I have ever heard, though now I can’t remember what the words were…”

“That’s a shame—”

“And then, for a little while I dreamt that I was galloping across the plains of Rofoo, wrapped up in a snug blanket in my mother’s arms, while my father guided the reigns of noble Lopitoff, who was still in one piece, though he was whinnying his head off…”

“That’s wonderful, darling. I’ve been having one of the worst days of my life, and that’s saying a lot for an Elf, you know. I can’t quite say if it was the worst, but it came very close, and it isn’t even over yet… Well, anyway, when we were separated by the Fangirls, I—”

But Pimpiowyn had fallen back asleep again, and was oblivious to his complaints. He sighed, and for a moment considered pouring out his troubles in a lengthy diatribe to the horses. But he opted against it, as it just wouldn't have been the same.

[ February 21, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Rimbaud]

In the small room near the top of Gol Dulldor, Sundry was pressing his spectacularly ugly features against the aquiline poetry of Halfullion’s own visage. He was shouting, cajoling, threatening, demanding to know of their Quest, the whereabouts of his Companions, and now, for knowledge of the great sword L’Envey Piennhas, which lay on a chair across the room. Halfullion was still securely tied to the bed.

It was early morning, and a pale grey light filtered in through the window. It was bitterly cold.

Sundry sneered at his continued resistance. Even Halfullion had been surprised at how stupid the questioning must have been to avoid him giving anything away. “I'm looking forward to completing your ‘training’,” leered the foul Guard. “In time you will call me Master.”

”You're gravely mistaken. You won't kill me as easily as I tend to surrender,” replied Halfullion, honestly.

Sundry pressed very close to Halfullion. The Orcish Captain looked into his eyes and, for the far-from-the-first time, Halfullion perceived the evil madness lurking within the maniacal eyes.

”Oh, no, my great Hero. You will find that it is you who are mistaken...about a great many things.”

Water, who was standing by the door, looking thoroughly disheartened by having not chopped anybody’s head off for a while, motioned at the blade on the chair. “His bright-sword.”

Sundry rose and took hold of the fabulous weapon. ”Ah, yes, a Hero's weapon. Much like your friend's. By now you must know your friends can never be rescued from the dark side, of Gravlox’s wrath. So will it be with you.”

”You're wrong. Soon I'll be dead...and you with me.”

The Captain laughed. “Perhaps you refer to the imminent attack of your Heroic Itship.”

Halfullion squinted foolishly at him.

Sundry sneered. “Yes...I assure you we are quite safe from your friends here.”

”Your overconfidence is your weakness,” ventured Halfullion, calmly.

”Your faith in your friends is yours,” snarled Sundry.

Water shifted. “It is pointless to resist, Gormlessar.”

Sundry turned to face Halfullion again. He was wrathful. “Everything that has transpired has done so according to our design.” He motioned outside, through the window. “Your friends out there in the Forest of Workmud...”

Halfullion reacted. The evil Captain noted it.

”...are walking into a trap. As are all of your foolish friends! It was we who allowed the Itship to approach so close. We are quite safe from your pitiful little band. An entire legion of our best troops awaits them.”

Halfullion's look darted from the Captain to Water and, finally, to the sword in Sundry’s hand.

Sundry laughed, madly. “Oh...I'm afraid the ramparts and battlements will be quite operational when your friends arrive.

”Come, boy. See for yourself.” He shifted the bed nearer to the window. Halfullion felt the cold wind on his face.

Sundry stood by the window, with Water standing at his side. Halfullion strained to look through a small section of the window.

Sundry looked at him, sharply. “From here you will witness the final destruction of the Itship, and the end of your insignificant Quest.”

Halfullion was in torment. He glanced at his sword sitting on the
armrest of the chair. The Orcish Captain watched him and smiled, touching the scabbard.

”You want this, don't you? The hate is swelling in you now. Take your Hero weapon. Use it. I am unarmed. Strike me down with it. Give in to your anger. With each passing moment, you make yourself more my servant.”

Water watched Halfullion in his agony.

”No!” Halfullion felt despair cascading around him like a latrine bucket emptied upon his head.

”It is unavoidable. It is your destiny. You, like your sword, are now mine!” Sundry was exultant, Halfullion seemed broken.

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

Some time later, in the late morning, with sun streaming into the room and playing on the coverlet atop the bound form of the Hero, Sundry announced that he had a visitor. From his restricted position in the bed, his vision hampered by the door post and Sundry’s ample orcish bulk, Halfullion could only make out a slim figure with truly stunning blonde hair.

“But, soft! what light through yonder doorway breaks? It is the east, and that sweet figure is the sun,” murmured Halfullion. Time appeared to have slowed. “See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

“Her? She?” said Sundry brutally, shattering the moment. “This is the fearsome…” and he failed to disguise a smirk “…Gravy, son of the Captain Gravlox, who is busy destroying your pathetic friends.”

“You will find me more difficult to destroy,” said Halfullion, confused, but with unexpected backbone. The Orcish Captain started in fear, and checked the bonds again.

The slim blonde figure entered. When it flicked its hair back, the face was revealed and the image of feminine beauty lost. Gravy’s face was a general plague area. Acne fought with pimple colonies, who themselves were besieged by eczema. Combined with green skin and shyness, Gravy was certainly not a great catch. Halfullion felt his stomach turn. He wondered idly if stomach’s really had space to do all this turning that so many people talk about. Cartwheels, and butterflies too, stomachs were marvelous things.

“Hello, thtrange Hero,” lisped Gravy, in a weak, fluctuating voice. “I have jutht returned from a trip on the river, looking for wigth.”

“Wigth?” asked Halfullion, thoroughly bemused.

“Wigth,” nodded Gravy.

Halfullion was lost. “You enjoy boating, …Gravy?”

“Ah yes he does!” interjected Sundry. “You can hardly keep Gravy away from boats.”

Gravy smiled shyly and ducked his head, murmuring something about liking to be out in the rain. He would have said nothing more, but the fabulously annoying Sundry heard his low emanations and exclaimed, “Indeed! Gravy especially likes to be in a boat when it’s pouring.”

[ February 21, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Baklava was bored. No, "bored" was an understatement so vast as to defy all description sufficiently punchy to work in a paragraph of this nature. He was mired in a morass of equine ennui that sprang from the risible requirement that he stand completely still in a thoroughly unimaginative and under-written clearing awaiting the return of the Mariachi singer in the cheap Mexican bar of stupidity himself, Lord Earnur Etceteron. Baklava had already listed his top-100 pet hates about being Earnur the Egregious' horse three times, and had started listing the different ways in which he would like to thrust the Dashing Dipstick's teeth down his own gullet when the Orcs entered the clearing.

This was a welcome change. There were two of them: enough to make things interesting, but not enough to necessitate any undue effort on his part. Baklava reflected that he liked those odds, and proceeded to pretend that he hadn't noticed them. Vogonwë clearly hadn't as he was still leaning over Pimpiowyn, trying ineptly to wake her. Thank Heavens for the unique eyesight of the Elves, thought the sarcastic steed. If the Bumbling Bard had managed to kill off one of these approaching Uruks then he would have been in serious danger of dropping off to sleep. One Orc just wasn't enough to keep him interested these days.

The two rather unimportant Uruks, their shirts ensanguined to the point of being completely crimson, strode up confidently; sniggering about the complete absence of alertness demonstrated by Vogonwë, who was thinking of a poem about how Pimpiowyn looked sleeping thus. Her mortality shone through at moments such as this, and he was inspired to utter:

O lovely girl with crumb-decked skirts
Whose eyes delight in nice desserts
I wish I had a world of time to think
Of something that rhymes with "think" but isn't "brink"

Mercifully at that moment Spudgun and Skunthawp, for so were the two aggressors named, although in a feeble piece of characterisation they'd been given no lines whatsoever in which to reveal this fact; necessitating the frustrated intervention of the omniscient narrator, made their rather sad and predictable move. They approached the mighty steed, noting that he could keep them in meat for a month, and in that moment Baklava casually reared up and dashed both of their skulls in with a pair of well-aimed hooves.

Curses, he thought; now he was bored again, and whichever sickly muse it was that inspired Vogonwë had been about her misguided and inept business again. As the horse-lord finally gave up and went to sleep, his ears were full of the Wood-elf's whining nasal screed:

O Pimpi fair
I love to wear
A bit of straw
Within thy hair
Let's be fair:
There's grass to spare...

Thankfully, the rest was silence.

*******

On the other side of the mighty, sweeping spinney of Workmud the Okay-I-Guess, Lord Earnur Etceteron was striding manfully back, laden with obscure herbs. Some of these were actually required for Merisuwyniel's ill-fated curry, but the rest were, well, more recreational. As he walked, he sang an ancient lay of herbal lore:

Pick it, pack it
Fire it up: come along
And take a hit from the bong.
Put the blunt down, just for a second
Don't get me wrong: it's not a new method.
Inhale, exhale - I just got an ounce in the mail.
I like a blunt or a big fat cone
But my double-barreled b...

Suddenly his amazing dashing-hero sixth sense told him that something was wrong. That and the mighty Uruk standing in his path pointing a crossbow directly at his face.

"Stand aside, foul Spawn of Souroune." declaimed our half-baked hero tritely. "None, be they Uruk, or Skwerl or Opus may face the Black Sword of Dun Sóbrin and live."

The Uruk looked at Lord Etceteron as though he had suddenly grown antlers. His eyebrows huddled together for security against the sudden wave of confusion that was sweeping across his ill-prepared cranium. Eventually he managed to articulate his incredulity.

"Wot are you on, Sunshine?" said the great, heavily-muscled creature, waving his crossbow gently in case Earnur was in some way visually impaired.

"I say unto thee, foul fiend of Udûn: you cannot pass."

"I ain't tryin' to pass, mate," said the crossbow-orc. "You are. And since this is a Mark XII double-crank mini-ballista, the most powerful handbow in the world, what you have to ask yourself is 'do I feel lucky?'"

Earnur did feel lucky. Even before his hand touched the hilt, he knew exactly which two vertebrae were about to undergo an unexpected trial separation, and the great sword Wylkynsion sang a song of pure joy as it swung in a perfect arc, almost faster than the eye could see:

Erewegoerewegoerewego
Erewegoerewegoerewego-o

The Uruk's expression didn't change, but the position of his head did. It went from sitting on his shoulders to sitting on the ground in a very familiar-looking pile of goat droppings.

Stitch that announced the sword, and Earnur strode on, reaching the clearing much more quickly than he expected. Nothing much had changed: his horse was still asleep, so was Pimpiowyn and killing the dragon was still not allowed. Stowing his special herbs in an oilskin pouch, he got out his pipe and began to load the bowl with some pungent green leaves.

Pulling out his flask, Lord Etceteron sat down to await his companions.

[ February 22, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Orogarn Two bounded into the clearing, triumphantly holding up two slain birds. “Fair is fowl, and fowl is fair!” he declaimed.

Vogonwë’s hopeful glance turned dark as he saw the spoils of the hero’s hunt. “Crebain from Dunland,” he muttered. “They hover through fog and filthy air.”

Merisuwyniel stumbled, albeit gracefully, into the clearing, her lovely eyes reddened in a most becoming way. “When shall we two meet again?” she moaned. “In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won,” spoke a voice most melodiously. Startled, Merisuwyniel looked up and saw – Falafel. “You can speak too?” she blurted. “But you have never done so before!”

“Well,” her mare answered, “I couldn’t go letting those male equine companions have the last word, could I? Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, about him whom you think lost:
Lesser than the Elves, and greater.
Not so happy, yet much happier.
He shall share their Fate, though he be none.”

“Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence? Or why upon this blasted clearing you step my way with such prophetic greeting?” questioned the Elven maiden.

“Let’s just say I have well-informed sources,” Falafel said enigmatically. “Now, shouldn’t you be cooking those birds?”

Voices could be heard approaching the camp. “Let the Itship beware!” a strange voice warned, its ethereal beauty proclaiming its Elven origin. “For there walks a power in the Forest whose wrath they will arouse at their peril.”

A well-known Dwarven voice answered gruffly, “Nonetheless they will have need of wood.” Kuruharan, his sturdy arms laden with logs and branches, walked out of the deceptive shadows of the trees. “Hi! Chrysophylax, here is work for you!”

The dragon awoke, obligingly belching a spurt of flame in his direction. Fortunately, the Dwarf had quickly dropped his load and dodged to the side. Behind him, Tofu stepped proudly, well aware of the importance of his news, yet willing to wait until the stage was set for his grand declaration. In his wake, an Elf followed, exclaiming “Vogonwë!” as he laid eyes on his relative, thrice removed. When O Lando saw the sleeping beauty of Pimpiowyn, he rushed over to give her the required waking kiss, alarming his jealous cousin. Whether it was the magic of a pure Elven, wholly immortal kiss or perhaps the smell of the now cooking fowls that was responsible, the result was the desired one – she opened her luminous eyes and smiled beatifically.

“Are you going with us?” she asked dreamily, too bemused to wish his attention to cease.

In the meantime, Merisuwyniel had succeeded in getting both Vogonwë and Lord Etceteron to produce the edible spoils of their hunt, adding them to the stew. “Double, double toil and trouble,” she chanted softly, “fire, burn; and, caldron, bubble.” She sniffed suspiciously at the herbs, whose fragrance arose from the pot. “Just what did you put in there?” she asked Earnur.

He was spared the necessity of trying to remember just what his pouch contained by the sound of a voice dramatically declaiming: “Friends, horses, sentient weapons, lend me your ears!”

Wot ears? Wylkynsion asked, but his objection went unheard and unheeded.

Tofu continued, clearly enjoying the full attention he was getting. Even Baklava had opened his eyes and was listening. “My master, the brave Lord Halfullion Gormlessar, has been taken captive!” He paused, savouring the open-mouthed astonishment of all but O Lando and Kuruharan, who had of course already heard the news. “Orcs overcame him and bore him away.”

“And you did nothing about it?” Baklava asked disdainfully, nonchalantly flexing the legs that had only recently accounted for two of their enemies.

“Alas, they were far too numerous,” explained Tofu hastily. “I deemed it more wise to obtain the assistance of a larger company to rescue him.”

“Did you see in which direction they went?” Merisuwyniel asked.

The horse hung his head ever so slightly. “Darkness took me,” he confessed, “and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell.”

“Well, then there’s no hurry,” Pimpiowyn said. “We can eat our meal first, then look for him afterwards.”

“When in doubt, always follow your nose,” O Lando Bloom suggested. “My Elven nose will find the orcs and lead you to their hidden fortress.”

“But who are you, and why do you come to aid us?” Merisuwyniel asked.

After the precise nature of the family ties between Vogonwë and him were explained, a rather confusing account, since both tried to talk at the same time, she welcomed him, saying, “You may most certainly join our company for as long as you wish and can. Yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will.”

They sat down to partake of the stew, which tasted somewhat unusual, whether due to Merisuwyniel’s cooking skills, the nature of the herbs or the origin of the fowls. Cold turkey would have been better, thought Orogarn Two, though he bravely finished his bowl. He then arose, fastened his embroidered gauntlets and proclaimed, “Let’s hunt some orc!”

“Will we find Halfullion in time to save him?” Merisuwyniel wondered concernedly.

“We may, Miss Meri, we just may,” Falafel comforted her.

With that, they mounted their steeds, at least those who had them did, and, following O Lando, riding Tofu by his gracious permission, they left the clearing.

[Kuruharan]

The very secret journal of Kuruharan, the son of Khoreth.

-140 days after pre/post-Durin’s Day-

After a day’s journey we halted for the night. The next morning Vogonwë insisted on a poetry recitation. Consequently, we did not get ready to go until noon. Eventually, everything was gathered together and packed in preparation for departure.

A party of Elves suddenly arrived. They made the mistake of mentioning to Pimpi that they carried several deer that they had recently killed and invited her to share some of it. And behold, everything is off and the departure can wait.

-141 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

It has been determined to leave today. We made about two miles going in the wrong direction before we gave up for the day and made camp. We had a brief council and decided that due to the presence of Uruk-hai and Fangirls in the area we would not build any fires or make the least noise.

As soon as the council broke up my companions proceeded to do both at once.

-142 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

We passed a party of woodsmen today. I wanted to avoid them, but the rest insisted on stopping and talking to them. The Woodsmen said that lately groups of orcs have been carrying consternation through the vales of the River. This is most disturbing.

The Itship was so distraught that they decided to make camp for the day and mourn for the souls of the departed. The time was currently 10:00 AM.

Due to the depredations of Pimpi, the food, which was intended to last us four weeks, is starting to run short.

-143 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

Rations have been cut in half. This means that Pimpi is now cut down from Quadruple rations to Double, while everyone else eats half rations.

After proceeding in the wrong direction for a half-mile, we halted to make camp at 10:30 AM.

Later in the afternoon, several Uruks were found snooping around the camp. Seeing a chance to impress Merisuwyniel, Earnur and Orogarn Two jumped into battle. Both of them killed three. O Lando spent his time prancing around admiring himself in a mirror and missed the whole engagement. Vogonwë got all tangled up in his hair bow and fell helplessly to the ground, coughing up hairballs left and right. Pimpi dashed off to guard the all important supplies and was not seen again for half an hour. Merisuwyniel behaved oddly through the battle, running about and screaming something about how her ex-boyfriend’s buddies had tracked her down. Ignoring her, I shot two Uruks before the rest panicked and fled. Chrysophylax slept. The horses laughed.

Merisuwyniel screeched in horror and ran over to weep and pout over the bodies. She kept on saying over and over again something about how she wished that it could have all worked out.

I certainly wish that it could have all worked out too. Worked out in the sense that we should have killed all the orcs rather than incompetently managing to let most of them get away.

We had no idea what to do to calm Merisuwyniel. It was almost as if she was trying to recover from a really messy break-up.

Eventually, a gift from yours truly of a few revealing dresses, and several cosmetics sufficiently covered the dead orcs, loosened her throat, swept away the clouds that obscured the view, freed the tongue, made it possible to have ideas and plans, and generally allowed us to get on with the rest of our lives without Merisuwyniel’s blubbering.

It was decided that due to Merisuwyniel’s bereavement we would not travel tomorrow.

-144 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

Half rations still. They will shortly have to be cut to quarter. (Pimpi’s to normal.)

To relieve their boredom Orogarn Two and Earnur argued about who was braver in yesterday’s battle. Their debate became very animated. They eventually took to chopping down nearby trees in order to show who was the more manly. Merisuwyniel, O Lando, and Vogonwë objected. Lively squabble ensued.

Pimpi slunk off to have a snack.

I rolled over to take a nap.

Chrysophylax slipped off to eat some nearby villagers.

[Mithadan]

It took Gravlox the better part of a day to evade the pursuit of the Fangirls. But at last, as night fell, his head ringing from the screams and whines of the overamorous Elf-o-philes, he found a burrow in the side of a hill. Evicting two halflings and an assortment of hamsters, he settled in for an evening of remorse, self-blame and the Orcish waybread known as Doritos. Then he fell into a tortured sleep filled with images of leering Fangirls and dreams of Merisu pushing him from cliffs or tall trees into pits full of fire.

He woke with a bad taste in his mouth and a heavy heart. After a breakfast of pickles and cold chicken from the halflings' larder, he left the burrow and wandered aimlessly for a time bemoaning the fates of the world and his Orc boots which had never fit properly. For three days he wandered until he happened upon the camp of his Uruks. A quick count showed that of the twenty lads he had set out with, only ten remained.

"What has happened here?" he demanded. Buzzcut stepped forward and proclaimed proudly, "We captured a mighty Elven warrior, the one with the teeny blade. I sent him ahead to Gol Dulldor with three of our Uruks to guard him. Then three of our lads were in the edge of the forest doing what bears do in the woods, when they were attacked by more warriors. They were spitted en flagrante..."

A bit more questioning revealed that the captured warrior was of Merisu's party, as were the others who had assailed his Orcs. They were last seen heading in the general direction of Gol Dulldor...very slowly.

"Should we prepare to attack the enemy?" asked Buzzcut. Gravlox thought for a moment, briefly entertaining a vision of snatching Merisu away from her companions. But that was old school. Gravlox was a changed Orc. He shook his head. "No, we return to Gol Dulldor to check on the prisoner."

And so they broke camp (and some dishes), mounted their wolves and headed back home...

[Bêthberry]

O'er Land with O Lando

As time tumbled on and on and on, a weed of the wind's thought, and as the Third Age passed on from personal witness, beyond media report, entered into history and then wafted in the very mists of marvelous myth itself, the stirring events of the Orcish Opposition and Fateful Retrieval of Gormlessar from Gaol came to be immortalized by Anon the Imputable in the most impuissant images imaginable. Let the lay be laboured here.

How they brought the Itship from Aching to Spent

Oro' sprang to the stirrup and Vogonwë and he,
Earnur and Pimpi and Meri all three,
Kuruharan and Chrys were galloping too
To Gol Dulldor by forest they galloped all through.
Not a word to each other they kept a great pace
'Lando's nose led them on in this resolute race.
He sniffed and he snuffed till they'd had enough.
The riding was hard; it was terribly tough,
And they ached aplenty in parts of their duffs.
Yet still they went galloping this Itship they did
No stone went unturned, no scent that was hid.
Calling their mounts pet names without peer,
They galloped, they galloped 'till Halfie was near.
Neither slacking nor slowing their pace not a wit
They determined determinedly never to quit.
They thought of their Halfie in all that they did.
Oh they rid and they rid and they rid and they rid.

[Obviously, Anon the Imputable was not brown(nos)ing here.]

However, at the time of the Orcish Opposition and Fateful Retrieval of Gormlessar from Gaol, the probable events passed more portentously thus:

The waxing moon polished the shiny night sky until the stars shone more brightly than any Simonized job. Slowly, each member of the Itship waxed on about the pursuit, until even Vogonwë could not render their words in a better tell'o it. No one could hold a candle to him; it was a wicked tale.

"I should be happier if I could see the print of a boot," sniveled Kuruharan, who saw profits dissipating on the long distance decline.

"Let's not let this drag on," sneered Chrysophylax, wishing he could have a drag on his fiery breath.

"Let us not be a pig in a poke about this," sniped Orogarn Two, thinking of the lovely pigskin leather of his missing wallet. "Let us sniff first and press our pursuit later."

"Let us not to the marriage of our herbs and our appetites admit impediments," snorted Etceteron. What the great sword Wylkynsion said cannot here be reported.

"We must trust O Lando," sniveled our hapless heroine Merisuwyniel. "He nose what to do."

"Nobody knows the truffles I've seen," sniffed Pimpiowyn, whereupon both O Lando and Vogonwë sought to avail themselves of the opportunity for an encounter of a closer kind with the scented half-halfling, o'erwrought as she was with the odour of fear, to say nothing of sanctity.

"I have not elf-nose enough," snuffed Vogonwë, wallowing miserably in doleful complaint about his maternal lineage. Piteously he performed an exposition extempore upon the rooting for delicate morsels in hopes of attracting Pimiowyn to his person, but it was O Lando who was the elf of the hour and action.

"Come," snickered O Lando, who was riding piggyback for the first time. "Let me be a true TofuRider. We must visit the polluted places of the Workmud where we will see such belching smoke stacks and fouled water as can nowhere else be found in Muddled Berth, for the pulp and paper industry here has fouled most unfairly the forest with its clear cut logging and sawmilling practices. You shall come with me and keep your word to the Lord Gormlessar."

To this the Itship agreed, though with no great delight.

Then O Lando raised his tired nose. Following the orcish scent was no truffling matter, but his morels demanded that he aid his third cousin's third-rate friends. It would have been creminil to have shirked their need, for evil was mushrooming all around Workmud. Indeed, they had all been kept in the dark too long and fed all manner of strangely composted matter.

This then was the trail that they pursued thus, but beyond their noses none of them had more foretellings as did O Lando to sniff the odour of the orcish trail. Even he, delicate of nostril and fair of olfactory nerves, was hard set to distinguish betimes the orcish scent from the sulpherous fumes of the mills and the noxious adours of tanneries and soap factories. Of course, it could also be said that the heady smoke of the campfire stew rather impaired than extended his senses.

But then at last they heard a great concourse of trumpets from the enemy and they knew they were arrived at Gol Dulldor. O Lando dismounted from Tofu to approach an elf who happened upon them, an elf he apparently knew by name, one Asparagus Snap.

"What's happening, dude?" he sneered at O Lando.

"We're having fun, Gus," snickered O Lando as he turned to view the ramparts of Gol Dulldor which lay before them.

[Diamond18]

There were many flies in the vicinity of Gol Dulldor, as one might well expect from an Orcish stronghold. There were black flies, blue flies, red flies and dead flies (Flywraiths). There were houseflies, barn flies, and dark-tower flies. There were horse flies, and mule flies, and dragonflies. But worst of all, there were knickerbuckles.

Pimpi swatted at one fly of indistinct species, and wondered, “What do they eat when that can’t get half-hobbit?” She really wanted to know, as the digestive habits of different creatures was a curiosity to her.

Vogonwë took advantage of the fact that O Lando was occupied with that other Elf, and came to her rescue. He opened his flask of 'Mudwater and took a dainty sip, then with amazing accuracy that wasn’t really amazing coming from the erstwhile Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud, he spit a stream of liquid at one of the buzzing insects and hit it right between its buggy eyes. It exploded with a little poof, and a sickening scent filled the air. Or rather, as they were in the vicinity of Gol Dulldor, he put the already ill aroma on its deathbed.

He repeated this a few more times before he caught the attention of Earnur, who said, “What ho…is that the fabled drink of the Workmud Elves?”

Vogonwë swished a bit around his mouth and spat three deadly streams out in quick succession, killing three more hapless flies before they could dare to land on his love. “Yes, it’s a bit of Double 'Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise Delight,” he said, then handed over the flask gregariously. “Try some!”

Earnur accepted it and took a sniff, effectively killing his olfactory senses for at least a week. Then with no further ado, he swigged a swizzle of the stuff down manfully. He then promptly fell off of his horse.

Baklava had been lost in thought. Truth to tell, he had been daydreaming again about trampling Lord Etceteron to death, and had just got to the good part, when he was startled out of his reverie by Earnur’s sudden dismount. For a moment he seriously considered making his dreams a reality, but his hooves were stayed by a low, lyrical, mellow, snort.

He turned his head in the direction of the lovely sound, and saw Pasdedeux beside him. Gently, gracefully—and not to mention, quite helpfully—she swished her tail and flicked some flies off of his hide for him. All thoughts of...what's his name...fled from Baklava's mind.

Pasdedeux's riders had also dismounted, though less violently, of course. Vogonwë had leapt off in order to retrieve his flask before its contents ran out upon the ground. Pimpiowyn rushed to Earnur’s side to see if the fall had killed him. For, if he was dead, she wanted to rescue any food he might have had in his pockets before the decaying corpse contaminated it.

So it was that Pasdedeux and Baklava were riderless and fancy-free, staring into one another’s almond shaped eyes. (As any horse drawing book will tell you, the eyes are indeed like unto almonds, and the chins like teacups.) Long on this journey had they been glancing surreptitiously at the other when the other was not looking. She, admiring the noble black stallion with the rippling horsy muscles, too horsily handsome for linguistic gymnastics to describe. For Pasdedeux went wild for the dark and brooding type. And he, silently smitten with the beauteous mare, with her mane of the softest, silkiest, velvetiest…mane. Her mane put Vogonwë’s hair to shame. And speaking of the half-elf: his bothersome method of mounting the mare had grated seriously upon the nerves of the stallion, who hated to see such a fine creature utilized like a pommel horse.

In a romantically tragic sort of way, both had previously been too shy to do anything more than gaze dreamily at a distance. And then there was the fact that their confounded, cursed, contemptible owners had been constantly riding them or tethering them apart from each other. That had not helped.

But now Pasdedeux, in an admittedly uncharacteristic display of forwardness, had seized the moment. While Vogonwë and Pimpi were hastily trying to revive Earnur by slapping him, the horses were communing silently. Now, a stallion of lesser heredity and utter equine excellence would have said, “What’s a mare like you doing with a dippy Elf like him?” But nay, Baklava didn’t even need to neigh. As they looked deep into the depths of each other's eyes, there passed between them an understanding, which conveniently cannot be recounted in any tongue of Men, as it would ruin the surprise.

The blissful moments passed away far more quickly than the amount of time you have spent reading about it, so nothing much had happened with those of the company who were concerned with petty things such as getting into Gol Dulldor, rescuing Halfullion, and revenging the Entish Bow, etc. But Vogonwë and Pimpi did succeed in summoning Earnur back from the dark pit of drunkenness into the world of the living, and it was far too soon for Baklava’s liking. As the groggy nobleman took the reigns of his stupendous steed and manfully resumed his mount upon the cranky creature’s back, he had no idea what was racing like a racehorse through the mind of the great horse.

And it was probably just as well, for it would have hurt his feelings.

[ February 25, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion and Gravy had spent the day together, as happy as potatoes in a sack. By the mid-afternoon, to the anger and bewilderment of all and Sundry, the Hero Lord had persuaded his blonde goblin friend to loosen the bonds upon the top half of his body, allowing him to view what happened through the window. However, the day was grey and damp, and wispy grey clouds floated below the room’s window, so high were they. When the guards had realised what Gravy had done, they were furious, but dared not question him, for his father had an indecent tendency to defend his family quite brutally. Sundry had ordered L’Enviey Piennhas taken downstairs, and installed in a dark place at the rear of his tower. He was taking no chances with this warrior. He was not taken in by the man’s curious pretence at interest in all matters hair, although his passion when the conversation had turned to thinning and texturising was alarming. He himself had retired downstairs to finish his lunch, but he had left two brave guards standing, not Which, nor What and there was no Water - for he was playing bridge, although the game was slipping away from him. Instead three huge orcs stood by the door, guided by a smaller Captain; by name they were Monophobia, Rhabdophobia and Merinthophobia and the Captain was Hypertrichophobia.

The wizened guard Captain was not at all a fan of Gravy nor his luxurious barnet, and he disliked seeing the mighty Enemy Knight downplaying himself in so desperate a plea for freedom. He was disgusted with the current behaviour of his fellow Guards, too. Monophobia was clinging pathetically to the arm of Rhabdophobia, neither orc looking as testosterone charged as they might. Indeed, Rhabdophobia had refused to beat the prisoner, in an earlier transgression. Merinthophobia seemed agitated and could not bear to look at Halfullion, the strapping strider strapped strictly straight upon the straw reverse of his shield. At that moment, Athazagoraphobia burst in.

Athazagoraphobia was a young orc, barely out of his teens, who had an unfortunate name and a more unfortunate tendency to be unheard, due to his weak voice. He clamoured for attention, and eventually Hypertrichophobia looked his way, a grimace on his face at seeing the young messenger un-helmed.

”Sir! Sir!” Athazagoraphobia squeaked at him. “Sir, I have a vital message! Ithyphallophobia has been studying our records about the Grand High Hero Lord Gormlessar. He has discovered something terrible!”

“What!?” barked was Hypertrichophobia, bristling with anger. He had no desire to beat around the bush, and all this splitting of hairs was making him wish he had tried hair of the dog that morning, yet sober he re-maned.

“Sergeant Ithyphallophobia has discovered that Gormlessar is not only armed with his dread Piennhas! He has a dread blade, an Iron of Death, from the First Age!”

“Not the dread black blade Gurthang!”

No, Sir,” reported Athazagoraphobia earnestly. “The dagger forged from the remains of that sword - the evil dagger Gurl-Thang!”

Hypertrichophobia whirled as swiftly as a girl in a hair-product advertisement. Time seemed to have slowed again, however, which severely hampered his progress.

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

The Grand High Mighty Super-Fabulous Hero Lord Gormlessar had not been idle, Eric or otherwise, during this conversation; neither had he been so whilst earnestly discussing braiding techniques with the sweet lad Gravy. Whilst Gravy ladled praise upon his discovery of the Mullet, he had surreptitiously been working his hand into his trousers. There was hid the fell dagger Gurl-Thang with which he would carve his way out of this hell-hole, rescue the fair maiden Gravy and gallop madly away. He was dimly aware of some problems and inconsistencies in his scheme, but he knew, as all Heroes do, that planning spoils great plans.

As Hypertrichophobia and Athazagoraphobia came to their realization by the doorway, he had grasped the dagger, whipped it out in a slashing arc, cutting free the bonds on his left hand side. He sprang from the bed as they came at him, his shield still attached to his back, so that he resembled nothing so much as an irate turtle. The guards made to charge at him, but their progress was flawed and subsequently floored. Rhabdophobia sprang forward but could not bring himself to draw his club from his belt. In shame, he ran from the room. Merinthophobia found his stomach tied in knots at the sight of the cut bindings upon the floor and sunk to his knees in terror. Monophobia, finding himself alone, began to weep piteously, and rather half-heartedly threw the muffin he had been eating at Halfullion. It struck a grievous blow, and our Hero was sorely hurt, yet he struggled to his feet and grasping Gravy’s hand, leapt out of the window. Hypertrichophobia was still stick in super-slow-motion as if he were advertising conditioner; bearded in his own tent, as it were.

Illyngophobia and Ownpetard ran into the room and saw immediately what had happened. Overcome with the need to do his duty, Illyngophobia rushed to the window. “Quick! Quick! We must pursue!” He cried boldly. “Aid me after them, my Companion!” He fell to his death, hoist by his Ownpetard.

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

A quick change of tone, and the story continued, although there seemed to be an extra sentence preceding the next part of the tale. Our noble friend Halfullion is not deceased, gentle readers, far from it. Indeed, he lives, as you may have already ascertained. Gravy, too, his new companion and potential business partner – for their ambitions for all things Salon were tremendous. They had fallen, fortuitously, upon a large pile of raked leaves, left there by the author as a cheap device. Clambering from the soft mulch, our fearless Leader Gormlessar, heard the sounds of battle.

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

This was getting disconcerting. Unstructured, too. These are just fragments. Can you even spell i.n.d.u.l.g.e.n.t.?

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

Halfullion and his Orcish pal had had the good fortune (or temerity, depending on whether you wanted to use that word or not) to fall on the rear of the tower. This was unknown to their Noble Colleagues, the Itship, who were assembled before the front door, debating rescue attempts. Soon battle would be joined. The confusion would be immense. Some would die. Some would live. Sentences that should not have been writ, were wrote, and will be writ again, I wend to wote.

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Birdland]

The assembled rescuers peered up at the dark, befouled towers of Gol Dullor. The source of the befoulment was evident from the vast flocks of crebain which had made the towers their home for generations. They would have really preferred a paint job, but the budget was tight, so they made due with what they had and claimed that it made a "statement".

Suddenly a great, winged creature peeled off from the flock and folding its wings, stooped with claws extended, falling down on the heads of the Itship as it screamed:

"KILL! KILL! KILLLLL!"

But another Crebain quickly descended after the first, and gently grasping her by one wing, led her gently over to a nearby dead tree. He sat her down, patting her shoulder gently while she looked around frantically, wringing her hankerchief in a nervous manner.

"Now lovey, we've discussed this all before, remember. We're "cre-bain". And what do crebain do?"

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

"Nooooo-no-no-no-no, my silly genetically insane love fledgling. Crebain are car-ri-on eaters. We never-ever-wever do the actually killing, now do we?"

"No kill?"

"That's right! We let the Orcs kill them, then we eat the corpses. And we know how much you love your corpses, don't we? Which is why you no longer have quite the girlish figure I knew when I married you."

"Eat the corpses?...EAT! EAT! EAT!"

"Yes, my darling wittle basket case. All the corpses you'd like."

"PECK OUT THEIR EYES!"

"Your favorite part, my love."

"RIP OUT THEIR NOSTRILS!"

"And then suck out the brains. That's right. Oh, you do remember! Now: you sit tight right here, and I'll go tell Gravlox about the intruders. And no sooner than you can say "regurgitate", those Orcs will have dinner all ready for you. Can you do that for me, my funny little half-wit?"

The cre-wife nodded her head up and down vigourously, and was continuing to do so as her long-suffering nestmate flew off to inform his Orc masters of the situation. After which he snuck off to the other side of the forest, where he was keeping a certain younger, understanding jackdaw in a love nest.

The rest of the Crebain started to make reservations.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two stood with eyes closed and one hand clasped tightly around the mysterious crystal hanging on its golden chain. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his face contorted as if he was battling with forces unseen. His breathing quickened to a frantic pace, loud as a frightened Múmak, and then suddenly stopped. His hold on the magic stone faltered, his hands went desperately to his throat, and he collapsed to the ground unable to breathe.

Kuruharan scrambled forward and immediately dumped the contents of a large black bag (marked M.D. for “Marketing Dwarf”) onto the ground beside the fallen Grundorian. Bottles, cans, vials, and flasks of all sizes scattered on the leafy floor of Workmud, each labeled with explicit instruction of how and by whom their contents were to be consumed. The Dwarf searched frenetically through the medicinal pile until he located a short, cylindrical container made of a strange, opaque orange materiel. He pressed-and-twisted its white lid and poured two small white pellets into his hand.

“Here,” he handed the pellets to Merisuwyniel. “Shove these down his throat. They’ll start him breathing again.”

The lovely elf looked down at Orogarn Two, whose eyes were bulging slightly and whose complexion was starting to blue.

“I’m not a doctor,” she said. “Vogonwe, you know him better than I do. You do it.”

“Oh no, dear lady,” said the poet, already composing in his head a rhyming reason for not assisting. “Perhaps the petite Pimpi is more suited to such ministrations. My bedside manner is lacking when it lacks a bed.”

The half-halfling looked up from where she sat nibbling an odd-shaped mushroom she had discovered growing in hollow, rotten log. “Nck thhnk yugh,” she said with her mouth very full.

Orogarn Two’s eye rolled up into his head and his body began to convulse violently.

“Oh, for the love of all that is holy in this most unholy of unholy lands!” shouted The Lord Etceteron in an unnecessary repeated use of the words ‘holy’ and ‘unholy’. “I’ll do it!

He strode forward, grabbed the pills from Merisuwyniel’s hand, and shoved them forcefully into Orogarn Two’s gaping maw. Unable to breathe, the aristocrat from Minus Teeth was also unable to swallow, and Earnur was forced to assist the pellet’s intake by adding a dollup from his ever-smoking flask. The potent potable pushed the medicine inward faster than Liquid Plummer pushes hair through a clogged drain, and the Lord of Grundor suddenly took in a huge, gasping breath.

He then uncontrollably regurgitated the entire contents of his stomach onto the forest floor, retching wildly for several moments, spewing his guts, and causing the gathered adventurers to fight sudden waves of nausea. Soon, everyone but Pimpi, who’s stomach was unassailable, was groaning as they unwilling participated in a group puke-fest. At last, Orogran Two’s stomach stopped heaving, and one by one his companions regained control of themselves. Everyone quickly moved several yards away (and upwind) from the site of the pungent event.

“What was that?” shouted Earnur, trying desperately to wash the awful vomit flavor away by pouring Strangreek’s directly into his mouth and swishing it around. “What caused you choke, Orogarn?”

“Two,” answered the speedily recovering Grundorian. “It’s Orogarn Two, Lord Eteceteron.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Apologies. Tell us what you saw with your crystal.”

“I saw our comrade, Halfullion, trapped in Gol Dulldor and surrounded by effeminate Uruks.”

“Ewwwww,” said the party in unison.

“I saw an unknown Elf maiden and a legless Uruk engaged in amorous activities.”

“Eeeeewwwwww!”

“I saw a half-starved half-halfing standing alone and foodless.”

“Oh no!” Pimpiowyn rushed forward with a mushroom in her hand. “What were these visions? Are they visions of the future.”

“I don’t know,” answered Orogarn Two. “The crystal shows things that may or may not be.

“Then what use is it?” asked Chrysophylax.

“It has it’s uses, dragon,” said Orogarn Two angrily, raising his hand to his crystal and walking toward the huge creature.

“You’re not going to puke again, are you?” asked Kuruharan, jumping between the Grundorian and the dragon.

“Stop it!” shouted Merisuwyniel. “There’s no time for bickering. Do you hear that?”

[Birdland]

The crebain circling the tower gazed down in open-mouthed, wide-eyed astonishment as the enemies of Gol Dullor stage a mass purging at the very gates of their beloved, bespattered home.

"Oh, that was disgusting!"

"One of the most revolting displays I've ever seen!"

"Who would have thought that Elves and Men would have been capable of such an act of defilement?"

"Who are those guys?"

"LET'S GO!"

Immediately, the entire flock descended and began cleaning up the mess left behind by their enemy. Soon no trace of the partly digested bioterror remained to be seen.

But the crebain merely regarded this as an appetizer, and soon returned to their circling, hoping battle would be joined and they could start on the second course.

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox led his band into Gol Dulldor ahead of the arrival of the Itship. He was greeted at the gate by a messenger Orc. "Sourone wants to see you," he was told.

Bidding goodbye to his troops, he made his way back to Sourone's office. He knocked at the door, then entered. Sourone was behind his desk reviewing some papers. He looked up as Gravlox entered. "Ah, Gravlox, sit down, sit down," said the Dark Lord.

Gravlox sat on one of the red leatherette chairs and looked expectedly at his master. Sourone removed his wire rim bifocals and rubbed his eyes before he spoke.

"Gravlox," he began. "You've been a valued servant for many years, but recently certain...improprieties have come to my attention."

Gravlox swallowed nervously. "Improprieties?" he asked. "What might those be my Lord?"

Sourone smiled toothily at Gravlox causing the Uruk to shiver. Then he turned and called, "Hazel, come here please." From the shadows near the executive washroom, Gravlox's wife emerged.

"Honey?" cried Gravlox in surprise.

Hazel walked over to stand beside Sourone, who, none too discreetly, patted her anatomy. She giggled, "Sourone!" Then she faced her husband. "Don't you 'Honey' me! For the past two years, you've been home a total of six days. 'Out on missions' you always say. Well, I've talked about you..."

"With who?" asked Gravlox.

Hazel smiled evilly and pointed to his wooden foot. "I was lonely, ouch!" whined the foot as Gravlox kicked the desk. "Every night after you went to sleep, your foot and I would have a little chat," continued Hazel. "Six missions over two years, and your foot says that you didn't raid, pillage or destroy one village. No mayhem, no murder. Instead, you've looked for abandoned settlements and rooted through them for loot. Gravlox how could you!" With an obviously feigned sob, she passed a sheaf of papers to the Uruk.

"What's this?" asked Gravlox as he accepted the documents. She smiled again, causing Gravlox to shudder. "DivOrc papers," she screeched. "You and I are through!"

"Don't I get a trial?" asked Gravlox.

"Ah, yes, a trial," said Sourone as he ran a finger along Hazel's jaw. "The court finds in favor of the plaintiff and enters a judgment of DivOrc. Wait for me in the washroom, dear." With a triumphant cackle, Hazel walked away.

"Now, Gravlox, what shall we do with you?" mused Sourone. At that moment an alarm sounded. A small Orc ran in and shouted, "We're under attack by a band of Elves!" Then the Orc ran out into the halls shouting, "To arms, to arms, the Figwits are coming!"

Sourone stood and looked down at Gravlox. "It seems you will have a chance to redeem yourself. But only one chance," growled the Dark Lord. "Go!" Then Sourone turned and entered the washroom. An odd assortment of sounds came from behind the closed door.

Gravlox stood with a grin. "It could be different," he said. "But it couldn't be better..."

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Etceteron casually swept a couple of unfortunate Crebain out of the sky, noting as he did so that Wylkynsion's balance appeared to be off. Not enough blood, he decided, and skewered another feathery body by way of an appetiser for his undernourished sword. It was obvious that the gates of Gol Dulldor weren't going to open on their own, and he was hoping that the enemy would be stupid enough to open them for him, as they usually did when he was so ludicrously outnumbered. The Black Sword was one of the few men who could realistically expect to use a massive numerical handicap as a tactical ploy.

Luck and dramatic purpose were with him this day; for as he paused to brush some guano from his tunic the dread portals swung back on their under-oiled hinges, screaming like a legion of film buffs at an enforced five-hour screening of Wednesday-afternoon game shows. His blade was ecstatic as a veritable army of Orcs issued forth, waving an ill-assorted collection of spears, scimitars, axes, hammers and, in one particularly misguided case, a pair of nail-scissors. At their head rode a familiar figure, one-legged and brandishing at once sword and spear.

At last, enthused the brutish blade. Oi! 'Andsome! You want some?! Come 'ere an' get it!.

"I just washed this tunic" mused the lord of Dun Sóbrin, absent-mindedly taking up a fighting stance by Oragarn Two, who was clutching his crystal once more as he too prepared to meet the advance. Vogonwë had an arrow in each hand, and was already beginning the greatest chant of accuracy known to the Elves of Workmud:

Is there an allegory in these sections? It seems to me that...

His words were lost in the din of a thousand battle cries, ranging from one Orc's "This bit is soooo kewl!" to Etceteron's own "Heart shall be higher, will the bolder as our enemies perish in unconvincingly high numbers!" Even Pimpiowyn was holding a dagger uncertainly, as though worried that it might bite her. Kuruharan, axe in hand stood close by his business associate, which might have been heroic comradeship or the desire to be near the largest and most lethal being in the field. Already the noble dragon was casually picking the remains of a barbequed Orc from his teeth and eyeing up its erstwhile companions as a hungry man regards an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The Entish Bow was still half-way through the hastiest war-chant it knew, although its fair owner, her hair streaming conveniently away from her eyes, was acting rather more swiftly as arrow after arrow thudded home into the ranks of the enemy. Anyone perceptive enough to notice, which ruled out every participant in the battle, might have noticed how few of these came close to the huge leader of this wild tide of destruction.

Not laughin' now are we, Sunshine? sneered the dread sword Wylkynsion, as it neatly bisected an Orc's head and swept back with all the strength of Earnur's mighty and gin-soaked arm behind it to skewer another that had somehow got behind him. He was too busy now to notice the actions of his companions as he cheerfully fought three huge Uruks with one hand whilst drinking the strongest spirits known to Middle-Earth with the other. One particularly callow Orc got too far inside his guard and was rendered unconscious by the very fumes of this concoction; a mixture of Strangereek's, Orc homebrew and Miruvor that was favoured by poisoners rather than drinkers in most societies. As the flood swept past him he could hear skulls cracking as his fabled black stallion tried to fight his way closer to Pasdedeux, but his own thoughts were on the need to parry that clumsy thrust , remove an arm and swing back for a groin job on the other fellow. As he fought the words of his sword formed a vicious counterpoint to his expert butchery:

Don't... (hack) Come... (crunch) Out... (gurgle) To... (squelch) Play... (slash) Unless... (whimper) You... (snap) Know... (squish) How! (splat).

Mithadan's Post:

Gravlox led an army of Orcs, 3000 strong, from the gates of Gol Dulldor. Before him stood a small knot of heroes. He grinned. Knowing precisely the correct tactics to employ when attacking a small force with vastly superior numbers, he ordered the army to do exactly the opposite. "Spread out!" he cried. "Form a single line! We can't let them get around us! Defend the Keep!"

The Orcs hurried to follow his orders and spread out to form a single line in the space between the two bottomless ravines that protected the flanks of the citadel. Unfortunately, there was at best room to form a line of perhaps a thousand Orcs between the sheer drops. And drop they did. They marched off the edges to topple into the chasms by the hundreds.

"Lemmings," muttered Gravlox under his breath. Then he spurred Shagoff to the left swinging the mighty ZigZag sword as he went. This action relieved a couple of dozen Orcs of what passed for their heads. Halting at the side of the line of soldiers, he shouted, "Sing, boys, sing!" Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks, and everywhere we go...

He could barely contain his laughter as he watched the army try to keep time, count and fight at the same instance. He would make sure that Merisu was safe at any cost and Sourone be damned. If Gravlox would lose his head as a result, so be it.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Rimbaud]

“Hark!” cried the Noblest of the Enobled, the most Masculine of the Emasculated, Halfullion Halfemption Gormlessar III, Prince amongst Men, Stylist amongst Butchers.

“Gravy,” snapped Gravy, peeved that his vastly gorgeous companion could not remember his name. “My name is Gravy, not Hark, or Lo, or Whazzat, or any of the other names you shout at me.”

“Terribly sorry, Gravy, you scrumptious fellow,” said Halfullion soothingly. “It’s just that this tiresome Doom has been laid upon me and I have a nasty feeling that I have to go and get hurt now. This and the general culmination of events are leading to this great Heroic Flux, which makes me prone to saying things that might sound a little stilted, except this bit, which is simply a rather unnecessary and lengthy explanation that still, for some reason, has not ended.”

“I see,” said Gravy, bitterly. “I suppose that means that the Salon is not going to happen.”

“You never know, old fruit,” said Halfullion, girting himself with the sword of a fallen orc nearby. He also equipped himself with the unfortunate Enemy’s helm, and looked rather ferocious. Gravy felt a stirring within him. “Look,” said Halfullion. “I’ll go and slice these fellows attacking my pals, and you can hunt around for a decent hiding place and some food. I’ll be home in time for supper. Maybe some pig loins, Gravy. Go hunt some pork!” He winked lasciviously, and his immense charm caused Gravy to faint.

Our Hero galloped madly into the fray, leaving Gravy motionless.

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

“Huzzzah!” cried Halfullion, decimating rank upon rank of his hapless foes. “Nothing can stand before the might of,” - he checked the handle of his borrowed sword for a name - “Stumpy. Eh? Stumpy? Gah. Oh, well. Yes! You cannot stand up to Stumpy the Valiant!”

Indeed, the nettles before him gave way in no short time and he progressed on toward the maelstrom that his vastly overpowered friends were causing. He smelt barbequed orc, and realised the dragon was casually toasting most of the enemies.

Not to be outdone, Halfullion charged at the ranks of the orcs, who were all facing the other way, waiting patiently to be chopped up by Etceteron.

* * * * * * *

Some indeterminate time later, Halfullion had single-handedly defeated at least one rather puny orc who had been looking for his spectacles, and had been rather unfairly ignored by all the others. “Hey! Fight me you fools!” quoth he. But they stayed facing the other way, well knowing his weakness. He could not stab them in the back, having signed the Chivalry Convention of Geneva. He pounded on their backs, but they would not turn.

As morning turned to afternoon, he became rather dispirited. More upsettingly, he sensed his Doom closing upon him, which was dampening his spirits considerably.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Birdland]

The Crebain, after a few close shaves from Wylkynsion, had taken to the surrounding trees, and were peaking furtively through the foliage as the battle continued to drone on below them.

"So, how many of the enemy have fallen?"

"None of them."

"None of them?...Who are those guys?"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel shot arrow after arrow, each released with deadly accuracy, often passing through one orc to pierce a second one. It did not occur to her that her amply-filled quivers should certainly be empty after a time, until she realized that the arrows felt different in texture and form than usual. A glance at Vogonwë, not far away from her, showed her that his arrows too were strangely made, though they flew just as quickly and certainly as ever. Yet there was no time to wonder as long as throngs of orcs poured forth from the fearful fortress.

After a time the enthusiasm of the orc troops had diminished noticeably and their onslaught was more hesitant. Merisuwyniel breathed deeply, her chest heaving in a most spectacular manner. She turned to look at her fellow Elven arrow-slinger and saw that he was staring behind them in bewildered consternation. She swung around in a whirl of flowing hair and divided skirt to gaze into – blackness! Though the daylight had not yet faded in front of them, a dim, dusky darkness had crept up behind them, casting fear into the hearts of the foes and wonderment into those of the Fellow/Galship. Branches were stretched out toward them, as if they were offered to them to be used as arrows.

“Whence cometh this strange wood?” asked the Elven maiden in astonishment.

“I called them!” rang out a voice, clear and proud, though rather wooden. “They are the Thorns, those trees that have reverted to aggressive attacking behaviour. They have come to avenge themselves on the Tree-Slayers and Burners, those run-burra-run, the orcs.

“Well, why are you all staring?” the Entish Bow asked. “Have you forgotten that I too can speak and that this is indeed my quest which you pursue? Did you think that I am merely a common, crude weapon? Do not underestimate the power of the Ents!”

Then their hearts were glad of the unexpected aid and they praised the Bow, saying, “Praise it with great praise!”

Several orcs had taken advantage of the pause in the fighting to approach with as much stealth as was possible, considering the warning effect of their stench. Quickly the company parted and pursued the foes into the trees, and they were never seen again.

Merisuwyniel turned back to face the enemies, looking across the battlefield into a pair of burning eyes that gazed at her. Her breath caught, her heart skipped a beat, then raced in wild elation even while she fitted another of the Thorns’ arrows to the Bow. She shook her golden tresses to dispel her momentary confusion, carefully aiming far to the left of those eyes. So intense had been her concentration during the battle that she had not even been aware of the fact that the Bow too sought its marks away from that familiar face.

Swords flashed, arrows flew, foes fell – the battle continued to rage around her, yet she was aware only of the unruly beating of her heart…

[Rimbaud]

The Orcish Army of Gol Dulldor was becoming just a mite dispirited. Several hundred of their number had died before noon, and although the Itship had stopped for lunch, the slaughter had resumed and the carnage was quite terrible to see. As for the Itship, Merisuwyniel had broken a nail, the dragon was feeling sick, and Etceteron had momentarily fainted after swigging his entire flask in one exuberant gulp. Other than that, and a little weariness in their weapon wielding arms, they were unhurt. They continued to callously destroy the once proud Army of Gol Dulldor.

Halfullion’s fight had improved, by his standards. He had had a jolly good slaughter, and spitted quite a few of the scaly buggers, improving his mood tremendously. However his Doom lay heavily upon him, like a large jellyfish atop his head. As you can imagine, this was quite disconcerting.

He finally caught view of his Valiant Companions, and their new Entish allies. The sight stirred his heart and he attacked with renewed gusto. He thought of Gravy and his future in hairdressing and an amiable grin grew on his face, as he carelessly disembowelled a promising young architect orc named Dennis. He thought of fair Merisuwyniel and a keening grew within his heart and he greatly desired to see her.

He spotted Kuruharan and Vogonwe standing over a figure on the ground and he dashed towards them, slicing his way through like a knife through butter, or more aptly, a fool through orcs. The figure on the ground was Etceteron.

“Halfullion!” cried Kuruharan, selling an unarmed nearby orc a cheap replica sword for a stupendous sum, then chopping his head off anyway. “Good to see you broke free! How tremendously Heroic you are.”

“Heroes are as Heroes do,” said Halfullion, mysteriously. “Is Earnur hurt?”

“Nay,” snorted the Dwarf. “Drunk.”

“Ah.”

They fought back to back for some time as the shadows lengthened.

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

An hour or more later and things took a different turn. A great cry went up. Through the ranks of orcs came a huge, lumbering figure, clearly computer-generated, but no less terrifying because of it.

“They have a cave-troll,” muttered Vogonwe, incorrectly.

Halfullion moved to before the great foe.

“No! It is suicide,” cried Vogonwe, hopelessly.

Suddenly, they were all there, all the Itship in one place. Merisuwyniel’s heart was torn asunder as she saw Gravlox in the distance urging his orcs on, and in the foreground, the manliest man of all men, Halfullion Gormlessar, facing down the gigantic troll-fiend. Etceteron awoke, blearily, and struggled to his feet, his sword sneering at him. Pimpi munched on an in-battle sandwich for inner fortification. Orogarn Two ran around picking off stragglers, somehow predicting with devilish accuracy where they would go.

Halfullion swapped a couple of blows with the great troll, as the battle stalled around them. All eyes were on this confrontation. The Thorns took this opportunity to swallow an extra couple of ranks of orcs, unnoticed. The Forest belched, in a rather unseemly fashion, but this did not deter the grand Gormlessar.

He had lost his helm, and his fabulous hair waved casually in the wind, awing all.

The troll shook himself with a great roar, and streamers of black smoke arose from its armour. The orcs had set it alight as a living weapon. They goaded the troll with pikes, poking the enraged beast towards Halfullion and his silenced companions. The fiery monster loomed above them, twenty feet tall at least.

The dark figure streaming with fire raced towards them. The orcs yelled and shook the ground with their stamping. Then Halfullion raised his whistle and blew. Shrill the challenge rang, and tinny, like the squeaking of several anemic mice out in the great field. For a moment the orcs quailed and held their ears. The troll ceased its advance. The Itship retreated further behind the seemingly fearless Halfullion. Then the sound died as suddenly as a flame blown out by a dark wind, and the enemy advanced again.

“Back!” cried Halfullion to his friends. “Back! This is a foe beyond any of you.” The Dragon had fallen asleep, satiated. “I must hold the entire battlefield.” His logic seemed spurious, but the others, feeling somewhat lethargic after a great deal of chopping and throwing, let it pass. “Back!”

The troll reached the Hero. Halfullion stood directly before it, leaning on the sword in one hand, but his other hand raked his gleaming hair, gold and streaming. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the smoke around it reached out like two vast wings. It raised its huge flaming club and it snapped, crackled and popped, like a well-known cereal, but slightly more terrifying. Fire came from the joints of its armour and it howled. But Halfullion stood firm.

“You cannot pass,” he said. The orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. “I am a Hero of the First Order, wielder of the sword of Some Orc. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, Parody of Fiction. Go back to the Tower! You cannot pass.”

The troll made no answer. The fire upon it seemed to die, but a darkness grew around them as evening fell. It stepped forward slowly before him, and its wings were spread an improbable distance around it; but still Halfullion could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small and altogether alone: blonde and erect, like a firm young sapling before the onset of an axe.

From out of the smoking troll a club came swinging.
Stumpy gleamed dully in answer.
There was a ringing clash and a great thump. The troll fell back and its club flew up in molten fragments. The Hero swayed on his feet, stepped back a pace, and then again stood still.

“You cannot pass!” he said.

With a bound the troll leaped right before him. Its burning armour hissed and cracked.

“He cannot stand alone!” cried Etceteron, waking fully, and ran back towards Halfullion. “Wylkinson!” he shouted. “I am with you, Gormlessar!”

“Grundor!” cried Orogarn Two and leaped after him.

At that moment Halfullion lifted his great fist, and crying aloud he leapt twenty feet high and smote the troll before him. The troll’s helm broke asunder and fell from its head. A blinding sheet of smoke and flame sprang up. The ground cracked beneath them from the force of the blow. Right at the troll’s feet it broke, and a chasm opened, orcs screaming as they fell within to their deaths.

With a terrible cry the troll fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung a scimitar, and the blade cut deep into Halfullion’s torso, casting him clear, upon the ground before his friends and smashing him to his knees. He fell, sore wounded.

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

The orcs howled and the gap in the earth closed, swallowing a great many of them. Yet now they were enraged beyond all fear and charged upon the Itship with utter destruction in mind.

It was every Companion for themselves in the chaos and they were separated anew. Halfullion struggled to his knees, blood pouring from his great Wound. Thoughts flashed through his mind; how he had been a fool, and how he loved Merisuwyniel, and how he could never be whole, and how he would never see her fair face to tell her. They cut him down as he knelt.

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

As night fell, the Companions regrouped, sore grieved at their loss. They fought their way to hold the ground over his body. Etceteron knelt by the great, broken frame of the noblest Hero. He and Orogarn lifted him and moved him back, as the orcs retreated for the night. They carried him to the edge of the Entish Wood. There they laid him down; and now the night drew very close. Etceteron drew his sword Wylkinson, and with it he cut the bloodied armour from Halfullion; but fate was that day more strong, for Halfulllion was not quite dead, and the sword slipped as Etceteron cut the bindings, and Halfullion’s foot was pricked. Then he was aroused into a sudden wakefulness of rage and fear, and seeing one bending over him with naked blade he drew Gurl-Thang with a choking cry, believing that Orcs were come to torment him; and grappling with him in the darkness, he grabbed Wylkinson, and the sword twisted in his hand, and jumped to the hand of Etceteron again, and he slew Halfullion Gormlessar, by the sword’s fell will.

So ended Halfullion Gormlessar and it was upon the stroke of midnight of the first day of battle against the Orcs of Gol Dulldor. Even to this day, in Hero-Training Schools across the land, tales are told of Halfullion, and how it took three deaths to kill him, and how it was his own Companion that dealt death at the last. Fot it was writ in his Hero Contract that he had to die by the hand of a friend. It was that or be untimely ripp’d from somewhere or other, and that sounded nasty in the extreme.

[Diamond18]

As Halfullion Gormlessar passed from the world, time slowed significantly, until it went beyond slo-mo to an actual standstill. In those few momentless moments, a few select things happened. Etceteron, stunned beyond words at the deed which he had just done, stooped motionless over the deceased Hero. He, along with time, was stunned into an impenetrable state of freeze frame, and the thoughts that fled through his head, I cannot here name.

Vogonwë was awed at the vivid mortality before him. Into his cranium there leapt unbidden a string of words, and as time stood still and twiddled its thumbs, he spoke in a low, sonorous, mellifluous, melodious, harmonious, euphonious voice (intoning thusly):

Death of an Half-Elf

His blood ran red—
Carmine and crimson,
Vermeil and vermilion,
He was dead—Halfullion.
Cardinal and currant ran out,
Upon the ground.
Like burgundy claret,
He blood pooled 'round.

I stand in shock,
Upon this rock,
And look upon,
His golden locks,
His hair so blonde,
Feathered across his forehead.

Some moments hence,
He came from thence,
So heroic and quixotic.
And now he lays in a daze,
That is to say death (but poetic).

Ah, Halfullion! You were truly an,
Worthy and most noble companion,
A talented and stylish beautician,
Wielder of a most mightily morphing sword,
Though you were certainly out of your gourd.

Where go you now, thou of split heredity?
For you were an half-elf, like me.
Though I don’t recall you having,
A crisis with your fated identity.

Where ere thy soul doth fled,
Now that thy mortal body be dead,
May thou find a land with many hirsute heads,
All in undying need of styling gel.
Go now, fair soul, and even though,
You yawned at all my poetry,
Be at peace, Lord of Fool Intrepidity!

Vogonwë was so moved at the death of the half-elf, that when he was done with the dirge, he turned with a cry and let fly with a half-dozen arrows at once, taking out his half-elven frustration on a baker’s dozen of Orcs—and the Baker, too.

With a disgruntled sigh, Time awoke from its slumber, and moved on.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron realised the enormity of his deed even as the blow fell, guided with callous efficiency by the ill-will of the sword Wylkynsion, which was of all weapons the most apt to turn a mere close shave into a painfully final cut. He had never liked Lord Gormlessar much, but still he would have liked to spend more time exploring the dead ground (he shuddered, and took a nip of the liquor of Topfloorien) between cordially disliking the man and brutally stabbing him to death.

Wylkynsion itself was unrepentant: Got the fairy! That'll teach 'im ter be an 'airdresser! it announced gleefully, and not for the first time Earnur considered how woefully inappropriate was this choice of weapon for a noble hero. "Shut up, you insensitive bugger!" he hissed, and covered his embarrassment by screaming theatrically and charging a knot of nine Orcs, who had taken advantage of the It-ship's momentary distraction to charge them.

Nine dead orcs later, Earnur was once again in a position to lament the slaying of his comrade. "He was a bit of a pillock," he reflected, "but his death was ignoble, to be so cruelly slain by the hand of a companion."

Less poncy talk, more chopped Orc interrupted a coldly metallic voice, and for once he was in accord. All of this noble musing was all right in sagas, but right here and now, outnumbered by fast-diminishing yet overwhelming odds, his best bet was to kill as many of the enemy as he could to keep them from his companions.

Although he could see that the Orcish hordes appeared unwilling to attack, and their leader's tactics clearly consisted of marching his troops into the two huge ravines that framed the battlefield, some of the mighty Uruks had managed to overcome the demands of advanced theoretical mathematics and harmonic interplay, and were suicidally determined to win their dark master's favour. These intrepid few, numbering some three-hundred heavily-armed (and still more heavily-stomached) Uruks were charging directly at Earnur and his companions, and the Black Sword, forged by the very hand of Eöl himself, thirsted for their bit-part blood. Alone he leaped to their midst, laying about him in all directions, until they bizarrely broke and ran, presumably thinking themselves under attack not by one, but a whole army of alcoholic assailants. A brief respite thus won, an arterially sodden Lord Etceteron and his gloating sword made their way back to their surviving companions, all of whom maintained a respectful distance from the ensanguined warrior and his blood-drenched brand, almost as though they could hear the crazed and exultant chanting of the great sword, which ran through the mind of the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin like an armoured division.

Come on you buggers! I'll kill all o' you! 'Ere you! Wotchoo lookin' at? You want some? Eh? I'll nut you from 'ere ter next bleedin' week! I'll 'ave any ten o' yer! Come get some!

But enemies and friends alike were far enough from the blade to render pursuit hopeless in Earnur's current weakened state. Instead, despite Wylkynsion's dire imprecations, Earnur sank to his knees by the corpse of the mightily manly Lord Halfullion Gormlessar, and moved not for some time.

[Birdland]

"Well, that's one down."

The crebain watch resentfully as the champions kneel around their fallen companion.

"I can't see. Are they eating him?"

"I can't tell. I don't think so. Maybe their waiting for him to rot a bit."

Well, I just hope they leave some for us"

"Why don't you have some Orc."

"Mmmmmmm, nah, I just don't feel like Orc tonight."

"Hey, look, they're picking him up."

"Well, looks like they decided on take-away."

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A thin black smoke trailed out of the cracked earth where the Troll had fallen. Nothing else was to be seen; the vale all around was empty. (Why the orcs, whose biorhythm was normally active at night, had retreated, no one knew.) Grief at last wholly overcame the companions, and they wept long: some standing and silent, some cast upon the ground.

Then they laid their fallen comrade on branches, lashed together with vines, obligingly supplied by the Thorns, as were the torches that surrounded the bier, stout branches which Chrysophylax had lit. The flickering movement of light and shadow gave the Lord’s noble face a deceptive appearance of life, more intelligent and expressive than anyone could remember seeing whilst he yet lived.

Even Kuruharan, who had spent much more time on the battlefield collecting valuables than fighting, was so moved by the Hero’s death that he freely offered those precious relics that he had found: the tin whistle and the great sword, l’En’viey Piennhas. Merisuwyniel gently combed his magnificent hair one last time, then arrayed the cloven tin whistle upon his mighty chest and laid the sword across his lap. It had assumed a magnificent size, as if to honour in death the Lord whose hopes it had too often betrayed in life. Beneath Gormlessar’s feet lay the sword Stumpy and assorted orcish trophies, demonstrating his prowess in battle.

One by one the company dispersed, seeking shelter to get what rest they could for the remainder of the night. Only Merisuwyniel was left, keeping watch over Halfullion’s lifeless body. Her tears and her hair mingled, both flowing freely as she wept for him whom she had once loved. She had felt his thoughts turn to her in the moment of his death, and regretted bitterly that she could not give him back what he had sought for. Now their parting was final, for none of the learned, neither on old thread or new, nor on the New Silmarillion forum, could determine what the fate of the Half-Elven Lord would be.

Softly she began to sing:

Through Rohan forum’s RPGs where the long stories grow
The West Wind comes walking, and about the Inn doth go.
‘What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Gormlessar the Tall by moon or by starlight?’.
‘I saw him ride o’er seven threads, o’er discussions long and fey;
I saw him walk in many posts, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the Books. I saw him then no more.
The Shire his whistle may have heard; knock at the Dragon’s door.’
‘O Gormlessar! From the high threads westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty Mayhem where no deep thoughts are.’

In the realm of the Shire the Green Dragon lies, with many a cheerful guest.
The quaffing there of ale is heard; they come from east and west.
‘What news from the Shire, O drunken wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Gormlessar the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.’
‘Ask not of me where he doth dwell – his Pile o’ Bones there lies;
In Barrow dark he treasure guards that ne’er will see the skies.
So many Wights and Shades have passed that Newly Deceased began;
A Skeleton or Spirit becomes Ghost Prince of Cardolan.’
‘O Gormlessar! Thy existence lies in the Perilous Poet’s hand;
Since he has now disposed of thee, in thy grave thou must land.’

At the Gate of Gondor the Seventh Star stands; the Innkeeper there doth dwell.
And from Ecthelion’s Tower there doth ring a warning bell:
‘Take heed, o ye who here would write, for standards ye must hold
That merit highest quality, like Gormlessar the Bold.’
‘At Gol Dulldor I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven whistle, his magic sword in olden times were wrought.
His hair so proud, his face so fair, his limbs we lay to rest;
His comrades mourn the death of one who was the very best.’
‘O Gormlessar! Thy Doom was hard, thy Fate a Hero to be,
And nevermore thy sword shall cut the coiffures flowing free.’

[The Barrow-Wight]

A single tear rolled down the rugged cheek of the oldest son of Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor, and his massive mane of glitter-rock hair hung lifelessly about his wide shoulders. The loss of one so great as Gormlessar was devastating, even if he had been totally irritating, completely idiotic, and an undeniably terrible punster. Orogarn Two was visible shaken by the death of Halfullion, so much so that he broke into uncharacteristic verse.

The lovely elf maiden kept making you wait
Lying in love with those she should hate
A terrible victim of short-sworded fate
You knew you would be the one
Only the good die young.

They gave you an ego and sent you away
They gave you a bouffant that stayed fresh all day
But they never told you the price you would pay
For the perms that you might have done
Only the good die young.

You fell in with a dangerous crowd
Some were quite pretty, others quite loud
But you were completely and utterly proud
By vanity you were undone
Only the good die young.
That’s what I said.
Only the good die young.

You got a nice white horse and a party on your coronation
You got a sword that morphs
Made by the seven dwarfs
But Halfullion they didn’t give you quite enough appreciation
Didn’t care about your salon dreams
Or your patent on relaxing creams

You should have laughed with the barbers
than died with the heroes
the barbers are much more fun
Only the good die young.

His song ended and Orogarn Two decided the time for mourning was through. It was now time for revenge. He shifted his blue jeans to relieve an annoying chafing sensation that had been bothering him for hours.

“Witness the true power of the crystal,” he said, striding forward wielding his long sword like the whirling blade of a fan. His left hand grasped the stone at his neck and he shouted to his enemies, “Go into the light!”

At first, the creatures facing the lord of Minus Teeth milled about, clearly unsure of his intentions, but soon his spinning sword began to glow as brightly as the midday sun. Slowly, but ever-quickening, the orcs started to line up in orderly rows. Ranks of mesmerized monsters stood staring at the flashing blade in Orogarn Two’s hand.

With a word of command from the hypnotic Grundorian, they marched forward into the metal maelstrom.

[Diamond18]

Pimpi watched the Orcs hit the fan-blade with a sweet and innocent expression of delight. Never did revenge seem so sweet, as splashing hot water with my feet, she mused, thinking contentedly how nice and tidy this passive, once-removed method of revenging her parents was. All the elven and half-elven and not-elven heroes of her company had made for quite a good show, and she was mightily impressed by them all. Even Etceteron’s manfully accidental dispatching of Halfullion had secretly thrilled her.

As she was digging through her pack for an apple or some other delicious oddment, she was startled by an irate voice in her ear. She looked up and saw a little Orc standing before her, its face livid with outrage. Nervously she glanced toward her companions, and saw that Orogarn Two was still quite busy, and all the rest were watching him in awe. That is, save for Etceteron, who was passed out on the ground, clutching the hilt of Wylkynsion, whose blade was pointed in the direction of her and her dagger with a cretinous leer gleaming along its bloody edge. She turned her attention back to the Orc.

“Traitor!” it cried, “foul, stupid, greedy lout! You have taken what could have been a grand and glorious epic, and instead you have churned out a vile, ugly, stupid, monstrous thing! How dare you!”

She blinked.

It continued; “The depth, the beauty, the subtlety, all gone! How long since greed and delusions of self-aggrandizement bought you and your so-called Itship? What was the promised price? Money? Accolades? Fame? Thieves, dirty nasty little thieves! You have taken what was not yours, and butchered it! We hates you, we hates you forever!”

Pimpi wanted to call out to her friends for help, but unfortunately she had been munching on her apple and her mouth was full. All she got out was a muffled, “Vooowy, Owwaaano, Meeewuuuu!” But still the little Orc continued, its eyes flashing with uncontrollable rage.

“You are a filthy, low-brow excuse for a half-hobbit, and I spit on you! Ptttoie! You have ruined, utterly and irreversibly ruined, a perfectly good Quest! Arrogant, stupid, pitiless fools! The only thing that you have done on this Quest which showed any magic or wonder, was when you were shamelessly plagiarizing heroic Questers and talented writers that have gone before!”

“I…it…it was just an interpretation,” Pimpi stammered.

The Orc snorted. “What’s written in your copy of Questing for Idiots? You have a seriously flawed brain, young half-halfing. For instance, why isn’t your pendant whinnying right now? Hmm? Whatever happened to consistency? There are Orcs all around, this RPG is just crawling with ‘em, and you with your magical shrunken horsehead pendant that was supposed to be soooo wonderful for detecting Orcs, hasn’t done a bloody thing!”

“You’re really quite rude,” Pimpi observed.

“And proud of it,” the non-gender-specific Orc declared. “Anyway, I have with me here a petition signed by the Most Noble and Self-Righteous Order of the Nightly Reflector, which gives me leave to kill each and every member of this Bow-brained Itship. And, being that I am noble and courageous, unlike some people I’ve heard of, I am going to kill you first.”

“How is that noble and courageous?” Pimpi wondered. “I’m the smallest and most appealingly helpless member of this group. In fact, sometimes I think I’m just along to be cute and hungry and utterly appealing to wood-elves, for of course my binges do no detriment to my trim and girlish figure.”

“Silence, fool, and meet thy death,” the Orc quoth clumsily. “You are an attrocious character and a despicable insult to a wonderful species. Now, DIE DIE DIE!”

It rushed at her with its claws clenching and unclenching like a lobster, presumably aiming to tear out her throat. Pimpi’s lustrous blue eyes widened, and the camera zoomed in on them as an orchestral swell came from nowhere and swelled to an immense size. In fact, it overtook the sentence and set its sites on devouring the paragraph and the post, but luckily Pimpi leapt to action, unlike some other big blue-eyed short persons I’ve heard of… Before the outraged Orc knew what had hit it, she tentatively drew her jewel-encrusted dagger with the lovely curving blade, and jabbed delicately in the direction of her annoying foe.

By pure luck (good for Pimpi and bad for the Orc) the dagger aimed well and true, though Pimpi wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular. The blade with it’s sensual curves plunged deep into the mouth of the Orc, doing seriously detrimental damage to its throat, vocal chords, and artery. It gurgled unappealingly, and sank to the ground. Pimpi pulled the dagger out as black blood spurted in many different directions, none of which inclined them to besmirch her or her frock. She watched the dead Orc quiver at her feet for a few moments. She became vaguely aware of some metallic noises in her subconscious, as if she only needed to tune her mind to the right magical wavelength to form them into words. But this interested her little, so she cleaned her blade on the grass and settled back down to finish her apple.

Just before sheathing her dagger, an idea occurred to her, and she declared to no one in particular that she could see, “I will give you a name, and I shall call you Thing.” But then, she thought better of it, and amended, “No, I know; I shall call you Hush.”

[Mithadan]

After giving his orders which had sent hundreds of Orcs toppling into the chasms, Gravlox had climbed up a spur of the mountain on which the citadel had been built until he reached the defensive works overlooking the gate. There, he quickly took stock of his options. Pile of boulders ready to be toppled down onto the unfortunates below, check. Cauldron of oil, unfortunately left unlit, check. Racks of spears ready to be thrown, check.

He began with the oil. Using his tinderbox, he lit the wood piled beneath the cauldron and left it to simmer. Then, he proceeded to the rockfall. Waiting for a large knot of Orcs to congregate by the water cooler below, he pulled the lever and was rewarded by a series of most gratifying squishing sounds.

He returned to the cauldron and found it to be heating up nicely, but not quite ready yet. So, he amused himself by chucking spear after spear at random targets below. He had lost count after about thirty, when the spears ran out. Back to the cauldron again. By now, the oil was bubbling in a most satisfying fashion. He sent the cauldron and its contents tumbling down onto a platoon of Uruks who had retreated before the wrath of Etceteron.

Gravlox rubbed his hands together with delight. He had not had so much fun in years. His reverie was interrupted by a shout from above. Looking up, he saw Sourone leaning out of a window and waving at him. "Gravlox! What are you doing? Get down there and fight!" He waved back to the Dark Lord. "Right away, sir!" he shouted in reply.

He raced down the side of the mountain, causing a minor avalanche to fall upon a group of small Orcs who had been hiding behind a shrubbery. Then he leaped back upon Shagoff and headed for a troop of Orcs who were marching out to attack the Itship. Pulling up beside them, he began to chant, "Your left, your left, your left." This caused them to march in circles until they collapsed from dizziness.

A cry came from above. It was Hazel. "I saw that Gravlox! Boy are you in trouble!" He waved at his ex-spouse, then, giggling uncontrollably, he rode off towards the west, where he settled in by a pool of mud to watch the end of the battle...

[Bêthberry]

It was the morning of the day of the afternoon of the third night of the extraordinarily tumultuous and awesomely awesome battle of Gol Dulldor, but the orcs kept a-comin', although there weren't quite as many as there were a day ago. Indeed, the members of the Itship had been called back into the breech of the battle and in so doing had breeched the very bonds of bosom buddyship.

Lo, their boon companion was laid alone. Most true it was that Gormlessar's barrow had become a fine and private place wherein none did there embrace. Meanwhile the members fought for, what was it now? The destruction of mass means of destruction? The eradication of biochemical agents of eradication? Coffee? Oil? Did they remember now in the mass hysteria of frenzied battle and PR doublespeak the gentle entish nature of the Bow? Shall we now devise an apostrophe to the truly appalling onslaught of testy testosterone as the war drums beat? No, we shall not. We shall proceed with the passing of O Lando from the scene.

It appeared the gosh-darn-it-great Gormlessar, in death as well as in life, had imitated the art of all those hip, cool Beautiful People. He had lived fast, died young, and so far left a beautiful corpse. But his too, too solid flesh was melting and shortly his charm would be oozing from every pore. The waxy pallor of death was succumbing to a blackened bruising, a reverse Gothic if you will. Indeed, it could even be said that flies, maggots and any number of two-winged insects of the order Diptera were buzzing around him and he probably would have heard them when he died had the uproar of the battle not been so uproarious. Yet his corpse was spared the greater indignity of infestation by the furtive attendance of one whose great sobbing sobs sopped up the buzzing like stale, day old bread dipped into any mess of potage.

Yes, Gravy, faithful, ugly, bepimpled Gravy, was the sole companion to brave the stench and odoriferous odours of the rotter. He had crept forward from the underbush where Gormlessar had sent him hunting porc, a cry forming on his lips, "Flies, where are thy sting? A short swat passed and thou shalt be no more; thou shalt die." It was testament to his orcish love for Gormlessar and their great plans for the swishy salons that he had brought forth such resplendent verse, for he had not donne well in school, taking neither his O nor his A levels and thinking that SAT was a preferred position for eating.

"You've ungently stolen from our accord, Halfie my lord. Is it excepted I should know no secrets that pertains to you or our plans? Dwell I now in the suburbs of your good pleasure? Can I no longer keep you in good colour and highlight but your dark roots now come forth? Tell me your counsels!"

Suddenly, ere Gravy could quite understand from whence came the voice, for it seemed not something of this Muddled Berth, he heard again the dulcet tones of the last best manly man.

"Gravy, thy bosom shall partake the secrets of my heart. All my mullets I leave to thee, but seek ye out O Lando, for with his braid and my mullets there lies a fortune in Hairdressing Haven."

Gravy was quite come over, for it seemed a message from beyond the grave and as he looked up a radiance shone in his face and lo! he was born again into his original elvish nature and all the trappings and accoutrements of his orcish hideousness fell off him. Let it be said quite bluntly that he was not blinded. This is not an allegory. Nor are we still in Damascus, Toto.

At this point in our story O Lando raced to the scene, well, not really raced, for he skateboarded into the barrow, nearly upsetting the careful repose of the corpse, whose arms and legs had to be reposed.

"Hark! What angel here lurks," cried O Lando.

"Not you too! You're as bad as Halfullion was about my name. I'm Gravy."

"Well, never mind. We'll find you a right elvish name. I dub thee Gravielion."

"And who are you?"

"Lando."

"Lando Calrissian?"

"Wrong story. You've been listening to too many film fans. Behold I am O Lando Bloom, some sort of NoName prince of the Workmud. But haste! I come to pay my last respects," intoned O Lando. With that he bowed his head, took from Gormlessar's corpse the splendid tool Gurl-Thang, cut off his braid, and laid it across the manly chest.

"Look there," said Gravielion. "There lies the unkindest cut of all."

"Etceteron's death thrust?"

"No, your braid. Now you must grow in another before I can use you to model the Halfullion hair cutting methods."

At this point they who kept the watch that ends the knight heard yells and screams and saw a flood of burning, boiling oil spread down from the castle walls. It advanced, they retreated, and the bier and corpse of the most splendidly splendid hero became immersed in the burning liquid. The flames leapt high, higher, into the blackened sky and there were flashes of great light, giant sparks arcing into the sky, almost as if some wizard had unleased thunderbolts of fireworks. As the once resplendent corpse of Gormlessar was consumed by the flames, our two elves could have sworn they saw rebel fighters flying overhead, but then they caught themselves and remembered that that had been a cremation in a galaxy far, far away. Surely our manfully man hero, much as he had tottered on the rim, had never really passed over to the Dark Side. And as the embers died down, they slunk off into the bushes, determined that Halfullion's dream of a chain of salons would be stayin' alive. And they were never again seen by the mortal eyes of the Itship.

[ March 04, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Birdland]

"Oooooh! Deep fried Hero! My favorite!"

"But they forgot to bread him."

"It's fondue, ya nit. You don't use breading with fondue!"

"Well, no. But you do use bread."

Only with the cheese sauce, and ol' Gravlox forgot to light the cauldron of molten cheese."

Pity, that. I would have fancied a bit of Hero in cheese sauce. Gravlox never was much for hosting though. Usually left those things to Gravy."

"Uh-oh. He's burning".

"Well, somebody stick a fork in him, He's done!"

Fortunately, the body of Halfullion was completely consumed by his poly-unsaturate, hydrogenated bier, passing beyond the level of crebain canape' and into the realm of fertilizer. His oily ashes returned to the soil of Middle-earth, and forever after the safflower bloomed where he lay.

As for his warrior fea? Well, your guess is as good as Tolkien's.

[ March 05, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Lord Sourone, seeing that the captain of his troops had gone mad, as he assumed, resolved to lead the onslaught of the orcs himself. He came down, terrible to behold with his bifocals gleaming, and the tower trembled with his steps. The fact that this was caused by poor-quality construction rather than the might of his feet did little to mar the effect.

He swing his mighty black mace, but since he had not yet located the enemies, the only ones who fell were his own orcs. Enraged and frustrated, his eyes searched for someone upon whom he could release his wrath. There he saw Gravlox, seated on his Warg as a spectator on the sidelines, watching the battle with an amused grin.

“U!” he spat disdainfully, falling back into Black Speech in his rage. “I c u r 2 la-z 2 fite! Wot fav x-cuse were u going to give me l8er? Do u think u can fool ppl with ur stoopid grin?”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Merisuwyniel’s eyes stung from weeping, from the dust of battle, from the smoke that arose upon the burning of Halfullion’s body. She had remained in the background of the battlefield, since the Bow was of no use in hand-to-hand combat, and she would have been ashamed to draw her small generic dagger, which had no name, no lineage, no history, not even the slightest of magical properties.

She blinked as a ray of sunlight shone into her eyes. It illuminated the clearing ahead of her, and there she gazed upon a terrifying sight. A menacing figure approached, threatening one who sat upright upon his mighty beast of burden. She saw the shadow of the black mace swinging, and with sudden clarity realized who it was that was in such grave mortal danger.

From above came a cackle of maniacal laughter. “Go get ‘im!” rung a harsh female voice from the ramparts of the tower. Both Gravlox and Sourone looked up, distracted momentarily.

Instinctively, Merisuwyniel fitted a Thorn arrow to her Entish Bow. Sourone’s head spun around as he heard a clear voice calling, “Begone, foul limerick, lord of pulp poetry! Leave the noble in peace!”

His cold voice answered: “Come not between the Evil Lord and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the concerts of orcish pop singers, beyond all torment, where thine ears shall be exposed to maximum volume, and thy shrivelled mind be left witless to Britney’s lyrics.”

The Bow sang as she drew it taut, aiming carefully for the left eyeglass. “Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.”

“Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!”

Then Gravlox heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that the Bow laughed, and the sound was like a knock on wood. “But no living man am I! You look upon the Ent that was Broken, wielded by a female, and an Elf at that! You stand between me and my kin, the wooden foot. You are the one to blame for the misery of our separation, and you shall pay for it in this hour.”

Lord Sourone made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt. The light now fell on Merisuwyniel, and her golden hair gleamed brightly. Then the arrow flew, whistling a happy tune as it raced toward the Dark Lord, shattering his left eyeglass and piercing his eye. With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like a Black Metal song he let fall his mace and dropped to his knees. The last thing he heard was the swish of the mighty Zig-Zag sword, which now showed its true enchanted heritage, severing his head from his shoulders. As it spun around, the opened eyes saw Gravlox and Merisuwyniel clasping their now weaponless hands, gazing at each other in triumph and joy.

Then the very foundations of the earth seemed to shake, the leaning tower lurched dangerously, swayed, tottered, and fell down. Amidst the sound of rocks tumbling, roaring ruinously, crushing all who stood beneath the walls, they heard a screech, then all was still. A shining object rolled away from the wreckage, undamaged. Gravlox hurried to pick it up and bring it to Merisuwyniel; they gazed at it, golden and black hair mingling in the breeze.

Suddenly a voice came from the Golden Globe, saying, “This Oscar is not for you, for the Academy does not take fantasy seriously!” Shocked and puzzled by the sound of a voice that seemed vaguely familiar, as if heard before in dreams, the Elven shieldmaiden turned to the Orc captain and asked, “What was that?” The voice then spoke again, with changed tone, “Oh, you have captured her? Excellent! Now bring her to me! I await you ASAP!”

Gravlox wrapped the globe in his cloak and answered, “’Tis a new-fangled invention, called a Cell-antír. It is used to communicate over great distances. Alas, now I perceive that there is a greater might than Sourone who used him for his purposes. We must seek and destroy that power, or it shall devour us. Will you dare to brave that foe with me?”

“I will!” she answered gladly. “But first we must escape this chaos, together with my comrades.”

They heard a voice calling, “The Dragon is coming! The Dragon is coming!”

Chrysophylax swooped down beside them, pausing only long enough for them to scramble onto his back before taking to the sky again. One companion after another was found and joined them, until all were reunited. Though they were astonished to see an Orc in their midst, they asked no questions, seeing that he was giving Chrysophylax directions. The dragon flew swiftly to the Great River. Landing on the far side, they finally reached safety and respite.

[Birdland]

"Our tower! Our lovely, dung-encrusted home! It's gone!"

"Well, it's not as if it was a total surprise, is it? Been expecting it to collapse for years now. That's why they canceled our policy."

"But where will we go? What will we do?"

"I don't know about the rest of you, but as for me, I'm off to the Food Courts of Topfloorien."

"What's that?"

"Crebain heaven, that's what, m'lads! My second cousin, once removed on me mother's side, moved there a few years back. He says all the crebain just strut around on the ground all day long, and the Elves throw food at them. Perfectly good food, all day long. You don't have to lift a wing."

"But why would they do that?"

"Well, if they thought we were crebain, they wouldn't. That's why we have to speak another, secret language when we're in the Food Courts of Topfloorien."

"Teach us! Teach us!"

"Alright then. Now listen carefully, and repeat after me: Coooooo! Coooooo!"

"caaaaawwwww! caaaaawwwww!"

"Nah! That's not it! It comes from the belly, not the throat. Let's try again: Cooooooo! Cooooooo!"

"Caw-ooooo! Caw-oooooo!

"Oooooh! Close, very close. Let's try it again..."

[ March 05, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Diamond18]

“Well, here we are, folks,” announced Chrysophylax, alighting upon the ground. He extended his strong scaly wings like ramps, and allowed the menagerie of creatures to descend down from his back like a collection of circus clowns exiting an extremely small car. "What a hideously bad duo of analogies," he mused.

The Itship, exhausted from the excitement, duress, and general overall unrest of the battle, fell upon the bank and lay there like dirty laundry tossed aside carelessly after a hard day of sweaty exercise. Pimpi was the first to pop up, rejuvenated by a patch of mushrooms she had fortuitously landed on.

She glanced around and noticed two things, which she addressed in order of perceived importance. “Where, oh where has O Lando gone?” she wondered.

“I spied him leaving in the company of another Elf,” Vogonwë informed her. “I suspect that, his task of leading us to Gol Dulldor finished, he returned to his home. O Lando was never much for traveling far.”

Pimpi sighed at this news. “Do you suppose we’ll ever see him again?”

Vogonwë shrugged. “Not if I’m lucky.”

This matter resolved, Pimpi turned and fixed her blue eyes which I am running out of similes and adjectives for, on the becarbuncled Orc next to Merisuwyniel. “Who in the name of crumb cakes and tea leaves is that?” she exclaimed.

“I’m not sure how to explain,” replied Merisuwyniel as the curious eyes of the Itship turned to her for an answer. Gravlox, had he been a lesser Uruk, might have felt a good deal of trepidation, surrounded as he was by two overzealous warrior-types, one axe wielding Dwarf with an eye for exploitation, a big fat fire breathing Dragon, an innocuous but annoying Elf, an impertinent little Hobbit-like creature, and four sets of horse hooves. But, being the intrepid Uruk he was, he was simply thoughtful, trying to determine if he had left anyone out of his observations.

Merisuwyniel, meanwhile, was doing a goodly amount of quick-thinking. “This,” she finally fibbed fetchingly, “is a secret agent, who has been stationed at Gol Dulldor for…a while. He specializes in Orcish infiltration, espionage, intrigue, and…the like. He has come to us with high recommendations from…um…Saladriel’s Salad Bowl, and he’s going to lead us to our next destination.” She smiled nervously, hoping that the others would not call her bluff and rise up in anger at the uncharacteristic deceitfulness employed so conveniently.

“Then that hideous mien is merely a disguise?” Kuruharan asked, calculating the selling potential for such convincing stage make-up and latex attachments.

“No, haven’t you ever heard of redemption?” Merisuwyniel answered. “Orcs can be good people, too.”

“And he is to be our guide?” Orogarn Two said dubiously.

“Yes, I will guide you to the stronghold of Minor Moreghoul,” declared Gravlox, “for I have been there before, and escaped through sheer cunning and cleverness.”

“Escaped, or set loose?” Etceteron speculated, arching his eyebrows manfully (though sadly falling short of the sheer awesomeness of Roneld’s brows).

“Eru, this conversation is so insipid,” Vogonwë interrupted. “Wouldn’t you rather listen to me recite Fit the Fourth? There is much to cover, as so very much happened since Fit the Third.”

“Do not stray from the topic at hand,” Orogarn Two said sternly, flexing his muscles.

“Have I seen you before?” Pimpi blurted suddenly. “For, as we have stood here engaged in this tedious discourse, I have been having some seriously nauseating déjà vu… But… I can’t quite place it…”

“All Orcs look the same,” Etceteron said helpfully. “If you’ve killed one, you’ve killed them all.” He paused and amended, “I mean…seen one, seen them all…of course.”

“You must be thinking of my evil twin, Clive,” Gravlox said with an innocent smile, which was quite a feat for an Orc.

Pimpi narrowed her stupendously dreamy azure eyes and mused, “Perhaps…and I know this is a strange request, but perhaps if your Orc friend were to stand in front of a swirling vortex of blood, I could—wait! Lopitoff is trying to tell me something…”

“Timmy fell down the well?” Vogonwë speculated sarcastically.

“No… It’s a code of some sort… “B-E-S-U-R-E-T-O…. Be sure to… Be sure to what? D-R-I-N-K-Y-O-U-R-O-V-A-T-I-N-E… Be sure to drink your Ovaltine?” Pimpi wrinkled her brow at the cryptic message her disembodied jewelry was sending her.

“False alarm,” Vogonwë said cheerfully. “Now, for the Fit—”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Merisu,” Pimpi persisted, “for you are like a sister to me and generally any friend of yours is a friend of mine. But I must say, your Orc-spy looks foul, and feels familiar. I—”

“Oh, look,” said Gravlox, “I have some Doritos in my pack, does anyone want some?”

“Me,” Pimpi said, snatching the Orcish-waybread from his hand. “I love trying out new and different ethnic foods.” And then she promptly fell to busily crunching away at the MSG laden snack. She found it good, and the suspicious Orc rose in her esteem for the time being, because though knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss, especially when said blissful ignoramus is well-fed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, Fit the Fourth will be forthcoming.

[ March 10, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Very Secret Diary of Falafel

Quest Day 52:
Finally - battle rages at the fortress of Gol Dulldor, after it took our company so long to get there. It’s good to see some action; the other equines and I are kicking orc rearsides and loving it. My mistress wields her bow with her usual skill and even the otherwise bumbling heroes are doing great deeds in the fray. That’s not as difficult as it could be, says Tofu, since the leader of the Orcs is using rather unorthodox battle techniques. Well, I know what I know, but I’m not going to let on more than necessary. That particular Orc won’t be hurting my mistress if he can help it!

Day 53:
Fighting continues – where do all those Orcs come from? You never see any females; I wonder if they clone them? They do hold back more noticeably now. Tofu, Pasdedeux, Baklava and I have moved to the edge of the battlefield; the enemies are no danger to us, but we can never be sure when Chrysophylax will get hungry and barbeque some more of them. He doesn’t always aim too carefully. I must say, I’d rather keep a safe distance from those strange, wild trees too – trees that can walk and eat Orcs just aren’t normal!

Day 54:
We are all shattered – Halfullion died last night at midnight! After being overjoyed to see him freed from captivity and fighting valiantly, to see him so cruelly hewn down in the flower of his youth was devastating, especially for Tofu. Granted, he had to go through a lot of effort to make his half-witted half-Elf master look good (for some reason, I keep wanting to call Tofu Jeeves!), but still, they were close after so many adventures together. More fierce fighting by all.

Day 55:
What a day! It’s a good thing we kept away from the tower, what with all that hot oil and poor construction. I was close enough to see my mistress and that Orc captain defeat the great foe – I’m so proud of her! When I saw that Chrysophylax flew in to rescue her and the others, I rounded up the other equine colleagues and we ran for the River at top speed. But how to get across? The dragon came back to get us and quite frankly, I’d almost rather have stayed on that shore. I closed my eyes the whole time we flew over the water, and I sincerely hope I never have to experience a ride like that again! If horses had been meant to fly, they would have been given wings. I could have bitten that half-halfling Pimpiowyn when she asked, “Why can’t we just ride the dragon to our goal instead of taking the long hard way?”

Day 56:
Here we are, heading down the river on a raft again, only this time, we are actually getting somewhere. I do hope that there are no more river pirates around. It’s rather nice to have some relaxing time together with the rest of the group. Not exactly a luxury cruise, but not bad nonetheless. Just looking at Merisuwyniel is a pleasure; she is so obviously happy, though she tries very hard not to show it.

Day 57:
Pasdedeux and Baklava are getting on my nerves, flirting with each other all day. I probably wouldn’t mind so much if I could get Tofu’s attention, but he’s still pining for his master. What’s a war horse to do without a Hero? I tried to comfort him, but he seems to have lost his purpose in life. I wonder what will happen to him.

Day 58:
This trip is sooo boring! Day after day the shoreline passes by, and it’s certainly not interesting enough to keep my attention. No castle ruins high above the river, no picturesque vineyards; this cruise is never going to make the list of must-do sightseeing. Instead there were rapids to make things really uncomfortable. I admit to my shame that I became very seasick, and I wasn’t the only one. We were all glad when we left that stretch of the river behind us.

Day 59:
Finally the local tourist attractions have showed up! We passed between two huge figures flanking the river, and Orogarn Two told us that they are called the Astronauts. Apparently legend says that they came here from a far away planet long ago, bringing their advanced civilization to Muddled Berth. Quite impressive! Later we saw some imposing mountains, called Toll Brandy, Ambush Liquor, and Ambush Eggnog. Or at least that’s what Etceteron called them. The roaring sound we hear now is that of the Falls ahead of us. We will have to go around them, and I’m glad of it. I don’t know if I can even use my four legs anymore, but I hope I never have to get on one of those rafts again.

Day 60:
We have arrived at Park Galore, which is some kind of national park, I guess. It’s pleasant enough, and I’m happy to be able to run around, as are the others. The grass is lovely, although the humans, Elves and whatever hybrids they are think it necessary to make a fire and cook a meal. Oh well, to each his own! Now for a little nap in peace and quiet before someone finds me here…

[The Barrow-Wight]

“As a representative of the Porcelain Throne of Grundor and the oldest and most agile son of Ororgarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, etc. etc…”

“What. Ho?”

“Etcetera, not Etecteron. my good Earnur. Ahem. As I was saying, being what I am, that makes me an official Park Ranger. Welcome to Park Galore.”

“I thought you said your father was Denimthor,” said the ever vigilant Chrysophylax.

“Yes, indeed. You heard me correctly, dragon. Orogarn One is my father's name and rightly reflects his noble lineage, but his official title is Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor. The title comes, of course, from his position as honorary chairman of the Levite Clothiers Society. Their fantastically woven clothing, of which my breeches are but a tight and attractive example, are the linchpin of the wealth of Grundor.”

Smiling broadly, he dug into his backpack and produced several colorfully printed brochures, which he handed out to everyone.

“The Park is a wonderful place. As you’ll notice on the map on page three...”

Pages rustled as everyone turned to the appropriate section.

“… we are now standing at the main entrance of the great and very renowned Grundorian amusement park known throughout Muddled Berth as Park Galore. Sadly, the establishment has been closed for several centuries for maintenance, but we are hoping to open it again as soon as the upcoming unpleasantness with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is over.”

He pointed southward to where the lake disappeared in a cloudy of misty, foggy, cloudy steam.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed the thunderous tumult of the thrilling Wetwang Water Plunge, the only ride still functioning in the park until recently, when, most unfortunately, our last elven pontoon was stolen. We’ve tried it with other less-flimsy watercraft, but the ride has proven less than safe since their introduction. I don’t recommend anyone buy a ticket. If you’ll turn to page five, please.”

Again the adventures went to the correct page.

“Since all of the rides are either utterly treacherous or completely out of order, I recommend visitors concentrate instead on the wondrous and historical Big Heads of Grundor. Yes, you heard what I said! Right here in these very woods are the stupendously large stone busts of each and every one of my most esteemed ancestors, plus a few of people we have no clue to the identity of. Starting with my great grandfather Orogarn Jr and working al the way back to the great Kitzeldoor the Astronaut, you will find a big ole hunk o rock carved to look just like their Noodleorean noggins.”

“I see one now,” shouted Pimpiowyn excitedly, pointing to the edge of the forest where a dark, stony mound protruded from the earth. “It looks just like you, Orogarn Two!”

“That’s just a boulder,” said the Grundorian. “The Big Heads are works of art designed to maintain the stately visage of their subjects for countless centuries.”

Vogonwe moved closer to the object and looked back, commenting, “It really does remind me of you. The pointy chin and sunken eyes are unmistakable.”

“How can a normal, dirty boulder look anything like me?” asked Orogarn Two. “And I have neither a pointy chin nor sunken eyes.”

“Have you seen yourself lately?” asked Kuruharan, searching in his bags for a mirror.

“I’ll never understand you people!” shouted Orogarn Two. “Here I am, giving you a free tour of the premier entertainment attraction in the Eminem Mule, and you are likening me to a cracked hunk of rock sticking out of a hillside. What do I have to do to get some respect?”

“Do you have any food,” asked Pimpi, hopefully.

“A drink, perhaps?” suggested Lord Etceteron.

“Something better than a lame ripoff of a classic Billy Joel song,” muttered Vogonwe.

“The secret to your big, big hair,” Gravy would have lisped if he was still there and The Barrow-Wight hadn’t missed that he had been written out of the story.

“Obsequious attention to my charm,” purred Merisuwyniel.

“A bite to eat,” hoped Pimpi, again.

“End this post,” demanded an annoyed reader.

[Bêthberry]

Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail

Somewhere not in a galaxy far, far away there was a deep, deep valley, overhung with a deep, deep gulf of shadow and despair, and all was dark and dreadful about it, in the most dreadfully dread way. And in this dark and dreadful shadow there rose a mighty fortress of rock and castellated gothic windows, corridors gloomy and cobwebbed, rooms ghosted and cursed, and towers windy and tall. It was lit not with imprisoned moonlight, but with a wavering phosphorescence, a florescence of crepuscular light, an ignuus fatuus if ever there were one. Its name was Minus Moreghoul and its Mistress was yet another who plotted all manner of vile and loathsome deeds of the vilest, wicked sort. Some of them really quite terrible too.

She was one who might once have had everything She could desire in the world, but certainly She no longer had it now and had been so long a boon companion of sadness that She had come to make a very obsession of it, watering her days and nights and evenings and morns and let us not forget the noon times also with tears and sorrows until her very soul had become a rotting bog of despair and most of her gowns o'ergrown with mold and mildew. And coming to enjoy this very despair and dread She naturally determined to share her desolation with others, She who had made a rash challenge and lived everyday to regret it. And so it was that She had first sundered the ent and spread its entience far and wide. She before whom time seemed to slow its pace, so that between the raising of a foot and the setting of it down minutes of loathing passed. (In short, She stopped clocks.) Yes, her name was She and She had not been amused when that fell fool Sourone had fallen. "Never send a wet to do a woman's job," she had sighed, and went about preparing a pretty darn big, foolproof assault of prudent propaganda and pugnacious pugilism upon the pusillanimous-not! Itship. This time She was bound there would be no mistakes. Well, not really bound. But you know what I mean.

* * * * * * * *

The day arriving finally when there could be no more backroom negotiations concerning disarming resolutions, She prepared to meet the press and her troups. Her maids, Mildew and Melancolia, arrived to array her in the worst manner of dress possible. Her corset was strung with not a little effort, her gown of gaudy black sequins taken out of mothballs, and her favourite houseslippers replaced with the iconic stiletto-heeled shoes. Let it not be said that she wore army boots although she led an army. Miss Carver the cosmetician coloured and rouged and buffed and toned her until she looked positively unnatural and the piteous wails and cries of resounding unhappiness of the worst hair day imaginable were silenced by the heroic ministrations of her stylist Miss Fingers.

And She was as beautiful and terrible as the daily thunderstorm, as fair as the thunderous falls of Niagara, which were yet to be discovered, as dreadful as forked lightning, stronger than seismic movements of tectonic plates. Faster than a speeding bullet, too. She was beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful.

Then She looked deep into the Cell-antir, which too had been brought under her thumb, and asked, "Who is the fairest of them all?" And it replied, "All shall love you and despair."

"I pass the test," said She. "I will exalt and see to my unilateral actions to disarm the Itship." So saying, She tripped over her pet, Thing, the horrible hand of harm who haunted the halls of Minus Moreghoul. "Out damned Hand," She cried and decided on the spot that its doom was to be the mascot for the MoreScenario troups.

*********
Cauldrons burned and cauldrons bubbled in the cavernous kitchens of the castle keep. She's chef, Hannibal, and her sous-chef, Fester, were in a pickle procuring and preparing the particular provisions for the political onslaught. Ragout of truth--always the first casualty of war--spiced with travesty, a fricassee of honesty, accompanied by a syllabub of self-fulfilling prophecy, and a cheesecake of dreadful prose, served with a soupçon of insanity, provided the main programme of provocation. She was pleased, whereupon Friday, the butler who kept the castle untidy, called her away for the photo op.

*********

With a very sigh, She strode into the Glass Room where so many treaties to end all treaties had been signed. There She met the MoreScenarios from Far Harried. She had gathered and trained as great a group of them as could ever be found beyond the reaches of Grundor. They were assembled, dissembling at the sight of her, resembling not swarthy pirates of a sub-saharan desert, for that would be racist, which becomes not this tale. Serfthrongs moving endlessly and restlessly: swordsmen, spearmen, bowmen, horsemen, chariot-riders and oarsmen, men not accustomed to doing the bidding of a woman, but as dogs may walk on their hind legs, so women may take the lead in Mary Sue parodies. They felt the fierce eagerness of She; it leapt towards them, a gaze fingering each and every one of them out, a gaze which would nail them if they disappointed She. She went among them, though, and they were gone over to She, ever ready to do the will of She.

And She spoke with Motley, Thudd, Thrush and Robespierre, their leaders, and sent them out to Park Galore, with instructions to bring back the Entish Bow to She unharmed and unspoiled. And Gravlox's wooden leg. And Kuruharan's Great Foozle. Well, actually, any piece of wood the Itship had knocked on. The members of the Itship themselves could be bound and trussed if need be. And she provided them with all manner of ordnance, weaponry and munitions. Massive flame throwers to fight Chrysophylax. Greeting trouts called Restraint and Bad Taste to engage in negotiation. And, especially, the subtle tools of control, Tickler, Collar and Cuff, with which to bind the Itship to her Will.

And they stood and posed and preened for all manner of photographs and interviews, obeying the biding of the gonzo journalist Bilbo S. Thompson until he was finally satisfied that Get Yer Ya-Yas Out would have the pulitzer-winning images it so desperately sought in its own war of competition against the Conniving News Network and the Baddest Broadcast Corp. The access didn't come cheap, but how else was She to pay for this pre-emptive strike?

Finally, shadows lengthened and gathered doom and gloom through the long windows as the sun played peek-a-boo with the timeframe of this post, acknowledging just how trying this post has been with the patience of the reader, who by now was seeing double. Then they drank the Cup of Parting and She commanded them to depart, telling them what part to take, hoping to keep apart all the parts of the Ent that had been parted.

And so ends the first part of the appearance of She.

[ March 15, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sat with his back against a tree keeping a careful eye on Merisu's companions. Her assurances were all well and fine, but he had no intention of assuming that the members of the Itship would so easily set aside ages of racial hatred. Even were that not so, Earnur was stone drunk often enough that Gravlox had no intention of trusting that the warrior would remember the Orc was not an enemy.

"Now this is an odd turn of events, isn't it?" asked the Entish foot. "The mighty Gravlox gone over to the side of the Elves and all."

Normally Gravlox ignored his verbose prosthesis, but he was in a thoughtful mood and was trying to adapt himself to the kinder, gentler ways of his new companions. "One might say that the manner in which things have played out would not reasonably have been subject to prediction," Gravlox answered tolerantly.

"And me reunited with the bow and the foozle," continued the foot. "Imagine that! I thought that I'd never see myself again after..." The Entish foot, to Gravlox's surprise, shuddered. His eyes narrowed. "After what?" asked the Uruk.

"Oh! It was horrible," cried the foot. "I was hemmed in by evil Men, Trolls and Orcs bearing torches. Then SHE came. She wielded a 20 horsepower chainsaw from the magical land of Sears and... I can't say! It was too horrible!"

Good , thought Gravlox. "Who is 'She'," wondered the Orc.

"She," answered the foot.

"Her name is what?" asked Gravlox.

"Not what, She!" responded the foot.

Gravlox rolled his eyes and gave up. Then a thought occurred to him. "You know," he began, "We've been together for some time now and I don't even know your name."

The foot literally vibrated with pleasure. "In my language, I am known as Marileangorifurnimaluimestelamdir-abalonechevroletimontecarloednorton-stanmakitasigourneyweaverchimichanga-yuchiangbeeflobsterrollfriedbanana...OUCH!"

Too much information... thought Gravlox as he picked up a second rock to hurl at the foot in the event it resumed its recitation of its name.

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

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron awoke from a deep dream of peace to a hangover of Biblical proportions. Time had passed, and it was now about four-ish, he guessed wildly. Apparently they had a new companion: an orc, no less; would wonders never cease? Still, one of the secrets of gonzo heroism is never to allow confusing mutations to reality to throw one off-balance. He put the bizarre defection to the back of his mind and swallowed his much-belated morning constitutional. The battle would appear to have been won, since he appeared to be gawping bemusedly at some enormous stone heads; some grim, some fair, some porcine and all tediously repetitive of countenance. "Funny looking blighters," he mused, and was just about to compose a profoundly unmemorable limmerick about it when he realised that something was not quite as it ought to be.

This sudden prod from his uncanny sixth sense for danger had been prompted by the sight of a large party of armed men, more accurately an army, he realised on further inspection. It was an impressive force by any standards, but as seen by a man with treble vision it was a legion. This imposing throng had completely surrounded the It-ship, weapons drawn, its cohorts all gleaming in scarlet and gold, and its tasteless and outmoded jewellery and brutally ornate weapons shining in a manner most offensive to the alcoholic eye. Here were enemies too numerous to face before breakfast: he reached for his elven flask, but instead awoke his jovial blade.

'Ere, this is more like it! You bin savin' this lot up ferra rainy day or summat?

"Not as such," replied the doughty dipsomaniac, wincing at a particularly garish uniform. "I think they're more of a surprise gift from a secret admirer."

You wot? Shuddup and kill summat!

And with that, battle was joined, for the enemy had not made the traditional pause to allow character interaction and had instead simply attacked. Earnur lost sight of his companions in the confusion, as he fought and slaughtered some of the most fearsome opponents of his career. He was just beginning to appreciate the challenge of the fight when some future member of the opposing general staff clubbed him on the head from behind. Not for the first time that day, Lord Etceteron felt the velvety embrace of unconsciousness, although this time it was for a new and exciting reason.

**********

Baklava had been roused from a romantic reverie with alliterative rudeness when his master was finally reunited with consciousness. Not for the first time he was pondering the relative merits of retaining his honour and galloping off into the sunset with the lovely Pasdedeux, and once more duty and responsibility to his hapless master were losing ground. Therefore as soon as battle had been joined he made his way to her side and intimated in equine semaphore his intention to ditch the losers and split.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, in which he brained a couple of would-be equestrians from the scarlet ranks, before he had his answer, which was delivered amid the rout of the It-ship, and punctuated by the cracking of impertinent skulls.

[Mithadan]

Oh, this is just great...

[Bêthberry]

A Savage Journey into the Heart of the Tolkien Dream

Bilbo S. Thompson,
on assignment for Get Yer Ya-Yas Out

We were somewhere around Park Galore when the mushrooms and lembas started to kick in. This was a very ominous assignment with overtones of extreme personal danger and I had wanted to be fully alert in all my senses. The MoreScenarios headed out on the highway, wearing chains, shades, and last week's growth of beard, which was definitely not the designer stubble of the Itship heroes themselves.

This Itship was in revolt about something. It belonged to a generation that saw Itself doomed and useless, struggling with the painful contradictions of values gone sour and rotting and warped by the uncontrolled onslaught of a military/industrial/commercial Tolkien enterprise. They were disillusioned by something, by all those filmic fans whose MO was drool through school and the testosterone riders who assumed that no quarter was the heroic path.

To anyone who was part of the Tolkien scene before Ring became synonymous with profit rather than preciousss, the whole world seemed drifting towards a stance of wild, uncontrolled exploitation. The Itship threatened this militaristic take-over by parodying, ghosting and overthetopping every text they could lay their hands on. What this sprawling, free-wheeling orgy of excess had to do with Tolkien soon became a painful contradiction.

And so the Itship came face to face with the warfare state of She. The MoreScenarios knocked back a few beers, then knocked off a few heads, and then knocked on wood. (Because this would soon be a PeeJay13 episode, no one was knocked up.) It was a garden of agony as they struggled to overcome their natural brutal urges for mortal combat and trophy taking. In the end, following Robespierre's gentle remonstrations, they satisfied themselves with taking only one prisoner, the foul-breathed Etceteron, wrapped up in chains. Once the Bow itself was captured and the Great Fozzle, they decided not to mess with Gravlox's wooden leg, not themselves having any dead foot fetishes. Then, the MoreScenarios careened, fast and furious and loud, on the early morning freeway back to Minus Moreghoul, long hair, beards and bandanas blowing in the wind, leaving the Itship in disarray. We expect soon them to follow.

* * * * * * * *

"Well," said Merisuwyniel. "You know what happened last time we tried to save one of us from capture and kidnap."

"Right," said Chrysophylax. "I overate."

"Wrong," said Pimpiowyn. "We lost our taste for barbequed flesh."

"Buy the ticket; take the ride," affirmed Orogarn Two heroically.

"I haven't got Flit the Fourth written yet; we cannot have more adventures," bemoaned Vogonwë.

"That settles it," spoke up Kuruharan with uncharacteristic haste. "Let's go save Etceteron."

Gravlox spoke not a word, but stood tall and strode forth determined to act every inch of a Gregory Peck hero.

[Diamond18]

"I can't believe we were beat by a bunch of badly dressed (but buff) buccaneers when we kicked butt against the Orcs," Pimpi muttered as they tromped along.

"That, I suspect, has something to do with the fact that their General was actually trying to win," Gravlox pointed out Peckishly.

"Are you insinuating that we only won the Battle of Goll Duldor because of you?" Orogarn Two said indignantly, tossing his magnificent hair huffily.

"Let's not argue amongst ourselves," Merisuwyniel reprimanded sternly. "And if you end another sentence with the suffix "-ly" I shall stop this march and spank you."

They continued walking, Children of Ilovetar and beasts of burden alike. Vogonwë and Pimpi strode side by side, hand in hand romantically, but more specifically because Pasdeduex had mysteriously disappeared. "Que sera sera, c'est la vie, please kiss me," Vogonwë had proclaimed, and offered gallantly to carry Pimpi, but she declined, knowing of his bad habits of dropping everything to pirouette, from time to time.

"Must every sentence run on, so?" she wondered wearily as they marched (in case you forgot what they were doing).

Gravlox paused, then, and said, "Wait a moment, I have to adjust my foot."

"What the matter with it?" Merisuwyniel asked attentively.

"It chafes from time to time," he replied, reaching down and pulling up his pant-leg to get at the leather straps binding the wooden shoe to his stump.

"How did you lose your foot?" Orogarn Two asked, as such matters interested the footloose and fancy-free hero quite a bit.

"Oh, it's was a long time ago; a bunch of namby-pamby Elves interfered with my amusement involving a human couple, a horse and some bratty kid. Some Elf tripped over his own pointy shoes while rushing at me with a magic shovel. The shovel cut off my foot, but I kil—" He stopped, having rattled off this mouthful of information without pausing to think first. "I mean..." he appended lamely, while his appendage muttered, "Whoops."

Pimpi then proceeded to suddenly scream. She clutched at Vogonwë's silky soft hair, and he screamed too, as a considerable amount of duress was being placed on his scalp.

"What in the name of gross and net profit is going on?" Kuruharan exclaimed.

"It's him! It's him! Ohmieru, it's HIM!" Pimpi shrieked in Vogonwë's ear as he tried to disengage her fingers from his tresses.

"Who's who?" Merisuwyniel asked.

"Him! That's him! He's him!" Pimpi explained incoherently.

"Him?" Merisuwyniel looked at Gravlox.

"Yes!" Pimpi cried, untangling one hand to point at the itchy-footed Uruk.

"He's him?" Merisuwyniel probed further.

"Yes! That's him!"

"I see," Merisuwyniel mused.

"I don't," said Vogonwë, Kuruharan, Chrysophylax and Orogarn Two in unprecedented unison.

"No, you don’t understand. I’m not ‘him’. I've changed. I'm different," Gravlox declared. "I've reformed! Redeemed myself! You can't tell me from Gregory Peck, now."

"I don't know who the Udûn Gregory Peck is," Pimpi said, "but I know that you're the Orc who killed my parents!"

There was a collective gasp, followed by a pregnant silence, followed by her boyfriend and her father, who had a longbow aimed at the boyfriend, and preceding them was a preacher and after that, Merisuwyniel broke the silence's water by saying, "That can't be true! Not my Loxy!"

"Yes! Your Loxy!" Pimpi insisted, with all the flare of a bad Soap-Opera actress.

Vogonwë spoke up: "This is poetic irony, is it is not?" He was silence by a half-halfing elbow planted squarely in the flesh just under his right ribcage.

Pimpi continued, "Where were you on the afternoon of June 4th, TA ----?"

"Dash dash dash dash?" Gravlox asked with a puzzled furrow in his brow.

"Shut up and answer the question!"

"I don't recall, it was a long time ago. Anyway, what I said before about the family, that doesn't prove anything, because I've attacked lots of—" He stopped again with a frustrated "D'oh!"

Merisuwyniel wore a look of horror (a feminine yet practical one, of course). "Tell me this is a bad dream!" she cried.

"It's a bad dream," Orogarn Two said helpfully.

"No it isn't, not this time," Pimpi declared. "My day of revenge has come, for here stands the very foul Orc who has haunted my dreams. Do not deny it!"

"Okay, all right, I'm sorry," Gravlox said. "I ask your forgiveness for slaying your parents. I swear that I will not do it again—"

"Well, duh!" Kuruharan rolled his eyes.

"I mean, I will never kill innocent folk again," Gravlox clarified.

"Like I give a monkey's larynx!" Pimpi yelled. "Many that live deserve death, and many that have died deserved to live. Can you give it back to them?"

"It sounded better the way the Not-White Wizard said it," Vogonwë said gently, and received another bruise to grace his midriff.

Gravlox looked stricken. "She's right," he said, looking in Merisuwyniel's eyes. "No matter how good I try to be now, it does not change the harm I've already done."

"You're damn right," Pimpi said, still looking cute in the midst of her anger and less than ladylike language. "Now, for revenge."

She paused, and looked at his towering frame. "All right. You do it, Vogonwë."

"Me? I hardly know the chap," Vogonwë declined.

"I gave up killing temporarily, for Lent," Orogarn Two said when her blue eyes turned to him.

"What on Middle-earth is Lent?" Pimpi asked.

"I may be willing to see what I can do, for a price," the mercenary dwarf spoke up.

"Wait!" Merisuwyniel interrupted. "Now wait just a minute! I...I'm sorry about your parents Pimpi, and horrified and all that, but I shall not let anyone kill Gravlox!”

Pimpi pouted. “Would you, could you, do it for me? Would you, could you, hear my plea?”

“No; I would not, could not do it for you. I would not, could not—no can do.”

“But why?” Pimpi whined, stomping her foot.

Merisuwyniel stood erect and took a deep breath. She explained; “Well, for one, he has repented and asked forgiveness for his past...um…youthful indiscretions. Does that not move you to pity? Pity, yes. Pity alone should stay your hand.

“Secondly, he is our guide, and if we kill him, we won't know where to find Earnur, and that should give you pause to think. Lord Etceteron was always kind to you; would you allow your thirst for revenge to prevent his rescue? And thirdly..."

There was another pregnant pause, etc., and then she finished, "And thirdly...I love him!"

Another pause. Not pregnant this time, just puzzled.

“Wait, do you mean Lord Etceteron, or that…that monster?” Pimpi finally asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“I’m sorry—dangling participial,” Merisuwyniel replied. Then she mustered what drama was left (with Grey Poupon) and clarified, “And thirdly…I love this Orc!”

*GAAAAAAAAAAAASP*

[ March 19, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Kuruharan]

The Itship, or the Fellow/Galship, or the Gal/Fellowship, or the Gallows-ship stood in stunned silence for a moment.

Unfortunately, as shocked as they were by this revelation, everybody’s minds quickly drifted off the point.

Merisuwyniel was filled with hope that Gravlox was watching her in her moment of glory with her hair flying out behind her (with no breeze) standing so that her magnificent figure could be viewed to best advantage.

Vogonwë was wondering how in the world Merisuwyniel could get her hair to do that, and if Pimpi had broken a few of his ribs.

Orogarn Two was calculating how he could make another remark ending in "-ly" so that Merisuwyniel would fulfill her promise to spank him.

Chrysophylax briefly considered ending the debate by devouring everyone, but decided not to.

Kuruharan was still wondering what in the world had come over him to get him to actually volunteer to go on a rescue mission, FOR FREE.

Pimpi was wondering if she had written down O Lando’s phone number, and if there was any way that she could get in touch with him in the next five minutes.

Merisuwyniel’s hopes at least were fulfilled. Gravlox was standing there enraptured with his mouth hanging down (and drooling on the ground). He had completely forgotten that his life was in danger. He had also forgotten to breathe.

Suddenly, Vogonwë broke the silence.

*HARACK* *HARRRWCK* *GACKKCKH* *HOURCK* *SPITOOOIE*

A massive hairball crashed down into the middle of the group.

"Eeeeewwww!" went everyone.

*UK* went Gravlox as he collapsed on the ground. The act of expressing his disgust at the hairy monstrosity had used up the last of his oxygen.

"My darling!" screamed Merisuwyniel, as she rushed to his aid.

"What happened?!" yelled everybody else.

"He’s passed out!" cried Merisuwyniel. "There is nothing else for it! I’ll have to do mouth-to-mouth!"

So saying she scooped Gravlox up into her arms and performed mouth-to-mouth on him, even though it looked more like the climatic kiss of a particularly nauseating romance movie.

"I say, this is going atrociously…abominably…disgustingly…repulsively…" Orogarn Two bawled, hoping that Merisuwyniel would drop what she was doing and come over and "punish" him.

Gravlox eventually started showing signs of life.

"He’s coming to," said Merisuwyniel. "I’ll have to take him off into the brush to find some special herbs to cure him."

"What?" asked Orogarn Two.

"But I have some…" said Kuruharan.

"No, no," said Merisuwyniel. "I have to get him out in the bushes to heal him."

With that she picked Gravlox up and carried him off into the underbrush.

"Uhhh…" said Vogonwë

Orogarn Two collapsed on the ground and started crying.

"Anybody up for a game of cards?" asked Kuruharan, desperately trying to find some way of salvaging this deplorable situation.

Nobody had anything better to suggest so within moments they were sitting around a table that Kuruharan thoughtfully provided, each with a pile of chips in front of them.

"What are we playing?" asked Vogonwë.

"I thought that we could play some stud poker…oh…wait, NO!" said Kuruharan, suddenly remembering the rather awkward situation that had brought them to this pass.

"Draw poker, I meant to say draw poker!" corrected Kuruharan hastily. "Everybody ante up!"

"I can’t!" wailed Pimpi. "That monster that is off cavorting with Merisuwyniel killed my auntie!"

"Oh dear," moaned Chrysophylax. "This is going to be a long game."

Suddenly revived by the three aces that he held in his hand Orogarn Two abruptly remembered something important.

"I call!" he said, "By the way, isn’t there somebody that we are supposed to be rescuing?"

"Four kings," said Kuruharan. "I win, and I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. Rescuing somebody, as if anyone could be bothered with rescuing somebody when an important poker game is going on."

"Indeed!" said Vogonwë. It was his turn to deal and he hoped that he could improve his luck in the next hand.

"Indeed!" said Pimpi as she munched on her latest snackin’. She had only one pair in the previous hand and was certain that she had gotten her bad luck out of her system.

"Indeed!" said Orogarn Two. He had to get his money back.

"Indeed!" said Chrysophylax. He knew 101 ways to stack the deck and was certain that he would come out on top in the card game. And even if he didn’t, he and Kuruharan had an arrangement to split their profits so he would not end up being the loser.

[ March 16, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The Druid Time began to recover from whatever metaphysical mushroom binge it had been on while Lord Etceteron slept at some point in the middle of a day of blazing heat. Awaking he heard, saw and, unfortunately, smelt a large company of gaudy scarlet warriors, whose chains currently bound him about so completely that, surrounded by scarlet ranks as he was, to the observing modern eye (not that there was any such thing, since this account was penned by Deeproot the Ent and not, for example, a long-haired weirdo in a roleplay) he would most have resembled a cannon ball at the battle of Isandhlwana. The sun was bright and hot, and he couldn't move his hands to get his flask but he was being carried, which made matters simpler. Consciousness wasn't worth it so he gave it a miss.

When next he came to himself it was a disappointing visit. He was chained up in a standard-issue dank cell and it was the middle of the night. Reaching for his flask, he found that it had moved to another pocket, and that it now had a note attached to it. The note simply read "Do we look stupid?" It wasn't the first time that his night-cap had been taken for nightshade, so not for the first time he began to polish it off.

Topfloorien had been a bad idea. Now his thoughts were mostly of Vinaigrettiel the Fair, the Col-i-Flaur of Careless Gardenhon. He bewailed their parting, he cursed the sword Wylkynsion (which had spent three hours trying to persuade the MoreScenarios' leader to kill him with it), and his own decision to take the job. As it was he had drunk the proceeds of the trip within six months, and had to put up with the sword for long and bitter years of bickering and dirty jokes. Somebody else was enduring the constant niggles of the Black Sword now, and Earnur found himself regretting only the need to drop one of his heroic soubriquets. His last waking thoughts before the extra belladonna, placed in his drink by the guards, lulled him into his usual gentle nocturnal coma were of Vinaigrettiel, but delicacy forbids that I give any details.

He awoke to the sensation of being dragged roughly to his feet, and as usual it was someone in uniform who was doing the uplifting. The guard was scruffy, short and flabby, and a dog-eared roll-up hung from the corner of his mouth. "'Er ladyship will see yew naow," announced the hopeless excuse for a figure of authority, exhaling a foul smoke into Lord Etceteron's face and receiving the toxic fumes of his unconventional tipple in return. Both men blanched visibly, an impasse of machismo.

Earnur was led from his cell (two much more competent guards met him at the door and chained his arms to his sides before allowing him to proceed), along countless stairs, up myriad gratuitously steep and narrow staircases from the hell of the cells to the bizarre purgatorial splendour of the fortress above. He was shoved and chivvied past murals depicting scenes of questionable moral content and, to Etceteron's eye at least, even more questionable anatomical accuracy. He passed furniture made from human bones standing before works of art of astonishing beauty; he saw heavy red velvet draping iron engines in which spikes and blades featured prominently and he winced at the open braziers and racks of weapons that festooned the rooms. The Great Hall, however, surpassed all the others in its aggressive opulence: it was like a diamond-studded hammer.

The massive chamber filled most of this wing of the fortress. Its exquisite roof of wrought iron and stained glass split the light into weirdly dancing colours that reminded Etceteron uncomfortably of the time he'd eaten the wrong mushrooms and woken up in Khand dressed as a belly dancer. Iron candlesticks bore huge cylinders of guttering tallow that were no more candles than a sabre-toothed tiger is a domestic cat. At the far end, beneath a gigantic tapestry of the fall of Valvoline, a massive flight of stone steps led up to a large dias carpeted in silks and satins, on which was a throne from one of Edgar Allan Poe's nastier nightmares, before which Earnur was flung unceremoniously.

It was made of solid iron, which had been wrought into tortured and grotesque swirls that sprouted spikes at every conceivable angle; the apex of the canopy was set with an axe blade: this was not a throne in which one would sit who deserved to be known as Good Queen anything. Its current occupant had been born to sit there. She: all-powerful, all-knowing, and disturbingly handy with a whip.

Her outfit looked more like an instrument of torture even than some of the things he'd been tortured with. It was all straps and buckles, with strangely unnecessary leather and metal accoutrements and an enormous fan of a collar that reached above the crown of Her head. The spike theme was carried on with gusto throughout. The Lord of Dun Sóbrin, however, was no longer looking at the uncomfortable outfit, the nightmarish hall or the Throne: he was gazing in astonishment at She, and She, in an unexpected move, was looking at him with no less amazement.

"You." They both said, competing in the badly-hidden shock stakes without a clear winner being declared. For each looked upon the owner of the most embarrassing nickname they had ever invented (no I'm not going to repeat them. You can enjoy hours of fruitless speculation about what they were) and for the first time in many years Earnur and Vinaigrettiel were (almost) face to face.

"I've got some of your things in a box somewhere..." she ventured.

"I had some of yours, but I was mugged in Ozfestiath." he replied brilliantly.

"Don't worry about that," she answered sweetly. "I got them."

"So... umm... what are you doing with yourself these days?" he inquired with almost non-existent suavity.

"I am a Queen. Beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night. Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain. Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning. Strong as the foundations of the earth. You remember; I told you that time when you gave me that ring."

Somewhere in Lord Etceteron's ragged brain a few exhausted synapses perked up in recognition before succumbing to some residual alcohol. "That's right," he mused. "I took you to that old battlefield and I found it in the river. Whatever happened to it?"

She raised Her right hand languidly, displaying a gold ring. He could not read the fiery letters through his hangover, but he knew what they said, near enough: Earnur 4 Vinaigrettiel; he had taken it to be inscribed himself.

A guard - clearly an unwilling emissary from the others - sidled in, holding in his hand a piece of paper. Probably another declaration of war for her signature, She considered. "What do you mean, minion, by interrupting my interrogation?" She demanded icily, and Etceteron winced on the servitor's behalf. He had heard that tone before.

"Message for you, Milady." squeaked the unknown soldier.

"Bring it to me." She commanded, and the lily-liveried guard ascended the great staircase with timid tread. She took the message from his petrified grasp and read it impatiently. When She had finished she stabbed him off-handedly with a detachable spike designed for that purpose. "Why do they waste my time with trivialities?" She fumed. "Any fool can pay a gas bill!"

Two more guards were summoned to carry away their luckless companion, at which point She continued: "How's your famous sword?" in a tone that suggested to the listener that the best answer would be 'it fell into a volcano.' "It fell into a volcano." he replied.

"What a shame," said Vinaigrettiel brightly, her eyes brimming with utter indifference. "It rather suited you."

"Not really. Bloody thing drove me up the wall most of the time, and the rest of the time I was dru... asleep." Etceteron flannelled cheerfully.

"Be that as it may," said the Fair One, and her voice changed to one more suited to her surroundings. "You are my prisoner. What, I wonder, shall I do with you while I ponder what use you will be?" She rose as she said this, and left the question hanging for a tension-ridden age while She climbed down from Her throne and allowed one elegantly-manicured finger to glide briefly along one of Earnur's manly biceps. Suddenly she stopped, her face inches from Earnur's own. "I think," she declared huskily, "that for now I shall put you back in your cell. It's what Mr. Fluffy would have wanted."

With that She called Her guards, who dragged Earnur back to his stinking cell, although by the sickeningly dopy smile on his face one would have thought it was a suite at the Regency. He drank a cheerful toast to his guards to thank them for the more-than-usually gentle shove to the floor, and settled down to enjoy the warm, pink coma of the annoying lover, in which I shall leave him to avoid any gastric upheavals it may cause.

[ March 18, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Bêthberry]

And She, the mighty mighty She, what had She done? Bitten her lips until they bled and retreated to her tower room (of course it had to be a tower) in dizzying frenzy of thought, her finger tingling with memories from the single brief touch of the manly biceps of the Lord of Dun Sóbrin come back from the past. Reaching finally her private quarters, she opportunely swooned (it was a long, steep climb) upon the purple velvet covers of her massive four-poster bed, not rising again until the moonlight shed its pale pewter glow through the slit in the window designed not for moonlight but for arrows. Ergo, it was still rather dark. But you get the picture.

Sternly She rose to consult the cell-antir, which positively glowed with the intensity of a high intensity beam light. "It's a small, small world after all," it intoned, even it, too, betraying her feelings. Here in all its splendour hear the song. (http://www.dismusic.com) And she fell into a breathless, lung-trembling, panting sort of memory in which all her pain departed from her. And Etceteron danced under the moonrise in the forest glade and she came upon him and was enchanted. And his person was lit with the light of the leaves of the not-magic bushes and his voice rang with the clear waters of a good scotch distillery and he was in his full howl and she strayed long in the woods. And as they looked upon each other doom fell upon them (There was a dark, dank mist that night and both risked pneumonia in their bare feet.) and they loved each other and came the daylight she slipped from his arms before she would have to explain to him the intricacies of elven vows. That came later when they faced the wrath of Daddy and Mummy Dearest.

A sudden knock at the door, however, ensured that she would not succumb to hyperventilation. She was ready to slaughter the intruder but denied herself that satisfaction, delivering instead a simple brief cuff to the right side of the head. When She saw what was being delivered up to her, the very sword Wylkynsion itself, which was the cause of so much of her lovelornness (the pieces of the Ent which she had sundered not mattering to her at this delicate moment in her psychic drama), her wrath was wrought up to its worst and most wretched pitch.

" 'Ere, wotcha, cutie. Yew looks like a right little tickler," sang Wylkynsion at his most insouciant.

"You! You, who took him from me!" She keened, having been very keen upon his owner once upon a time.

"Yew got a problem wif 'at?" he retorted.

"You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought."

"Wot are yew on, Moonshine?" he retorted. "Sheaths interfere wif me business."

"Here is She, daughter of Dunfartin, Dreaded Dark Lady of Minus Moreghoul, Queen of the Host of the Nasties, Bearer of Grievous Hurt, Victorious in Battle, Foresaken in Love, whose hands bring hurt, the once and future Vinaigrettiel, etc. etc. etc. You shall be unforged."

"Yew gonna make summat of that?" the sword proclaimed, with a touch of worry to his bravadoccio.

And She fell upon the sword and had her way with it.

"So this is love," Here in all its splendour hear the song. (http://www.dismusic.com) Wylkynsion cried out with his final breath.

She jumped upon him, smashing him and bashing him worse than a fabled musician of the Seventh Age would ever treat any of his guitars until the light was gone from the great sword and it was pounded into a hundred and one shards. Here in all its splendour hear the song. (http://www.dismusic.com).

"When you wish upon a star," Here in all its splendour hear the song. (http://www.dismusic.com)she said to the sundered pieces, you might be reforged."

Then, suddenly bereft of her hatred, She took herself to her mirror and saw there an image whose like she had not known for many a year. Yes, there She saw once again Vinaigrettiel, the Col-i-Flaur of Careless Gardenhon, the younger twin sister of Saladriel, doomed ever to remain in her sister's shadow until she had decided to become the Aredhel of the royal elven family.

And Vinaigrettiel rang for Friday and told him to bring the prisoner--that word which once would so have thrilled her--to the courtyard.

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

The moonlight shed its pewter, silver, lead and other metallic reflections over the similarly grey and washed out flagstone. She stood nervously watching the Lord of Dun Sóbrin walk towards her, a sheepish, dopy grin overtaking his face as if of some romantic poem he had drunk.

"Erm, hi," he said eloquently. "Waiting up for your daughter to come home from the prom?"

"My daughter was lost to me many years ago. She was taken from me after you departed."

"What! How dare they! You were her mother and the finest, most thoughtful and loving and selfless mother that ever a child could desire," said Earnur with cliched sincerity.

"They called me unfit."

"How so?"

"They said I was a bad role model, loving outside my race and class, loving you instead of forsaking all others for her dead elven father. And they thought that was more merciful than throwing me on top of his funeral pyre."

"Would that I had been there to defend your honour," he spoke valiantly.

"You could have been but you choose Wylkynsion."

"Oh, right. Sorry about that."

Lord Etceteron coughed and rattled his chains.

She walked up to him and ran her fingers up and down his restraints, testing for the weakest link, but there would never be one with this first of her best manly men. With a sigh and heart-rendering sob, which wracked her bosom so that it rose high to majestic proportions, which he would have noticed had he not been so abashed at their reunion, she released him. And the chains were no longer upon his limbs. Nor upon hers. And they danced together in the moonlight oblivious to the hour until suddenly the clock struck twelve and she ran from his grasp.

Before his very bloodshot eyes, she changed. The straps and buckles, with strangely unnecessary leather and metal accoutrements, fell from her. Her enormous fan of a collar that reached above the crown of her head came loose. The gel and hairspray betrayed their brand promises and her raven locks tumbled down upon her neck and shoulders. The nightmarish vision was gone and Earnur was gazing in astonishment once again at Vinaigrettiel and Vinaigrettiel was herself amazed.

She slipped from his arms (this cannot be said too often) and ran away.

"Wait, wait, I want to save you. Or something," he called plaintively.

"You already have," she called back. "I must see to Minus Moreghoul now. I shall go sign a contract with Disney Enterprises. We shall build a Tolkien World here to rival EuroDisney. I must do it before Kuruharan beats me to it. We can have a real outing." (Yes, Virginia, there are miracles in marketing.) (http://www.gayday.com/)

"Wait, wait, come back. Come back."

Too late!

A screech of tires, the busting glass, the painful sound that Earnur heard last.

"Hold me now for a little while."

He held her close and kissed their last kiss and he found a love that he knew he had missed. And her lover's fea went not to Mandos for she shared his doom.

And Lord Etceteron, somewhat more sobrely, gathered to him the pieces of the Ent that had been sundered, the Bow and the Great Foozle, and the shards of Wylkynsion, and walked out of the gates of Minus Moreghoul no wiser than when he had gone in. For he would really need a drink now.

[ March 23, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Diamond18]

The poker game ended with Kuruharan the winner (which was hardly surprising, being what and who he was—a card shark of the Khazad). This led to an awkward pause, followed by an awkward fast-forward, rewind, play, and finally an awkward stop.

“Aren’t they finished yet?” Pimpi wondered. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what was going on, no sir. As soon as they’re done, I’m going to…I’m going to…do something.” She then became distracted by a donut she found in her pocket.

Vogonwë, meanwhile, was bored. Not simply bordering on bored, but bored to pieces. Bored to bits. Bored to infinitesimal little shreds of indefinable something-or-other which all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put back together again. He was dying of a boredom so lethal that if he didn’t do something and do it quick, he would shrivel up like a Wet-Ones towelette that someone had removed from its package and didn’t throw away, from the misguided assumption that it was still clean enough to reuse.

So, what to do. Not just anything would suffice to overcome a boredom so palpable and pulpy, like orange-juice that hasn’t been strained, and so whatever he was going to do had to be good. Really good. And not just “fun” good, but crazy, spontaneous, unpredictable good. Uncharacteristic, devil-may-care, thought up on the fly and in a fey mood good. Yes, it had to be sufficiently entertaining, in a shocking and wordy sort of way. And it had to be good for a poem or two, at least.

He sat back and twiddled his thumbs, contemplating his options. He could either sit by himself and work on Fit the Fifth, join Orogarn Two in writing down all the “-ly” words in the tongues of Men and Elves, supervise Kuruharan and Chrysophylax as they divvied up the winnings, or do something with Pimpiowyn. Gee, what a dilemma—a quandary, to be sure.

He sidled up to Pimpi. “I’m bored,” he announced as if it was worthy of a front-page headline.

She turned her gorgeous, glorious, splendid, sublime, superb, exophthalmically excellent eyes toward him, in all their dreamy azure splendor. She licked some frosting off her bottom lip and replied, “Eat something, then.”

“Well yes, I could do that,” he paused. “But, I had a better idea. All this hedonism going on around us made me think—”

“Is that some sort of Workmudian dish?” she interrupted him, tilting her head to the side quizzically. The sun chose that moment to shine down on her long cascade of fiery red-gold curls that fell around her sumptuously voluptuous figure, the Similaresque light creating a glow around her head that was nothing less than angelic, like some sort of painting in which the subject is a maiden glowing with luscious beauty, holding a piece of fruit.

“What?”

“Hedonism.”

“Er…no. But I was saying…um…what was I saying? I dunno…gosh you look pretty right now.” His mouth felt dry, and he spoke like a tongue-tied idiot, instead of his normal status as a loquacious idiot.

“Hm. Thank you, you don’t look so bad yourself,” she said politely.

“Look here, Pimpi,” he said impatiently, “can we get back to the idea I had?”

“Were we going to go eat something?”

“No, but you look good enough to eat.”

“How am I supposed to react to that statement?”

Suddenly he dropped to one knee. “Oooh, ow! Leg cramp!” he grimaced. “Just a minute.”

She smiled absently while waiting for him to stretch his legs, and her mind wandered. It traveled far and wide, roaming across the expanse of Middle-earth and back and forth through the twenty-five years of her life, pausing now and then to smell the roses but not occupied with anything in particular for any length of time.

“All right, where was I?” Vogonwë resumed. “Oh yes, my idea.” He then broke out into a spontaneous, poetic song, and it went thusly:

My dear Pimpiowyn,
Why should others have all the fun?
You’re pretty, you’re young,
I’ve got to get me some.

Let’s dispense with dull customs,
Like mushy moldy mushrooms.
I’ve never been under your skirts,
But for that there’s always a first.

Don’t worry, my sweet thing,
This will be binding.
So don’t think I’m a swinger,
You’re my one true humdinger.

So let’s forget about this mortality business,
It can certainly wait till we’re finished.
I’ve got plenty of time,
And you’re in your prime.

We’re lucky we’re half-breeds,
For were I full elf, and were you full hobbit,
I’d be too tall, and you’d be too short,
Dagnabbit.

But as is we’re just right,
For each other tonight,
My half-halflng delight.
Let’s slip away quick-like.

There was an awkward silence. This pause was most certainly not pregnant, it was actually rather devoid of any cohesive thought whatsoever. Then Pimpi started to whimper.

“What? Is that a ‘no’?” Vogonwë asked.

“Oh! If…if only…”

“If only…” Vogonwë prompted, his patience with the length of this post wearing thin.

“If only you were O Lando!” she finally blurted, breaking out into a torrent of tears, which spurted from her eyes like a sprinkler system that decides to come on right when one is walking past it, bearing paper items to mail at the post office down the block.

To say Vogonwë was stricken would be an understatement. He clasped his hands over his heart and fell back, gasping like a fish swimming in an inch of water at the bottom of a bait bucket. His mouth flapped open and shut for a few moments as he tried to say something dramatic. His pupils shrank, dilated, shrank, and then dilated again, in his shock and horrified confusion.

Pimpiowyn covered her torturously beautiful face with her dainty, well-formed hands, and continued to cry. It had not been a good day for her. In fact, it had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Vogonwë still lay gasping on the ground, both legs cramping simultaneously. Finally, filled with consternation to the overflowing point, he dragged himself away behind a tree and retched up hairballs till his inner organs threatened to turn themselves inside out and drip from his ear canal onto the ground. After such a violent purging I’d be surprised if he ever hacked up another hairball in his life.

But then, he rose up with a shameless conjunction and a feeling of grim, gritty, resolve. A fey look was upon him as his soliloquized, “I’ll do something to make her forget he ever existed…I’ll do something so stupendous and heroic and manful that she’ll fall upon me in a fit of nymphomania…I’ll…I’ll…I’ll have to try to kill Gravlox. Or commit suicide. Or maybe that’s the same thing. Hm.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel and Gravlox reappeared just as Vogonwë emerged from behind the tree. Energetically (yet gracefully) the Elven maiden strode into the clearing and proclaimed dramatically, “Has everyone forgotten Earnur? We cannot leave him to an uncertain fate – we must rescue him! Let us be on our way without further delay.”

There were several murmurs to the effect that she’d been in no particular hurry herself, but those of the Fellow/Galship who remained packed their baggage and were ready to leave in a matter of minutes.

Suddenly Merisuwyniel screamed, the high-pitched sound which a lesser female might make when sighting a small rodent and looking for the nearest chair. Startled, the others turned to look at her. “The Bow!” she gasped. “The Bow is gone!”

“Didn’t you have it with you?” Pimpiowyn asked.

“N-no,” she stuttered, blushing. “I left it here, right beside my pack. I – I thought I didn’t need it.”

Kuruharan rummaged through his various bags, then exclaimed, “The Great Foozle is gone too! Someone must have taken them when Etceteron was captured. That settles it – we must find them!”

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

After adventures too numerous to be told at this time, but certainly promising material for flashbacks, dream sequences, and perhaps even for Episode I, II, and III, if there’s money to be made, the company arrived at the foot of a great mountain upon which loomed a dark, threatening, menacing, ominous, dangerously alarming looking tower. Their hearts sank as they looked at each other; they had only one of the three heroes left, though Gravlox’ military experience was an asset, of course.

As they gazed upon the great tower of Minus Moreghoul, despairing of ever passing its fortifications, they saw a lone figure sitting before the gate. At first, the shadows of the huge walls concealed its identity, then a flash of light glanced from a silvery flask that the man lifted to his mouth. “Earnur!” Orogarn Two shouted. They rushed forward to greet him.

Puzzled, Vogonwë asked, “How come every time we want to rescue someone, he’s already freed himself?” But no one heeded his words, as usual.

So excited that they all forgot the danger in which they were, they crowded around their lost companion, asking him questions in a cacophony which would have been confusing even for one not already bewildered by the loss of a great love and the contents of the flask which had been his only comfort.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The magic on the self-refilling flask ran out about four hours after the inexpilicable road accident. He would have needed a stiff drink anyway after seeing his long-lost ex-girlfriend run over by a lorry right in front of him, but this was compounded by the fact that he had never seen a lorry before (hardly surprising, since they hadn't yet been invented), and had always thought it to be a sort of bird. He would have got more information out of the driver prior to hanging him with his own intestines, but the mysterious machina ex machina had disappeared as suddenly as it had turned up, leaving only a sadly ironic sign that read "How am I driving?" and quoted a telephone number that would be unusable for several thousand years.

So it was that the combined forces of new and terrifying developments, personal tragedy and time-travelling commercial vehicles had led to his draining ten years' worth of re-filling magic in one night. As dawn broke across the black rocks around him it fell on a bedraggled figure in the once-fine but tattered sable raiment of the heroic noble escapee sitting in front of the castle gates, snoring and dribbling onto his tunic.

He was awoken by one of the fortress' cats using his ear as a latrine, which elicited an oath so foul that it had been known to frighten trolls. It certainly frightened the cat, which never from that day forth moved more than twenty yards from a litter tray. After a breakfast made from the last dregs of enchanted hooch he switched to a flask of plain Miruvor that had been sitting in a hidden pocket since a long-ago trip to Dor Sumyewinion. It was the best of the liquor he'd been carrying, and it served to lighten his spirits from planning suicide to merely contemplating it; for such is the strange property of Elven vintages that they only ever make a man into an amusing drunk.

He had lost his horse, his sword and his lady love, along with his wallet and most of his clothes. He had absolutely nothing of value that could be pawned, no money, no transportation, no food and no water. On a crisis scale of one to ten this was about a seven in the history of Lord Etceteron's wanderings, but it became a nine when he finished the last of the alcohol around lunch time. So his companions found him, just as the last drop was drunk.

*******

He answered their questions as best he could, as they answered his. Oragarn Two was livid.

"What?!" He exploded. "I come traipsing over half of creation with a bag of mixed nuts and the Workmud branch of Alcoholics Anonymous; I don't find my wallet, get ignored half the time, and on top of everything our main enemy has a change of heart and gets run over by a hitherto-uninvented vehicle before I even get here! Are all my quests doomed to end thus in anticlimax?"

"Maybe," replied Earnur blandly. "You haven't seen my horse, have you?"

"We found your saddlebags near the skirmish," replied Merisuwyniel sadly. "Your mount was nowhere to be found."

"And Pasdedeux is missing too. Perhaps we're being stalked by international horse thieves." suggested Vogonwë.

"Hmmph," snorted the Dwarf. "Thieves? Chrysophylax has been hungry lately. If anyone got past him then I'm a garden ornament." He was not amused, as somehow someone had removed his best red-and-black map of the world at some point during the fracas, and he was by no means sure that it was the MoreScenarios who had taken it.

"Has anyone anything to drink?" asked the Lord of Dun Sóbrin hopefully, and Kuruharan, never one to turn down an easy sale, took out his best bottle of "Nurse Tremblin's Multi-Purpose Surgical Foot Ointment" (most efficacious against warts, corns, verrucas and, if misapplied, standing upright); but the great lord of drunkards frustratingly changed his mind. "No, it is hopeless," he sighed annoyingly. "No wine can ever salve these wounds, and anyway I want to enjoy not having that sword sober."

"One drink won't hurt" guessed the Dwarf, but he had lost the audience.

For Etceteron had launched into the full tale of his capture and events afterwards (leaving out the volcano, the cat and the poetry he'd written after his first meeting with She). He told of the end of Wylkynsion (related in her final moments by Vinaigrettiel); of the great palace, the foetid cells and She's weird taste in decor and weirder end. Then he asked "Does anyone have a horse?" at which Tofu sidled quietly out of the way: he had been getting used to wandering along without anyone much noticing him, mulling over lines from Juvenal's satires to himself, and was in no mood for more manliness just yet.

"Nobody?" continued Earnur. "Oh well; the time has come to complete our quest!" he preambled unnecessarily. "Behold the stolen Entish artefacts, torn from the torsos of our foes!"

The Foozle, the Entish Bow and a number of assorted pieces of dead wood were revealed as he stood up. They were sitting in a puddle that smelled a little funny, but Ents are used to that sort of thing.

"Gather these assorted objects and gird yourselves for further travelling!" announced the scarecrow of a hero. "For now we seek to re-make the Ent that was Broken and maybe get me a new sword!"

And so we leave them, shrouded in the stench of their Entish accoutrements and awaiting further developments heroically.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel was overjoyed and relieved to be reunited with the Entish Bow. She stood at a little distance from the others, holding it tightly. It vibrated and hummed with pleasure at being in her hands again, communing silently with her. Thoughtfully she gazed upwards at the tower, strangely fascinated by the sight of its enormous height, the sleek firmness of its walls, the shape of its – oh, never mind…

“We must enter the tower,” she announced to her astounded companions. “There is yet a foe here, greater than She was, and we must destroy it if the civilized world is to live in safety.”

There was some grumbling and mumbling as they thought of comfortable beds, good food, and profitable earnings to made elsewhere, but being noble and heroic, they did not desert her, of course. Chrysophylax, who refused to enter the claustrophobic entrance that led inside, remembering his last bout with tight passages, volunteered to watch over their baggage, so they laid off their more wearisome burdens, keeping only the most necessary and precious belongings with them.

Merisuwyniel clutched the Bow in one hand and Gravlox’ hand in the other and strode bravely toward the doorway. Expecting the worst, approaching foes or at least an alarm, they entered, but nothing happened. In increasing astonishment, they traversed one passageway and hallway after another, yet there was no sign of any living thing within the walls.

“It appears to be safe for us to divide up and explore the fortress,” the Elven maiden said, “but take care – there is yet a danger that cannot be seen.”

After some whispered words with Gravlox, she nodded and released his hand. He turned down one passageway while she directed her steps toward a staircase. The others scattered in every direction, wondering what they would find.

[Kuruharan]

"If the fact that this danger cannot be seen proves it is there, does it mean when we can see this danger that it is gone?" Kuruharan wondered to himself.

"Oh well," he thought as he dashed off down a hallway. He’d never met an opportunity for plunder that he didn’t like.

The rest of the Gallows-ship apparently agreed because they scattered in all directions.

This was probably a slightly foolish thing for them to do. The Gallows-ship knew that they were in great danger because they had seen nothing dangerous to this point. Confronted by this conclusive lack of evidence, the sensible thing for them to do would have been to stick together and loot the place systematically. Alas, they were seized by a madness of unbridled avarice, each one determined to grab all the goodies for themselves and not have to share.

Two hours later Kuruharan went over the sum total of his findings up to that point.

"Let’s see here…a set of swim fins, a broken piece of plywood, a chia pet, and a half-eaten biscuit. Not my most impressive haul. There must be something better around here somewhere," muttered Kuruharan. The dwarf suddenly had a realization. "If I could only figure out where here was."

It was true, he had wandered around so confusedly that he was now thoroughly befuddled, and slightly dizzy. He sat down on his broken piece of plywood, picked up his chia pet, munched on his half-eaten biscuit, and took stock of his situation.

When he finished the biscuit he stared at the chia pet for a long moment.

"And now I shall give you a name, and I shall call you…Ralph!"

The chia pet, or Ralph as we must now call him, stared back as insipidly as only a chia pet can stare.

"I don’t suppose that you are a talking chia pet…are you?" asked Kuruharan.

++++15 minutes later++++

"Should I take that as a no?"

Ralph continued to stare.

"I wonder if Ralph could be a part of the Ent That Was Broken?" wondered Kuruharan, desperately trying to find some way of making this sequence more interesting.

He poked and prodded Ralph and eventually came to the conclusion that Ralph was indeed your run-of-the-mill chia pet, ceramic body, bizarre herbage, and all.

"Well," said Kuruharan, "that was disappointing."

Suddenly, Kuruharan had another shocking realization.

"I’m sitting on a broken piece of plywood, in the bowels of a musty, crusty castle, talking to a chia pet."

Kuruharan glanced around nervously for a moment.

"I said, I’m sitting on a broken piece of plywood, in the bowels of a musty, crusty castle, talking to a chia pet!"

Kuruharan’s eye started twitching.

"I SAID, I’M SITTING ON A BROKEN PIECE OF PLYWOOD, IN THE BOWELS OF A MUSTY, CRUSTY CASTLE, TALKING TO A CHIA PET!!!!"

Unused to such large doses of reality, Kuruharan started gibbering and cackling like a deranged monkey. He staggered to his feet, pulled on his swim fins, and started weaving and wobbling about the hallway like a drunken sailor, laughing like a hyena the whole time.

"This is *WAHAHAHAHA* not good Ralph! *HEEHEEHEEHEE* OH-NO!!! *PAWHAWHAWHAWHAW* I’M DOING IT AGAIN!!!"

Just as reality made further unwelcome intrusions into Kuruharan’s thought processes, he reeled in the direction of his broken piece of plywood. At this moment his unfortunate choice of footwear betrayed him. One of his swim fins got caught on the piece of plywood and tripped him.

*SMACK* went Kuruharan right to the floor.

Fortunately, Ralph was saved from injury. He stood there on his little ceramic legs and stared at the unlucky (and unconscious) dwarf. Ralph did not appear to find it odd that the unhinged laughter mysteriously continued, and in fact got progressively louder.

Ralph undoubtedly reasoned that since danger had now manifested itself in some way it must, of logical necessity, no longer be present.

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë traipsed up a fight of stairs, pausing in his stride every now and then to do a cartwheel. He hoped that Pimpiowyn was watching his impressive gymnastics, but when he got to the top and did an upside down pirouette, he looked around and around and around and noticed that she was nowhere to be found.

“Drat,” he thought, resuming his stance upon his feet. Not only had she deserted him, but the top of his head had a vague burning sensation. Any normal full-blooded elf or man, or, let’s face it, even any normal half-blooded elf or man, would have paused to worry about his lady love being alone in a foreboding tower. But Vogonwë had other, more pressing matters to muse upon. Namely, how he was going to dispatch with Gravlox.

He began to wander aimlessly through the corridors of the castle, whilst his mind wandered aimlessly over various methods of murder. “Strangulation?” he pondered. “No, his neck is too thick for me to get my hands around.”

“I could poison him!”

“With what?”

“Well, I could make him a mixed drink of something…I have some ‘Mudwater left over, and perhaps I could see what Earnur has…”

“But that isn’t heroic enough. I mean, poison? Poison is for little old ladies, you dipwad.”

“All right, then. I could sever one of his arteries with a knife.”

“Too messy, and too close. If you succeeded, think of all that black blood all over your clothes. I don’t think Pimpi would be very attracted to that.”

“Well, you never know…”

“Try again.”

“I could drop an anvil or a piano on him. That would work from a nice, safe distance.”

“How cheesy. Again, not heroic enough.”

“I could challenge him to a duel with pistols.”

“But pistols haven’t been invented yet.”

“Hmm… I know, I could hang him! Hang-uruk is a game I used to play with O Lando back when we were kids.”

“But how would you get him in the noose? Do you think you could really swing it?”

“You’re right…it would be a bit hard. I mean, he’s so big and burly. When we were kids we never used real Uruks, we used computers.”

“Any more bright ideas, then?”

“Well, what about you, if you’re so smart?”

There was no reply, and Vogonwë stopped walking. “Hello? Strange and Mysterious Voice With Which I Have Been Conversing? Are you there?”

Silence. A heavy, oppressive, massive, ponderous, unwieldy, fat and obese silence in which there was no sound. Vogonwë could not even hear the sound of his own breathing, which was slightly disconcerting. That is to say, the fact that he could not hear the sound was disconcerting, not the sound itself, because there was no sound, as I have already mentioned.

The suddenly, in the blink of an eye and a split second (which is cousin to the split infinitive), before Vogonwë could say “Jack Robinson” (why he would say it I don’t know, but he didn’t get to anyway) something happened which will take another sentence to relate.

The torches that lit his walkway flickered out. They were quenched, quelled, dampened, extinguished, doused, soused, and otherwise very put out. This was done by an invisible hand. How Vogonwë knew that it was a hand when it was so obviously invisible (as I have already mentioned) is a debatable point, but lets not mince words, it was dark. Very dark. It was, in fact, dark as a moonless night—that is to say, pitch black, and not lit by any light. Inky shadows pervaded the hall, though how there were shadows without a stitch of light I do not know.

Vogonwë could not see a thing, not even with his super-duper sharp half-elven eyes. They were so sharp that they could puncture paper, but at that moment they did him no good, because it was dark (as I have already mentioned).

“So this is the look, the sound, and the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives,” he mused, the original intent of his sentence derailing like a freight train (though there was no such thing as a freight train yet). “What I mean to say,” he tried again, “is that this must be the sound of silence, thought it is not silent anymore, because I am talking.”

Vogonwë then did what any character in a horror story would do—he walked forward. He cautiously made his way down the corridor, using his spiffariffic six-and-a-half elf sense to guide him. No air stirred through the hall, and the air was as stale and stagnant as a tomb that has been shut up for a long time, (though previous to which it had been a very talkative tomb).

As he walked, he thought that he could make out a dim light up ahead. He made for this light, as any character in a horror story would do, and as he advanced it began to grow brighter, as any strange light in a horror story would do.

Vogonwë saw that the light was peeking out from a keyhole in a massive oaken door (though why he paused at this time to ascertain the wood grain of the door is beyond me). Slowly, cautiously, in agonizingly little tiny nanoseconds of slow-mo movement, he reached out his hand to the door. He took hold of the door handle (which was shaped like a serpent’s head) and took a good five minutes to curl each finger around it (as any chara…oh you know).

Let’s skip ahead in the narrative a bit. After a while, he opened the door and stepped into the room. His eyes were stabbed by a flash of neon light, and in the naked light he saw ten thousand people (eh…maybe more). He wondered for a moment if the naked light happened to know the pregnant silence, but let it slide, because his eyes really hurt.

He turned his attention to the people. Their appearances were those of corpses dug from their grave, their skin was a livid white and their eyes were hollow and black. Apparently, he assumed astutely, they too had been stabbed by the malicious neon light. That is to say, he assumed astutely that they too had been stabbed, not that it was apparent that he assumed astutely. The people turned to him and stared at him out of the hollows of their eyes, and he was slightly bemused to notice that from each empty socket there ran rivulets of vivid blood, which stained their livid cheeks red.

The people, previous to his interruption, had been engaged in ever interesting activities such as talking without speaking, hearing without listening, and writing songs that voices never share. Their tongues, it should also be mentioned, slithered out of their mouths, licking at the air with forked tips. As soon as he entered, or I should say a little after that, after they turned to look at him, they proceeded to bow to the neon god they’d made.

And then the sign flashed out its warning, in the words that it was forming. And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls, and whispered in the sounds of silence.”

It then directed everyone’s attention to a nearby slide projector and screen. It continued to further flash out its warning upon that—an ever interesting depiction of (you guessed it) a subway wall. The words that were written on said walls were as follows:

I had a dog, and his name was Spot,
And Spot he liked to bark a lot.
He barked all day, and he barked all night,
The neighbors put up an awful fright.
And now unfortunately Spot, is not.

The neon sign slapped the screen with a stick and said solemnly, “Let that be a lesson to you.”

And then, before their eyes (and eye sockets) the picture changed to a tenement hall. This was even more interesting, as the message it conveyed was:

Kill Vogonwë Brownbark.

“Well,” said Vogonwë. “This is disconcerting.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Up the winding staircase Merisuwyniel went, exploring various hallways in each story as she proceeded, opening and closing doors to the left and right. Drawn on by she knew not what, she went on until she reached the thirteenth floor - well, it might have been the twelfth or fourteenth, depending on how floors are counted in that part of Muddled-berth. There were no doors at all in this hallway, only a large wardrobe at the opposite end. Intrigued by the thought of finding some unique fashions, so outdated that they would be hip again, the Elven maiden tried the door.

It opened quite easily, and two moth-balls dropped out. Looking into the inside, she saw several coats hanging up – mostly long fur coats. Now, despite her love for living animals, there was nothing Merisuwyniel liked so much as the smell and feel of fur. She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubbed her face against them, leaving the door open, of course, because she knew that it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe. Soon she went further in and found that there was a second row of coats hanging up behind the first one. It was almost quite dark in there and she kept her arms stretched out in front of her so as not to bump her face into the back of the wardrobe. She took a step further in – then two or three steps – always expecting to feel woodwork against the tips of her fingers. But she could not feel it.

“This must be a simply enormous wardrobe!” thought Merisuwyniel, going still further in and pushing the soft folds of the coats aside to make room for her. Suddenly a silvery light appeared ahead of her. She stepped out from between the coats into a room lit by the emanations from a silvery globe on a table in its middle, reflected from a mirror on the wall. Fascinated, she approached the mysterious orb and reached out to touch it, startled when it began to hum and glow brightly. She whirled around upon hearing someone speak, but could see no one.

“I’m sorry, I’m not home right now,” said a female voice. “If it’s Sourone, press 1 for my opinion on what you are doing. If it’s my maids, Mildew and Melancholia, press 2 for instructions. If it’s Thing, my pet hand, stop playing around with my Cell-antír! If it’s Friday, press 3 for information on when I will return.”

Puzzled, Merisuwyniel whipped out her pocket calendar to see what day it was. It was Friday, so she looked at the globe, found the number 3 and pressed it. “No, not the day of the week, stupid,” came the answer. “I mean my butler Friday, of course! Now, where were we? Oh, if it’s someone else, press the first five letters of your name for a personalized message.”

M-E-R-I-S, she typed. Suddenly the room went dark and the mirror glowed with a greenish light. Strange symbols flashed, then the likeness of a female appeared. Raven-black hair surrounded a face filled with sadness and despair; blue eyes gazed mournfully as red lips moved, speaking directly to her, it seemed.

“There is only one person whose name has those letters. If you are watching this message right now, there must be some terrible reason why I can’t tell you this myself. Long have I searched for you, but the Elves kept you hidden away too well. I have sent out messengers disguised as suitors to find you, but they lost your trail. I have sought for you with my thoughts, sending you O-mails, but I couldn’t keep the connection long enough to locate you. I have sent you dreams – do you recognize me? Meri, I am your mother!”

Merisuwyniel gasped and leaned against the table for support. Could it be true? Was this the one she had longed for all her life, thinking her long dead? How had She come to this fate?

The image continued to speak, looking and sounding more familiar with every word. The Elven maiden knew that She spoke the truth. Urgently, She continued, “There is a great evil within these walls, so great that I cannot bear my life here any longer. I cannot escape; I am what I have become, and there is no way back. Yet perhaps you will succeed where I have failed, my daughter. I do not know if you will be granted the strength and the means wherewith to conquer the foe, but my heart tells me that you may after all. This is what I know about the artefacts that may be of help…”

Merisuwyniel listened attentively, nodding although she realized that the image could no longer see her. She would ask Etceteron more later, to be able to know and mourn her mother better, but now there was no time to delay. They were all in grave danger. Quickly she took the Cell-antír and ran back through the wardrobe and down the stairs to find her companions.

[Mithadan]

Gravlox reviewed his choices quietly as he stood by a fork in the labyrinthine halls of Moreghoul. The path to the right led to a stairway ascending higher into the tower. There were tacky cloth coverings and worse art adorning the walls and the floors were clean and free of dust from frequent use. The path to the left descended into the bowels of the fortress. Its walls were bare and grey and a layer of dust covered the cheap linoleum flooring.

Harkening to some remaining aspect of his inner Orcish nature, he took the way to the left. Pleasant clouds of dust billowed from the floor as he walked and cobwebs covered the corners -- very homey. He had descended several levels when he heard a sound coming from below. Drawing his blade, Gravlox proceeded grimly down the stairs. Reaching what appeared to be the lowest level, he found a long hall with closed doors wrought of heavy wood and steel on either side. The sound became clearer. Someone was...singing?


Oh, I yam Ornery the eighth I yam,
Ornery the eighth I yam, I yam.
I got married to the widder next door,
she's been married seven times before.
And every one was an Ornery,
The first and the middle and the last.
I'm the eighth old man, I'm the eighth I yam,
Ornery the eighth I yam.
Six million, seven hundred thousand twenty-fourth verse,
Same as the first..."

Gravlox's blood ran cold, even more so than usual. He knew the voice and the name. He ran down the hall until he discovered the door which hid the singer. It was locked. Gravlox searched the area until he found a key ring hanging from a peg. The Uruk fumbled among the keys until he discovered one which worked. The door swung open revealing a dank, dirty, foul, disgusting, slimey and poorly decorated cell. A figure lay crumpled on the floor, still chanting the uncanny tune.

Gravlox stepped into the cell. The figure coughed weakly and stopped singing. It rolled over to look at its visitor with bleary, sunken eyes. It was dressed in rags and its arms and legs were chained to the wall. On the floor, nearby but clearly just out of reach of the prisoner were bowls of rotten food and fouled water.

Gravlox took another step into the cell. "Dad?" he asked in astonishment.

The prisoner sat up as best he could. "Gravlox? Ah, boy, come in. Nice of you to visit your old Father. Its only been, what, twenty-five years? And not even a phone call? Not that I'm complaining, I'm sure you've been very busy."

Gravlox rushed over and cradled the frail figure in his arms. "Phones haven't been invented yet," he replied. "And we all thought you were dead. Killed as a traitor for not causing mayhem."

Ornery coughed again. "No. Not dead. Just old, malnourished and tortured. Not that I'm complaining. At least they gave me the room rent free. How's your Mother, boy?"

Tears ran from Gravlox's eyes. "She ran off with that evil wizard when I was five. Hemlock the Peach, I think it was."

The weary Orc looked up at his son. "That's no excuse for not staying in touch. You could at least have sent a card on Mother's Day. Come to think of it you could have sent me a card too. Would've been nice. Not that I'm complaining."

"We thought you were dead," repeated Gravlox.

"And how's that nice girl you married? What was her name? Razor?" continued the failing Uruk.

"Hazel," answered Gravlox. "We got a DivOrc. She was fooling around with Sourone."

"Never liked her anyway," said Ornery. "Beady little eyes set too close together if you ask me." He coughed again and closed his eyes. "Nice of you to visit son."

"I didn't know!" cried Gravlox. "I would have come for you. Helped you in your quest to be redeemed."

"Redeemed?" laughed Ornery, opening his eyes again. "Look what it got me. We can't be redeemed, not completely. Not in this life. Not when we begin so evil and do so many foul deeds. Too much to make up for. Too many debts to pay."

"But you tried," cried Gravlox. "At least you tried. I'm trying too."

"Son," said Ornery with a smile. "We're born foul and ugly and we die that way. You can't make an Elf out of an Orc. That's beyond our power to do. But we can try. That's all we can do. And maybe someday we'll be rewarded."

And with that, his head fell back and Ornery Uruk III's spirit fled this world. Gravlox cried long and hard. Eventually he stood and dashed the tears from his face. "You have not died for nothing!" he cried.

Then Gravlox, with a heavy heart, turned and made his way back up the steps...

[ April 01, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Diamond18]

Gravlox was not the only one attracted to the path less traveled on. Pimpiowyn's Hobytla nature prompted her to follow the nice and cozy downward slope of another spiraling hallway, which was as sinister in its appearance as a slide at a park. That is to say, very.

She thought that she could smell an enticing aroma beckoning to her from the bowels of the terrible tower, and followed the scent in the hopes that said tower would regurgitate whatever it was that it had eaten, for her.

“Mmm,” she thought, “do I smell bacon?” *sniff* “And sticky buns?” *sniff sniff* “And tender quail heads in a light plum sauce, served with a side of turtle soup and…and vichyssoise?”

She paused. “Two soups? All right!”

She continued walking, sniffing at the air, identifying the other scrumptious odors that pervaded the winding halls. She did not even notice the maze-like twists and turns and cutbacks and cutthroats, so engrossed was she with her olfactory feasting.

It was not until maybe an hour or two later, that she came to a dead end. She was deep, deep underground, and as she stared at the tombstone of the end, she became aware that the air no longer smelt of spelt or any other food stuff. It had a damp, creepy-crawly, earthy smell, which would only have been appetizing if she was in the habit of eating dirt or worms (which she wasn’t).

Pimpi shuddered with cold, and saw her own breath fill the air like a cloud. She turned around and tried to retrace her steps, but half and hour later, she had to admit that she was completely, utterly, hopelessly, lost. She did not recognize any of the tunnels which she traversed, and every path led her to yet another dead end, complete with tombstones and epitaphs.

“Oh no,” she sighed. “What am I to do?”

Then she stomped her foot impatiently and said, “If only O Lando…or Vogonwë was here. Males…they’re always hanging around when you don’t need them, but get into a little trouble and they’re nowhere to be found!”

“Ain’t that the truth,” a cold voice answered from the vicinity of the nearby headstone.

Pimpi turned around and ran as fast as her half-hobbit limbs would carry her. She came to a four-way intersection and stopped. It was then that she was reminded of the existence of her stomach, and the emptiness thereof.

“Oh, I’m so hungry,” she groaned, calculating the hours since last she had eaten. She searched through her pockets for a bite to eat, but found nothing, not even a crumb too small for a mouse.

“I wish someone was with me,” she sobbed, “someone who had some food…”

Even as she said this, she recalled with horror the words of Orogarn Two just before the Battle of Gol Dulldor:

I saw a half-starved half-halfing standing alone and foodless.

“And so it has come to pass! I’m lost…lost, and I can never go home!” she wailed in a moment of high drama. “I’d give anything to see a humanoid face, or what the heck, even a draconic one! I’d even welcome that foul monster if he had some Doritos… And I’d even forswear all memory of O Lando if only that stupid half-elven boyfriend of mine would get his pirouetting behind down here to rescue me!”

Exhausted with this angst-filled soliloquy, she sunk down to the cold stones and cried herself to sleep.

[ April 01, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

As his companions dispersed to begin the noble business of looting everything of value from the suddenly empty fortress of Minus Moreghoul, Earnur was looking for its erstwhile mistress. Their brief reconciliation demanded of him some hopelessly self-indulgent display of emotion, but convention also required that he give vent to his feelings over the body itself, the intuition of modern audiences being what it is (not that there would be an audience, modern or otherwise, because as I said this is serious history and not some tuppenny-ha'penny parody).

With this goal in mind, Lord Etceteron entered the fortress, possessed as usual of the heroic conviction that anything can be found without recourse either to a map or a set of directions. Logic and common sense dictated that he would thus wander pathetically around the fortress until he died of old age or the building collapsed on him, but fortunately common sense was on holiday and logic had been called away on business, because he found what he sought at the end of the very first corridor that he tried.

The fortress had been abandoned with obscene haste. Freed of their mistress' iron grip her guards had simply abandoned her in the guardroom before fleeing, although what it was that they had fled was somewhat unclear. The room was well supplied with weaponry, which hung in racks on the wall, and Vinaigrettiel the Fair lay on a huge rough-hewn oak table from which the remains of a substantial if somewhat simple meal had been swept to the floor to make room. Her ludicrously overstated make-up and odd fetishistic clothes served to enhance the illusion that she merely slept, and the Lord of Dun Sóbrin was overcome. He remained by her side for some time in a rather clichéd orgy of self-pity and belated remorse, which I shall gloss over on the grounds of taste.

Arising after he knew not how many impotent heroic vows of revenge and declarations of eternal remembrance, he grabbed at random a discarded sword and thrust it into his belt, gathered her up in his arms and carried her from the fortress to the rocks beyond. On the side of the hill he found a small white sapling growing in exactly the spot he desired, so he uprooted it and threw it away before beginning to dig a deep grave with his newly discovered weapon. He was shocked and dismayed at a complaining voice that cut through his somewhat overstated misery with unwarranted harshness:

Do I look like a spade to you? I don't know, you sit around completely unused for years and then just when you think things can't possibly get any more humiliating some idiot mistakes you for a common shovel. I'm an ancient and powerful weapon, you know; not some die-cast lump of Orcish junk. You heroes these days have no respect for decent ironwork. I despair of the lot of you.

This complaint was echoed in a thin, tinny voice from the bag of pieces that Earnur still carried:

You fink you've got it bad, mate? Look wot 'appened to me: one minute livin' the life o' Riley in a nice skirmish, next a pile o' Monopoly pieces.

Earnur groaned, not at the gratuitous anachronism but at the realisation that he now had two rather annoying swords on his hands, albeit that the Yob that was Shattered was easy to ignore in its fractured state. The newcomer continued:

And what thanks do you get for wearing out your edge in their service? Dumped in a rack without even a decent lick of oil to keep out the chill! It'll take years of polishing before my blade's back to what it was!

Well, I'm gonna need more than a bit o' bleedin' polishin'. They'll probably reforge me and then give me some stupid poncy name so no-one'll know me from that prat Andëskil...

"Shut up!" screamed Lord Etceteron, driven far beyond the restrictions of heroic language by this mind-numbing barrage of complaint. "I'm trying to bury my girlfriend here, if you don't mind. It's a deeply solemn moment and I don't want your moaning ruining it."

Ha! And you call it a funeral? What sort of a cretin am I lumbered with this time?

You're tellin' me! I 'ad ter put up wiv this cross-eyed berk fer donkeys' years! Just when I fort I'd finally got rid of 'im 'is bleedin' missus takes me out and smashes me bleedin' quillions. Death's too good fer 'er: bloody sword-'ater!

"Right! That's it!" shouted Earnur, grasping the bag firmly and beginning to wind up his arm. "This one's for the old school XI!"

And with that he flung the bag of pieces as far from himself as he possibly could, which was no small distance. To continue his analogy, the pieces went out past the slips and into the ranks of Wisden readers before it even landed, and when it did its contents were scattered to the four winds (or would have been were it not for the law of gravity). The mighty sword Wylkynsion, the keenest blade of Beleriand, would trouble its master no more.

"Hast thou more words to bandy with me, O my brand?" he asked softly, but answer came there none. Lord Etceteron continued digging.

When at last the hole was dug he lifted Vinaigrettiel gently and dropped her rather unceremoniously into the hole, jumping in to rearrange her more decorously. She seemed to have put on some weight since that day at Careless Gardenhon. When he had climbed from the pit he stood by a pace. He said "She has a lovely face; Eru in his mercy lend her grace." but he was reminded of onions and couldn't continue for tears.

So it was that Earnur came to terms with his new and rather more tiresome weapon and buried his beloved, marking her grave with a simple cairn of white stones. They say that it stands there still, although now it bears the phrase "Wot if shed repentd and not bin hit by the lory? Cudl she go inot the wste? lol" written in green crayon. Orcs will be orcs, whatever the age.

[ April 02, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

And so the members of the Itship wandered about the fortress, increasingly less oriented both physically and mentally, each coming closer to his or her personal nightmare of madness. Who knows what might have befallen them had they not suddenly heard a melodious voice echoing through the hallways and passages, calling them back to sanity, or at least a reasonably close facsimile thereof.

“Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3 – I hope this Cell-antír… speaker system… thing is working. Companions of the Fellow/Galship, we are in grave danger within the tower. Please proceed immediately to the nearest exit. The lights will show you the way – just follow the yellow brick road.”

To their astonished eyes, yellow stones set in the shapes of arrows lit up from within. Taking courage, each of them followed the path with hurried steps, rejoicing as they met the others at the junctions. Finally all were reunited just outside of the entrance.

There Chrysophylax waited restlessly, gazing at the pinnacle of the tower, where dark clouds had gathered, ominously billowing about the ramparts. Lightning flashed in jagged streaks and a rumble stranger than thunder emanated from the darkness.

Terrified, Pimpiowyn grasped her horsehead pendant with one hand and Vogonwë’s hand with the other, their previous enstrangement forgotten. Gravlox laid a protective arm around Merisuwyniel’s shoulder; Orogarn clutched his crystal and Etceteron his flask. Even the sturdy Dwarf moved closer to his dragon companion.

They watched spellbound as the clouds moved, shifting to form a gigantic shape. Round and soft and plump it was, and blindingly white, with a ridiculously innocuous smile on its face and a small blue hat perched jauntily on its head. One thought filled their minds – that it must be a particularly horrifying evil creature to choose such a deceptively innocent appearance.

“Ai!” wailed Vogonwë, reaching to his quiver for arrows and throwing them quickly before his courage failed him. His aim was true, but the arrows had no effect; they simply stuck in the quivering mass without doing any harm to the creature.

“Break the Kazoom!” Kuruharan shouted, brandishing his axe and throwing it in a mighty arc. Unfortunately, it passed right through their foe and the cut closed behind it.

Pimpiowyn, not to be outdone, tore the horsehead pendant from its chain. Looking at it one last time in fond memory, she told herself sternly, “One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.” Then she threw it with all her might. A long-drawn, glorious whinny accompanied its flight. Hobbit aim being what it is, it met its mark and exploded upon impact. The white mass began to burn, and for some strange reason, the smell made her think of graham crackers and chocolate, becoming even more hungry than before.

The others cheered, but their joy was short-lived, for the burning wound was quite small in the large body of their enemy. Then Chrysophylax raised his mighty head and spewed forth a flame that engulfed the creature, setting it on fire. Its surface charred, cracked and blackened, yet it was not consumed by the fire. A black smoke filled the air as it raced toward them, its shadow reaching out like two vast wings.

“If we only had the third Cell-antír!” Merisuwyniel cried out. “Gravlox has the golden one from Sourone and I have the one of mithril from my mother’s room. There is another, made of silver, which has been lost. The three together have the power to conquer this foe, she told me. I had hoped that we would have time to search for it.”

Suddenly there came a voice from behind her, chanting words in a strange tongue:
A! Pettygast Gilthalion!
Silver globus bringius,
Ho, Tom Bombadil,
needius is nearius.

Astonished, the companions turned around to see Etceteron speaking. They were rather used to hearing indistinct sentences from him, but these words affected them powerfully. What’s more, they stopped the foe in its tracks. It paused uncertainly. Orogarn Two held up his crystal; a light shone from its depths, blazing suddenly like a white torch in his hand. It flamed like a star that leaping from the firmament sears the air with intolerable light. Its beams entered the cracks in the charred surface of the creature, causing it to writhe in pain.

Then to their surprise, a strange apparition appeared. A beast that seemed to have six legs and two heads suddenly landed in their midst. One of the heads arose, a leg swung over the body and to their complete and utter astonishment, the wizard Pettygast stood before them. In his hand he held a tarnished orb, announcing, “I found this at a yard sale yesterday – thought it might come in handy. I guess it’s just what you need now!”

Merisuwyniel and Gravlox reached into their bags for the other two orbs while the wizard polished his to a silvery sheen. All three then held them aloft; the light from Orogarn’s crystal reflected from the globes, joining to a single, powerful ray that sparkled and crackled, finally destroying the evil creature with a gigantic, gooey, messy explosion.

Overjoyed, the companions danced and hugged each other, and if some of those hugs were more fervent than others, who was to blame them in the excitement of the moment? After awhile they fell to the ground in exhaustion and looked at each other. “Now what?” Pimpiowyn asked the question that they all had on their minds.

[Diamond18]

“I’m surprised that you of all people should ask!” Merisuwyniel replied with a laugh. “We eat it, of course!”

Indeed, this was a very logical conclusion, and a practical one as well, since they were all covered in the white fluffy stuff. It was all over the place, splattered here, there, and everywhere in liberal amounts. Apparently it had been a left-wing monster.

The company (of varied political mixage, no doubt) proceeded to scrape the sucrose rich glop off of themselves, transferring the puffy porridge into their mouths. It was sticky and sweet, like whipped sugar. The taste was also akin to beaten, kicked, and strangulated sugar. They slurped and licked and sucked at the stuff, murmuring their compliments to the non-existent chef all the while. Chrysophylax took care of cleaning the floor, walls, ceiling, and light fixtures. And a good time was had by all.

Vogonwë was the first to complete his self-grooming process, due to his redundantly catlike flexibility, and sandpaper tongue. He then occupied himself with gathering up his arrows, which had been spat out into all corners of the room when the creature which had “swallowed” them exploded.

Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
THE HALF-ELF
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

Slowly, he walked back to the scene of the feasting. All the while his mind was whirring like a cooling fan, his gray matter grating against all morality, decency, and rational thought. Perhaps it was because his head wasn’t screwed on just right, or because his shoes were too tight, or maybe even because his heart was two sizes too small. It could be those things, but it wasn’t at all. It was simply because his brain was two sizes too small. And Pimpi hadn’t let him lick any marshmallow residue off of her. Not even a little. And we all know the reason for that.

And now, the Mangler of Poetry, perceived… His time had come. He couldn’t do anything about O Lando, because he was family. He had almost despaired of being able reek vengeance on Gravlox (even if the Orc had bathed and didn’t reek anymore). But, now it came to him. It came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes or bags. The perfect plan.

“Ahem…” he cleared his throat after a moment. “Er… Gravlox… Sir…?”

No, no, no! his Idea said in a tiny, tinny voice. You have to be assertive! Talk tough! Say something manly!

Vogonwë tried again, “Hey you! Orc scum!”

“Are you speaking to me?” Gravlox asked politely, glancing up and pausing in the task of licking between his toes.

“Yes, I am.”

This is boring. Say something pithy.

“I mean… Do you see any other Orcs around?”

Egad.

“Hey, I’m trying!”

“Pardon me?” Gravlox furrowed his brow.

“Vogonwë, what are you doing?” Merisuwyniel sighed impatiently.

“He’s talking to himself again,” Pimpi shrugged, trying to get at a spot between her shoulder blades.

“I’m trying to do something,” Vogonwë insisted. “So everyone be quiet.” He turned back to Gravlox. “I hereby challenge you to a duel, to defend the honor of my lady, Pimpiowyn Daughter of Éohorse.”

Merisuwyniel’s expression turned irate. “How dare you imply that—”

“I’m talking about the cruel murder of her parents,” Vogonwë rolled his eyes.

“Wait a minute, you are challenging me to a duel? Aha, aha, aha!” Gravlox laughed with exaggerated italics. He sobered momentarily and added, “Again, I’m sorry for my past deeds, especially as pertains to Pimpi here, but—” he paused and sized up Vogonwë, and then began to laugh heartily.

“That seems to be a correct assessment of the situation,” Vogonwë replied, lapsing into Nerdian, a little known Workmudian dialect.

“But Vogonwë!” Pimpi suddenly exclaimed, a look of concern in her eyes (which were still blue). “He could kill you!” She glanced between the two and amended, “he will kill you!”

Oh! This is good, she’s worried about you, that means she still cares, Vogonwë’s ever present and pesky idea said to him.

“That is a risk I am willing to take,” he proclaimed, striking a heroic pose, “for I love you, my Pimpiowyn, with every fiber of my body, even the yellowish-purple bruises in my gut, which you put there with your dainty elbow.”

“But…but…” she stammered.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To see the monster slain?” Vogonwë asked, motioning to the conveniently idle Gravlox, who looked rather innocent with a smudge of marshmallow on his face.

“Yes, but… now that it comes down to it, I’m afraid you’ll get hurt, or something. Don’t be rash, Voggy,” Pimpi pleaded prettily.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this touching scene,” said Merisuwyniel, “but you cannot be serious, Vogonwë. And Gravlox, you can’t accept his challenge, anyway, because it just wouldn’t be fair.”

If anyone is curious as to what the Etceteron, Orogarn Two, Kuruharan, Chrysophylax and Pettygast were doing, they weren’t doing much. They were simply watching the goings-on with rapt attention.

“This is better than a movie,” Kuruharan remarked to his dragon.

“Do you think Gravlox will accept the challenge?” Orogarn Two asked Pettygast.

“How should I know? I don’t even know who he is,” Pettygast replied.

“Well, if he does, I’ll miss Vogonwë’s poetry,” Earnur remarked.

“What is a movie?” Chrysophylax wondered.

Then, Gravlox stood up. They all turned their eyes to him, and waited. Would he accept? What would be the weapons of choice? Would Vogonwë die or merely be wounded? Would this post ever end?

[Mithadan]

Gravlox looked from Vogonwë to Pimpiowyn. Now this is a strange turn of events,he thought. Then he glanced over to Merisu who looked worried and upset. She shook her head vigorously in answer to his unasked question.

Gravlox looked back to the wild-eyed Elf and smiled in an attempt to calm him. But, if anything, the sight of the Uruk's fangs only made him more frenzied. Putting on his best face (such as it was) and using his fanciest language, Gravlox addressed the Elf.

"Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence, and leave me: think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head,
By urging me to fury: O, be gone!"

Vogonwë blinked and shook his finely coiffed head. "Uh, what?"

Gravlox tried again. "What you have charged me with, that have I done;
And more, much more; the time will bring it out:
'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou
That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble,
I do forgive thee."

One could almost hear the gears turning as Vogonwë puzzled over the Orc's words. Then a lighbulb appeared metaphorically over the Elf's head. He took a deep breath and mustered every bit of his verbose abilities. "Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me (and to the fair Pimpiowyn); therefore turn and fight."

"'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes,
Between the pass and fell incensed points,
Of mighty opposites," commented Gravlox casually. Then he fell silent, for the words of his father came back to him: "Brush and floss after each meal."

Gravlox shook his head and refiled that quote for future reference. Then the correct quote came to him: "We can't be redeemed, not completely. Not in this life. Not when we begin so evil and do so many foul deeds. Too much to make up for. Too many debts to pay."

He looked at Pimpiowyn who stood chewing her lip (for she had nothing else to chew on at the moment). As he looked upon the half-Halfling, he thought back to the fateful day which had started all this trouble. He remembered a picnic laid out on a grassy knoll. Heaps and heaps of food were piled atop a red checkered blanket. But the scene changed and a multitude of his Orcs rushed about, growling and roaring and shaking various sharp and unpleasant looking implements of war. They trampled over the picnic chasing a man, a hobbit, and a toddler.

Rivers of blood, pools of blood, cascading waterfalls of blood, gurgling drinking fountains of blood, filled the image in his mind. He recalled slaying her father, killing her mother, lopping the head off of her father’s horse, chasing her with murder in his bloodshot eyes.

“I’m gonna put a maggot hole in your belly!” he had cried. Then an Elf came up from behind, wielding a shovel, ready to strike. He tripped on his shoes and came down upon the Orc’s foot. Foot and Orc separated.

He recalled the aftermath also. His return to Gol Dulldor and his wife and young children and the growing horror at what he had done. And as time had passed, he had become increasingly reluctant to commit mayhem and murder, orders notwithstanding, until, at last, he had stopped altogether...

"I owe her a great debt, one that I cannot repay," he thought sadly. "This is what my father meant. Perhaps if I fight this little twerp and let him live, some portion of that debt will be paid..."

He turned to Vogonwë and gave his answer. "You want a duel? OK. How about hand to hand? No weapons?"

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë’s first impulse was to say, “Let’s get ready to rumble!” but before he could, his Idea stepped in and screamed (though being as it only spoke in his mind, and had no legs, lungs or vocal chords, it’s difficult to explain how this was so):

No, no, no, you blathering idiot! This doesn’t fit with our plan! You can never beat him in a fistfight! Think fast, rabbit!

Vogonwë did not know many things, but he did know that he was not a rabbit, and was about to protest, but the others were waiting for him to answer Gravlox, and so he let it pass.

“I think you are misunderstanding my use of the word, ‘duel’,” he said with as studious an air as he could manage. “The very nature of my challenge makes hand to hand combat difficult. See, when two people engage in a ‘duel’, common Wood-Elven custom dictates that the parties stand back to back whilst a third party counts to a designated number, commonly ten. Each of the first two parties takes a step in the opposite direction, corresponding with the numbers being spoken. Once the desired number is attained, each party turns around and shoots at the other party. The first to dislodge his ammo, kills the other and wins. So you see, this is a contest of who has the quickest draw and the best aim. Any questions?”

There was silence. They all knew that somewhere out there, a fourth party was going on, and that it was a real hot, swinging party, with free beer and a rock band. But something also told them that this had nothing to do with Vogonwë’s three parties. Somewhere, a cricket chirped. Chrysophylax ate it.

“I have a question,” Gravlox raised a hand. “What happens if both…parties…‘dislodge’ at the same time, and both get shot?”

“Then both die. Duh.”

“But what does that accomplish?” Merisuwyniel asked.

“Nothing, but it’s very rare.”

“How rare?”

“Medium rare. Now, can we get on with this? Will you accept my definition of a duel, or not?” Vogonwë challenged Gravlox (as opposed to, say, Earnur).

“I have no bow and arrow,” Gravlox said.

“Merisuwyniel does,” Pimpi piped up.

Merisuwyniel clutched the Entish Bow. “Yes, but…”

“There, then that’s settled,” Vogonwë said. “Now, who wants to count?”

“I’ll do it!” Kuruharan volunteered, always having loved numbers. He walked over to Merisuwyniel, ostensibly in order to take the Bow and give it to Gravlox. He winked and told her quietly, “Don’t worry, I know how to take care of this.”

Merisuwyniel nodded and handed him the Entish Bow. The Dwarf carried it over to Gravlox and said, “Take as big of steps as you can, capisce?”

“Right,” Gravlox agreed.

“All right now,” Kuruharan announced in a loud voice, “back to back, belly to belly, I don’t give a damn ‘cause I’m stone dead already— Ahem… I mean, stand back to back.”

They did so.

“One—”

They took a step apart.

“Two—”

They took another step apart. You were expecting something else?

“Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, nine and one half, nine and three quarters, nine and three eighths, nine and four eighths, nine and five eighths, nine and six eighths, nine and seven eighths, nine and eight sixteenths, nine and…”

[Seven sixteenths later…]

“Ten!”

Gravlox turned around and notched an arrow into the bow. Vogonwë pirouetted and whipped out a couple handfuls of arrows from his sheath.

Gravlox drew back the bowstring. Vogonwë recited a poem.

Or, at least that’s what the others thought. In reality, what he was doing was affixing the most deadly Workmudian Distance-Spanning Aim-Well Spell known to the Children of Ilovetar, to his arrows (as opposed to his hairbow).

Who is Tom Bombadil? (We’ll know when water runs uphill.)
Do Balrogs have wings? (And can they sing?)
Couldn’t the Eagles take the Ring to Mordor?
And was the whole story a metaphor for—
Religion, industrialism, his childhood, World War?
Or was it a prophesy of current events?
And who was the Firstborn, Elves or Ents?
Was the movie any good? (Or does it deserve to be booed?)
Why did they put in Arwen for Glorfindel?
Was it just to sell? (Can’t you tell?)
Was Tolkien racist? (On what do they base this?)
What color is Legolas’ hair? (And does he use Nair anywhere?)
Is Sam gay? (Or was that Gandalf the Grey?)
Are Orcs immortal? And is there a portal,
To Middle-earth? (I think no, for what it’s worth.)
Harry Potter and Star Wars. (Need I really say mores?)

Gravlox released his arrow. Vogonwë released his. They flew through the air, and for one breathtaking moment it looked as if both parties would be struck. But then, lo! Gravlox’s arrow fell to the stones before Vogonwë’s feet, and clattered to a stop dramatically.

Vogonwë’s missiles, however, flew long and true. One by one, in slow motion, they struck Gravlox, some in the exact same place as the others. As each one struck, his head jerked back and his hair flew about his head in an even more dramatic fashion. A look of horrified confusion was writ across his not-so-noble mien—he had never thought that Vogonwë would resort to spells and magick mischief. But so it was.

“Noooooooo!” Merisuwyniel cried, running forward. The very last arrow was flying straight toward Gravlox’s heart, but before it could hit its mark, the lithe form of the Elven maiden intercepted it. This arrow was fixed with the deadliest incantation of all (the one about Arwen) and though it lodged just to the left and above her heart of gold, its effect was terrible.

She fell to the ground with a heart-wrenching cry, and somewhere an orchestral swell could be heard. Pimpiowyn shrieked in horror, Gravlox gasped out the name of the noble lady, and Vogonwë said, “Uh-oh.”

[Mithadan]

"Merisu!" cried Gravlox even as he slumped to the ground. Orogarn and Earnur raced to her side and propped her up between them. Pimpi fell to her knees, covering her mouth with a hand. Vogonwë stood still for a moment in surprise, then tried to hide the one remaining arrow which he held behind his back.

Kuruharan, sensing an opportunity for profit, raced to his pack and began rummaging through its contents. After a few minutes, he stood, holding a small brown bottle in his hand. He raced over to Gravlox and Merisu, then stopped, looking from one to the other. Lord Etceteron looked up at the Dwarf. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you have?"

Kuruharan looked down at the bottle. "Authentic Healing Potion of the Gods," he answered. "Made from 100% Kingsboil, guaranteed to heal any wound, just 6 gold pieces."

Orogarn waved impatiently at Kuruharan. "Get on with it then," he cried.

"Uh," replied the Dwarf. "I only have enough for one person."

"What!" shouted Etceteron. "Can't you stretch it out? Cut it with some booze or something?" Kuruharan shook his head sadly.

"Give it to him," cried the valient Merisu. "Give it to Gravlox! I'll be fine." At that moment, Orogarn yanked the arrow from her chest and was greeted by an inopportunely timed fountain of blood which spurted six feet into the air.

Gravlox sat, propped up against a pack. He appeared to be resting, but he was pierced with many red feathered arrows. "I have done many ill deeds in my life," he said. "I am sorry. I have paid. I pant for life: some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. Give the potion to Merisu." He tossed Kuruharan a bag of coins.

"Sold!" cried the Dwarf. He knelt beside Merisu and poured the potion onto her wound, rubbing it on her chest with barely concealed relish. He rose and went back to his pack to get some mustard as well, but when he returned, to his disappointment, Merisu was fully healed.

The fair maiden scrambled over to Gravlox and cradled him in her arms. "Gravlox, we will get help!" she cried with a sob. "Hold on. Your wounds aren't so bad."

He smiled. "No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a
church-door; but 'tis enough,'twill serve: ask for
me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I
am peppered, I warrant, for this world.
'Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a
cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a
rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of
arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us?" He glared at Vogonwë, who looked over to Pimpi but did not answer.

Gravlox took a laboured breath and closed his eyes. "O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love!"

Merisu frowned down at him. "I thought you said that you don't write poetry," she said.

He opened his eyes. "I don't. But I am well read." He looked down at the blood pouring from his wounds. "Well read...blood...read, get it?"

Merisu laughed weakly. "Save your strength, dearest," she begged.

He coughed again. "Kiss me, then let me look my last into your eyes." Behind them, Etceteron tapped his foot impatiently and checked his watch. Almost dinnertime.

With a sob, she planted a kiss on his lips, then lifted herself slowly to gaze deeply into the eyes of the Uruk. And so passed away Gravlox. Gravlox the Valient. Gravlox the Almost Redeemed. Gravlox the Foul who was Fair. Gravlox All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter. [A marginal note in the text here reads, "Enough already. Too much even for an Ent."]

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

An attendant sat dozing behind a door in a vast hall wrought of black marble. A loud knock on the door roused him. "Funny," he said. "We're not expecting anyone right now." He called a second attendant from the nearby cloak room then proceeded to the door. Opening a small hatch in the door, he looked out to see a dark figure with greenish skin and fangs. The attendant shuddered, then said loudly, "Good morning! We're not accepting any Orcs here, thank you. Good morning."

With that, he shut the peephole. The knock came again, louder and more insistant. The attendant sighed and opened the peephole again. "Lemme in, please," said the Orc. The attendant glared at the annoying figure outside the door. "Listen, idiot," he growled. "We don't take Orcs. So buzz off!"

"I ain't going!" cried the Orc even as the peephole slammed in his face. The attendant turned away, but the knocking resumed, even louder this time. He spun back to the door and swung the peephole open again. "What are you? Deaf?" he shouted. "We don't take no damn, dirty, stinkin, URK..." A clawed hand had shot through the hatch and grabbed the attendant tightly by the throat.

"I SAID, LEMME IN!.....PLEASE!"

The second attendant backed away and turned to run for help. "I'll get Mantoes," he cried...

[Diamond18]

In the Tower of Minus Moreghoul, it was silent but for the tender sound of Elven tears falling from Elven eyes onto Orcish carrion. Gravlox was indeed dead, and if you poked him with a stick, ten to one he wouldn’t respond. Merisuwyniel had no intention of poking him with a stick. Her grief was the kind that doesn’t incline one to use sticks. She stroked his matted hair and tried to remain calm in front of the others, for admirable resolve is as admirable resolve does.

Pimpiowyn rose from her knees and stood a moment watching the touching scene. Then, she began to speak in a sad and regretful tone:

All my life I have wished for avengement,
Never really knowing what revenge meant.

Can his dying conquer their death?
He has paid his debt with his life.
But will it restore them to breath?
Is his end an end to my strife?

And so now he is slain.
Do I call this success?
Her kind heart to maim,
Is this proper redress?
Does her loss mean my gain?
Can my heart feel gladness?
All we’ve left her is pain,
And rivers of sadness.

All her hopes and her dreams,
Fly away on the wind.
Life lives on in a scream,
Yet my wounds never mend,
Blood flows red like a stream.
All we’ve done in the end,
With our plots and our schemes,
Is betrayed our own friend.

Now I want to forgive,
And defy unfair fate.
To live and let live,
But it is far too late.

All my life I have wished for avengement,
Never really knowing what revenge meant.

She sighed, and one of the statues in the corner of the room joined in Merisuwyniel’s sobbing. On second consideration, however, Pimpi determined that the sound was coming from behind the statue, where her hapless love had gone to hide from unpleasant repercussive action anyone might want to take.

It’s hard to say what his tears were for. It could either be the guilt that accompanied the rash killing of a reluctant adversary, the poetic beauty of such awe-inspiring mortality, Merisuwyniel’s nobility in sadness, or the realization that his girlfriend could write better poetry than he could. Whatever it was, it touched said girlfriend’s heart, and she went over and offered him a handkerchief.

“There’s a moral in all this,” Vogonwë sniffed, accepting the hankie.

“Yes…revenge is not sweet, it is very bitter,” Pimpi nodded.

“Well, yeah. I was going to say ‘When Ideas talk to you, it isn’t a good thing, so don’t listen’,” Vogonwë replied. “But yours works too.”

“This is just as much my fault as yours,” she said while he blew his nose. “You did this solely for my sake, because of my desire for revenge. It was a sweet gesture, I suppose, and I was terribly worried for you. But I’m afraid we both owe Merisuwyniel an apology.”

“Yes, an apology.”

“I intend to throw myself upon her mercy, and let her determine what justice must be done,” Pimpi declared resolutely.

“It’s only fair,” Vogonwë nodded.

“Well then.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to as well?”

“I was thinking of hiding behind this statue for the rest of my life,” he admitted.

“No, no. You have to pay the piper sometime. Gravlox had to do it, we all have to sometime. It’s a vicious cycle that you can’t run away from. The only thing to do is stick your head in the gears and hope that it stops them without getting ground to bits,” Pimpi explained. “Come, if we don’t beg her forgiveness now, we’ll be contributing to a cycle, and you don’t want to do that, do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Come on!” Pimpi ordered, trying to yank him to his feet. “Merisu is sweet and kind, she’ll probably forgive us whether we deserve it or not.”

“Yeah, she’ll forgive you! She likes you! She’ll probably have the guys beat me up, the Wizard curse me, the Dragon burn all my hair off, and the Dwarf steal my clothes!” Vogonwë grabbed the waist of the statue and held on for dear life.

“I’ll buy you new clothes,” Pimpi assured him. “Now come on!”

“I’m too pretty for this!”

“COME ON!”

“Oh, all right,” Vogonwë groaned. “I’ll do it—if you’ll promise to marry me later, hairlessness, clotheslessness, bruisedness and crunchiness notwithstanding.”

“You would chose a mortal life for me?” Pimpi asked in surprise.

“Well, technically, I have no choice. See, scholars say that if I have even one drop of mortal blood in me, I’m made fully mortal, and subject to the Drift of Men, unless the Velour step in and barter my case with Ilovetar. But I don’t think they will, because I’ve never done anything exceptional.”

“I see…”

“So here—here’s a tolkien of my undying, dying love for you,” he said, giving her his hairbow.

“You cannot give me this!”

“It is mine to give, like my heart.”

“But, what would I want with it?”

“If you wear it, you can speak the language of the Kevlar,” said Vogonwë, “and you’ll be bullet-proof, to boot.”

“Vogonwë, I don’t want this, I don’t need to talk with the animals, bullets haven’t been invented yet, and besides, it would look horrible with my hair-color.”

“But—”

“Take it back.”

“It was a gift. Keep it,” he insisted. “At least for now, anyway, so if Merisu lets the Dwarf take all my accoutrements, we’ll still have that.”

“Well, in that case…okay.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel lifted her beautiful, golden-tressed head and gazed at the approaching Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë with tear-drenched violet eyes. A human woman would have looked awful, with eyes reddened and puffy, but being a pure-blooded Elf, she of course looked stunningly gorgeous even after crying copiously. She listened silently to their stammered apologies, punctuated (or was it punctured?) with many pokes in Vogonwë’s ribs by Pimpi’s elbow.

“The cause of justice is not served by revenge,” she said. “Your poetic words expressed my feelings as well; I will not take action against you. You have learned your lesson, I hope, and are free to do whatever seems right to you. Indeed, it seems to me that Fate has played a fatal role in these events, for never before has the Entish Bow failed its mark.

“The Bow has had its revenge, and so have you, my dear Half-Hobbit. Yet I have lost not only my last great love because of it, but also my mother, and my first youthful love in the battle as well. Ill deeds have been done here; but let now all enmity that lies between us be put away, for it was contrived by the Enemy and works his will.

“With Chrysophylax’ permission and assistance, I shall bring Gravlox’ body to the River, that Ulmo may bear him to the destination that is determined for him. Then I shall turn my steps toward Minus Teeth, the Wight City. There shall I learn the art of healing, for I will be an archer no longer. Never again shall my hands fit an arrow to the Bow nor draw its string to harm any living creature. I shall learn to preserve life instead of destroying it.

“I will return to you shortly – if any of you wish to come with me, I should be glad of your companionship.” Then, with the help of Orogarn and Kuruharan, she lifted the mortal remains of the Orc onto the dragon’s back, mounted him herself, and he flew toward the River.

None of the Children of Ilovetar witnessed the parting of the Elf Merisuwyniel and the Orc Gravlox, yet the song that she sang was heard far away, in the Halls of Mantoes. It was the song most fair that ever in words was woven, and the song most sorrowful that ever the world shall hear. Unchanged, imperishable, it is sung still in Valium beyond the hearing of the world, and listening the Velour are grieved. Her tears fell upon the banks of the River like rain upon the stones, and Mantoes was moved to pity, who never before was so moved, nor has been since.

Therefore he admitted Gravlox to his Halls, to restore what had once been twisted, that thus whatever grief might lie in wait, the fates of Gravlox and Merisuwyniel might be joined, and their paths might one day lead them together.

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

Pale, composed and determined, the Elven maiden approached Lord Etceteron after Chrysophylax brought her back to the tower. “You witnessed the death of my mother?” she asked. “Would you tell me of her, and do you know where she is now?”

Bewildered, he looked at her. “Your mother? Of whom do you speak?”

“I speak of the deceased mistress of this fortress,” she answered patiently. “She revealed herself to me in a message, yet you spoke of her death before I knew that it was She.”

“You are Vinaigrettiel’s daughter?” Had his flask not been empty for hours, he would have thought himself in a drunken delirium. “I didn’t even know…” His voice trailed off. “Well, I do know where she is now – I buried her out behind the tower. Would you like to see the spot?”

So she took leave of the mother she had never known, mourning their final parting and asking much of Etceteron. And both were comforted in speaking of her. Indeed, Earnur found a new resolve in himself, to aid Merisuwyniel as the last service he could render to his lost love.

When they returned to the others, they saw that all had gathered their bags and packs for the journey. “You know my goal,” the Elf stated simply. “Who goes with me?”

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

At Vinaigrettiel's simple grave, Earnur and Merisuwyniel had spoken much of her mother (although if you expect any explanation of how he never found out she had a daughter don't hold your breath). Mainly he spoke of her beauty, her kindness and her fondness for cats and trifle. He had told the daughter of his beloved of how her mother had destroyed his foul-mouthed blade and redeemed him from its irritating and disloyal companionship. He also told of how they were reconciled at the end, and of his own undyingly manly love.

"Your mother was not a dark Queen at heart," he had said quietly. "That she became one is part of the long and sad history of the Black Sword Wylkynsion, whose mindless thuggery is now at an end." (from down the slope came a thin voice, as of a wasp in a tin box, saying I 'eard that, yer ponce! You'll get yours! but he ignored it). "We were never blessed with children, lady," he continued. "But I see in you that they would have been strong and fine. An ye need it, I vow you my protection. For now there is none in the world with more right to claim it."

Looking up wistfully from her mother's resting place (as is so sickeningly usual with Elves, she looked perfect in this as every other emotion), she had made reply:

"Leave thy vows for the breaking of our It-ship, Lord. For then there will be need of them."

And they had stood long in silence by the grave of Vinaigrettiel; fairest of the children of Elbow Thingy, sharing in silence their grief, and interrupted only by thin and muffled curses from a forsaken bag that only Lord Etceteron could hear.

*********

So it was that the former Black Sword of Dun Sóbrin pledged his manly companionship to the fair Merisuwyniel, and chose to take the road with her to the Wight City with Ten-Thousand Names...

[Editor's note: this catalogue of generic sobriquets would make the Greater London telephone directory look like Sheridan if either existed. It proved too boring even for one of Entish sap.]

... there to find healing for his wounds at the Houses of Bettifordeth, and so to take up once more his manly if random wanderings. There was also a chance that he could get a good deal on a second-hand war-horse in the Motorless City. When later his manly decision became known at large a thousand distillers wept.

"I shall fare with you as far as Minus Teeth, Lady," he said quietly. "And as far on your road thence as I am needed."

[Kuruharan]

The Very Secret Diary of Chrysophylax Dives-

Day-So lost track of it that it would make your head spin…

*BURP!!!* Good thing that Merisuwyniel was distracted by all of her crying when we "plopped" Gravlox in the river. {wink, wink}

He was delicious!!!!

I certainly hope that this does not have any negative impact on any afterlife that orcs might have, but I just could not resist. Gravlox looked so crunchable. And all of those nauseatingly edifying remarks on the futility of revenge made me hungry!!!

Kuruharan said that he did not think it would have any unpleasant consequences. The power of the Velour is greater than any lack of corpse, or something like that. I was not really paying attention to him.

Kuruharan said something about having to get into the snake-oil business. He tells me that I should be great help in this matter.

The way that he’s looking at me is making me nervous…

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

The Very Secret Journal of Kuruharan, the son of Khoreth.

-200 Days after Pre/Post Durin’s Day-

Still reeling from the shock of discovering my heretofore unknown affinity for numbers!!! No wonder I was flipping out in that castle!! Ralph tells me that this feeling should pass soon.

I don’t have the heart to tell anyone that Chrysophylax devoured the earthly remains of Gravlox. I personally don’t see what is so bad about this. Dragon’s gotta eat too. And I’m certain that a two-bit sage off in the East of Rhûde told me that what happened to the body did not really matter that much.

He was a funny chap! All clad in blue robes! There was another fellow along with him too, now that I stop to think of it! What an odd pair they were!!! Relatives of Pettygast more than likely!

Anyway, I just had the most delightful idea. Since the primary demand of these people seems to be for medicinal goods, I need to follow my true calling of becoming a wandering peddler of snake-oil and cure-alls.

Chrysophylax should be of great help in obtaining the snake-oil. He has never gotten along well with some of his cousins. Especially after a certain treasure stealing…uh…misunderstanding.

He keeps on looking at me suspiciously. I’ll let him have the bodies, I dare say, once I’ve drained all the juice out of them.

Ralph said that I could make a 400% profit on my medicines in the current market. I certainly hope so. My profit margin has taken a hit ever since I started on this little trip.

Good thing I ran into Ralph!!! He has some good herbage on his shoulders!!

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

Kuruharan approached Merisuwyniel and Earnur as they were whispering to each other.

"Ahem!" said Kuruharan politely.

"Huh?!" said Merisuwyniel and Earnur together. "Oh, it’s you!"

"I have come to announce that I am taking a brief leave of absence to replenish my stock of miracle cures!" Kuruharan said. "We would not want you to be having any more ‘arrow incidents’ and not have any rotgut on hand to cure it."

"No, we certainly wouldn’t!" said Merisuwyniel.

"We’re out of rotgut??!!" cried Earnur alarmed. "But what about that portable still that you have been carrying around?!"

"It was smashed in our last battle," sighed Kuruharan sadly, bowing his head and putting his hand over his heart.

Earnur suppressed a sob, hung his head, and placed his hand over his heart also.

Merisuwyniel, not entirely aware of the magnitude of this disaster, glanced nervously from one to the other. Then, when Kuruharan signaled to her that she should pay her respects, she hung her head as well.

They remained like this for a long moment. The whole time Earnur was manfully restraining his emotions as only the manliest of manly men can do.

Merisuwyniel was wondering, "Why in the world can’t I have a normal Quest like everybody else?!"

Kuruharan was wondering if he could take advantage of this tragedy to extort some parting gifts from his companions.

"Well, anyway, I must be off!" he abruptly announced.

"Will Chrysophylax be accompanying you as well," asked Merisuwyniel uneasily.

"Yes," said Kuruharan. "I fear that he is the only one who knows how to find the right species of snakes."

Earnur continued to struggle with his feminine side.

"Are you sure that you can’t come to Minus Teeth with us?" asked Merisuwyniel. "I’m sure that they have many fine purveyors of snake-oil there."

"Sub-standard merchandise," said Kuruharan importantly. "The stuff that I’ll bring back will make their heads spin, and cure their baldness!"

With that came yet another parting among the Gallowship. Kuruharan and Chrysophylax bid farewell to their companions.

"I shall return!" cried Kuruharan to the assembled survivors. "Look for me when you don’t expect me."

"Thank you so much for that delicious meal…uuhhh…I mean for your delightful poetry," stammered Chrysophylax to Vogonwë.

"What?" said a confused Vogonwë.

"Bad luck about not finding your wallet," said Kuruharan to Orogarn Two. "It seems like it should have been in that musty, crusty castle."

"I know," groaned Orogarn Two. "By the way, when you get back make sure that you bring the deed to that piece of real estate that you were telling me about."

"You can be sure that I’ll not forget that!" said a smiling Kuruharan.

With that Chrysophylax settled down and the Gallowship loaded him down with baggage.

"Well, that’s it," said Kuruharan as he climbed up to his seat next to Ralph. "Good-bye, be good! Don’t stray off the main storyline! If you do it is a thousand to one that you will ever get out of the entangling sub-plots!"

Chrysophylax prepared to fly.

"Are you sure that you don’t have a small something about you to drink; for old times sake?" asked Earnur petulantly.

"Quite sure!" cried Kuruharan. "Ralph wishes you all the best!"

Chrysophylax rose aloft and started flying away.

Before they had passed quite out of hearing Kuruharan turned and put his hands to his mouth and called to them. They heard his voice come faintly: "Good-bye! Be good, take care of yourselves-and DON’T ABANDON THE PLOT!!!"

"BRING BACK SOMETHING TO EAT!!!" screamed Pimpi. "I’M STARVING!!"

Then Chrysophylax and Kuruharan flew away and were soon lost to sight. But Earnur was uplifted at their parting by the dwarf’s promise to bring back more booze, and was thus confident that somehow, some way their paths would cross again.

Kuruharan could always be trusted to show up when there was a potential sale to be made.

[ April 06, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Pettygast found that he could not stand the loud sobs and groans emitting from the mouths of several of his companions, to say nothing of the sappy poetry and the accompanying background muzak. He pulled himself apart from the group and gazed out into the shadows. With trembling steps, the tall and stooping figure made his way forward to speak with the golden-tressed Merisuwyniel.

"My dearest Lady. I fear the time has come to say goodbye. For my own steps take me far distant from the path to Minus Teeth."

Pettygast looked out to the distant horizon and stared transfixedly towards the west, waiting upon a sign. Actually, he was hoping that someone would recite a poem on his own behalf and play some of that sappy Muzak to make his exit more memorable. But, alas, it was not to be.

He turned about and stared solemnly at the Elf. "I leave now dearest lady." With these brief words, he scooped up his bag of garage sale bargains, which made a great clattering noise, and cradled his staff of living wood close to his bosom.

"But, master wizard, where do you go?

"To a distant shore which can only be reached by the misty way....."

Merisuwynil looked up abruptly, and brought two fingers to her mouth, producing a very shrill whistle that was intended to command the attention of all those who were still alive and who hadn't yet left for other shores. "Hey, everybody, get over here. Pettygast is taking the Good Ship Lollipop and going to the place beyond the great rift and the bent seas which no one can get to but where everyone wants to go.

Several of the company leaned over to wish him luck. There were cries of "You don't say, old chap" and "Have fun!" Oragorn II inquired if Pettygast could look into some real estate deeds for him.

But, above the hubub and the din, Pettygast's irritated voice rang out, "Now, just a minute. I never said that, about going to that place in the West. That's not what I meant at all."

Merisuwyniel fixed a puzzled eye on the bedraggled wizard and demanded, "Then, what in tarnation did you mean?"

"Ah, the West is such a boring place. There's nothing of interest going on there. No, I go to another distant land over the bent way, one far more deadly, the land of Cam-e-oo."

"Cam-e-oo?:" The Elf looked alarmed. "But that is a place of great danger."

Pettygast moaned, "Tell me about it! For that way is perilous indeed. It is for those who are weak of heart and drop into the middle of a quest without truly understanding what's gone on before, and then quietly slip out with some sort of highfalutin excuse. And at the very end, they may be called back again, much to their chagrin and consternation."

"Must you go back to this land of Cam-e-oo?"

"That I must sweet Merisu, for it is a most fleet and fitting end." And he kissed her gently on the hand.

Then everyone waved goodbye to Pettygast as he stumbled out the door. But though the wizard strained his ears to hear the distant notes of muzak, no such consoling sound could be heard.

[ April 10, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Diamond18]

“Wizards are so conceited,” Pimpi remarked, twirling a reddish-golden curl around her finger. “I’m starving, Vogonwë, got anything to eat?”

“But we just had monster residue,” Vogonwë replied.

“Not enough nutrients,” Pimpi shook her head languidly, because of course her hunger was sapping her strength and setting her on the road to complete and utter emaciation by nightfall.

“I don’t have anything, sorry,” Vogonwë shrugged. “Are you sure you don’t have any crumbs of any size or shape left?”

“No, and the high drama of this situation is enough to bore a slug to death,” Pimpi said, realizing that she had to think fast. “Oh! Duh!” she cried suddenly, “I’d almost forgotten! Well, I had forgotten, but saying ‘almost’ makes it sound less idiotic, so—”

“For Emu’s sake, Pimpi, what have you remembered that you forgot?” Vogonwë sped the situation along nicely.

Pimpi pulled a small box out of her frock pocket and held it up. “Magic beans!” she proclaimed. “Saladriel, in her not-queenly graciousness, gifted these to me when we left Topflorien! They were supposed to sustain me when all other salts had petered out, but all this time I’ve been conveniently forgetting that I had them!”

“Wow. Sheesh, and everyone thinks I’m stupid!” Vogonwë said, happily clutching at a proverbial string of superiority.

Pimpi opened the box and popped a bean into her dainty mouth. She chewed and swallowed, and found that her stomach felt full after just one kernel. “These things are amazing,” she commented.

Then suddenly, she felt an odd tingle run up and down her spine, throughout her limbs and her digits and down to the very ends of her hair. It would have been a hair curling experience had her hair not already been curly. Then, before Vogonwë’s amazed eyes, she began to grow taller. She sprouted all the way from a cute 5 feet to a tall, slender 6 feet. This was, conveniently, Vogonwë’s height, and so she could now look him in the eye.

“Ai!” Vogonwë cried, a bit nonplussed by this rather stretchy transformation.

“I feel dizzy,” Pimpi said, “and now my skirt, which was modest and practical before, is shockingly short, ending around my knees!”

“But, but I liked you just the way you were! Short and cute!” Vogonwë said. “Everyone likes short and cute! It was your gimmick! Short, cute, and hungry! Now you look like any old woman or Elf maiden, in too small a dress! I can’t handle change!”

“That’s obvious.”

Now, gentle reader, there is a call for the tacky and trite use of the patient narrator, who must step in and explain something or other. Pimpi was indeed taller, due to the magic bean which she had eaten. You may, gentle reader, be shocked and sickened by this change in a beloved character. And you may, gentle reader, wonder at the motivations behind such a change. You may, gentle reader, become cynical (though gentle) and say that there is no room in Wollyhood for the short and cute, and that obviously female characters must become tall and slender at the end of the story, for there to be a happy ending. And you may, gentle reader, think that the change was made to accommodate Vogonwë. Nay, gentle reader, Vogonwë is having a nervous breakdown as I narrate, due to his inability to accept change. At this time, gentle reader, Pimpi’s newfound height is very daunting to him. He will recover, gentle reader, but that is immaterial. The change was made, gentle reader, because I was bored.

You may, gentle reader, now become violent and scream, “If you say gentle reader one more time I’ll beat up your characters in my next post, gosh darn it!”

Moving on. Pimpi discovered that growing a foot taller was good exercise, and had made her hungry again. She was inclined to eat another bean, but Vogonwë saw what she was at, and snatched the box away. “No more beans!” he said.

“But—”

Vogonwë tossed the box over his shoulder, and it went sailing through the air till it landed in the vicinity of a not-forgotten sack, spilling its beans all over the place.

“Now I’m going to starve to death!” Pimpi sobbed, “and my stockings are torn! And, and my sleeves are too short, I’ll freeze to death! I’m not happy!” She stomped her foot.

Merisuwyniel came rushing forward. The rest of the remaining clap-on clap-off Itship remained in the off position until there should be something interesting for them to say.

“Don’t fret, Pimpiowyn. If you come to Minus Teeth, they will provide you with new clothes, and perhaps the healers can help with those inevitable stretch marks.”

“And they’ll feed us?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute,” Vogonwë said. “I was hoping that after the quest was over, we could go to Chippendale to get in touch with my manly side.”

“Technically, if it was your mother who was human, wouldn’t that be getting in touch with your feminine side?” Orogarn Two spoke up, because he didn’t have enough lines. He was ignored.

“We? I don’t want to go to Chippendale,” Pimpiowyn objected. “I want to go home, to the Home Grown Cows, or maybe to the Shire, to get in touch with my mother’s kind.”

“Ha! Ha ha! You’ll scare them all into their holes with your towering height,” Vogonwë laughed.

Pimpi burst into showy tears. “You think I’m big and fat!” she sobbed.

“No, no, no! You’re tall and slender, as has already been mentioned!” Vogonwë rushed to save face.

“These exclamation marks are beginning to tire me,” muttered Etceteron.

Merisuwyniel sought to calm her demented friends. “Shhh, shhh, Pimpi, no one says that your growth sprout is unbecoming. We’ll find a dress in Minus Teeth that will make you look stunning.”

You may, gentle reader, cry, “Aha! I knew that was the cheap motivation!”

“I’ll bet they have stunning dresses in Chippendale,” Vogonwë said. “Red ones.”

“I wanna go to Minus Teeth with Merisu!” Pimpi wailed in a decidedly childish fashion.

Vogonwë fluctuated for a moment, then said, “All right, all right! We’ll go to Minus Teeth, though I am suspicious of their dentists.”

Pimpi immediately stopped crying. She removed her hands from her face and smiled brightly. “I knew you’d do this for me,” she said, giving Vogonwë a hug.

Then she turned to Merisuwyniel. “We will accompany you to Minus Teeth, and I for one desire to help you in all your future questing endeavors. I want to repay the heartache I have caused you, by being your handmaiden in shieldmadening.”

Merisuwyniel was touched by this declaration of solidarity (an overused word if ever there was one, gentle reader) and she took Pimpi’s hands in hers. "Technically, I gave up sheildmaidening for healing, but who really believes that anyway? I foresee that many adventures yet await us, and it gladdens my heart that through it all, you will be something like a faithful sidekick to me, Kemosabe.”

“Holy Burlesque Spoofery, Elf-maid,” Pimpi exclaimed, “that sounds like fun! All I’ll need is a steed of my own, a cool weapon to wield (along with Hush, a cool lethal accessory if ever there was one, gentle heroine) and I’m on my way to being a true Mary Sue!”

“This is disconcerting,” Vogonwë mused.

“Why do I feel left out?” Orogarn Two worried.

“Female empowerment, my friends,” Earnur explained. “They’re having what one would call a chic powwow, and once we get to Minus Teeth I’m sure they’ll dump us and go watch a chic flick.”

“You’re heroic language isn’t what it used to be,” Vogonwë observed.

“It’s getting late in the narrative, gentle half-elf,” Earner excused himself.

“Oh no,” Vogonwë suddenly slapped his head. “It is late! I’ve been so busy questing that I’ve neglected to write the last five fits of my epic poem! Whatever shall we do without such poetical bulletins as Getting to Gol Dulldor; Crebain, Uruks, and Sourone, Oh My!; Romeorx & Merisuette; Fear and Cheap Horror in Minus Moreghoul; and Duel of the Dunces?”

No one answered his question, gentle reader, because they had all lost interest, and were talking amongst themselves about doubtlessly far more interesting things.

“Oh well,” Vogonwë said to himself (as usual) and sat down, musing, “How am I going to get to Minus Teeth, anyway? I don’t have a horse.”

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two wept openly at the touching sight of Merisuwyniel at the grave of her mother. His mother was also dead, buried in the the Wight City deep in the sacred ground of the Hollowed Tooth, and the memory of her washed over him. He stood for many moments, immersed in the grief he shared with the Elven maiden, and then turned away to face a decision.

Long had he been away from Minus Teeth, and almost as long had he trudged along silently with the steadfast itship, only occasionally aiding his companions in time of dire need or utter boredom. He had joined the group in answer to a dream, and through the hard road from the Hidden Valley Ranch to Minus Morghoul, he had gotten no closer to answering the riddle. Not only had he not had the chance to even one rehearse for his big haired 80s band, but his wallet was still missing. Danged ents!

He absently wiped the grisly remnants of Gravlox from his hands and look to the west where he could just make out the peak of Mandolin, whose snowy slopes overshadowed his beloved city.

“I, too, will go to Minus Teeth,” he declared. “I would show you her wondrous streets and towering ivory spires. We will climb the Great Bridge to the Citibank and from there you will witness the glory of Grundor.”

His fellow travelers smiled at the thought of a guided tour of the Wight City, which was very likely to be in much better repair than Park Galen.

“And there, in the deep libraries, I will research until I discover which light-fingered tree-man pilfered my moneybag!”

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Far to the North, in the wide grasslands for which Men have no name, or at least not one that they have remembered to jot down for the rest of us, roam great herds of wild horses. To these freebooting equine anarchists the very name of 'Mansbane' is an honour, although not many people come by to award it since the blonde fellow had his head stove in.

We run now, via the suspension of your disbelief (we can suspend it for you, but you don't want that), in the company of one such group as it moves to pastures new. The leadership of the herdlet has recently changed, and at its head run two figures who may be familiar to some, for they were later writ large in the legends of the plains (how and in what language or letters is a mystery even to me: people who ask awkward questions come to bad ends). Side-by-side run the great black stallion with flowing mane and sarcastic mien, and the lissom and noble mare, and all others keep a respectful distance from them as they take it in turns to read the map, for a mating pair that can decide on a route together and follow it successfully is a rare thing indeed.

At this stage the pace of the herd is easy, since recently they have been visited by horse-dealers, who have attempted to take some of them back to the Wight City for sale, and some of the horses are still trying to remove pieces of skull from their hooves: their new leaders are not friends to the race of Men, the name for whom in the complicated semaphore of their kind is the same as that for "wearisome irrelevance". In this language, as opaque to humans as the workings of domestic appliances, they speak fondly to one another, exchanging whinnies of endearment.

As they sweep by, we may notice that the map they bear is of unusually fine quality, writ in red and black and in a Dwarvish hand. Those with eyes of unrealistic sharpness might also discern that it bears a message for the reader: "In this style 10/-6d. Haggles to be directed to C. Dives". The horses move on at a speed beyond narration and into a golden sunset.

[ April 17, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Birdland]

“How am I going to get to Minus Teeth, anyway? I don’t have a horse.”
And yo! as soon as this prophetic cue was uttered by the nimble verster Vogonwë, there appeared, as from an author who suffers writer's block, the shadow of massive wings.

"Hey! An Eagle!" cried Merisuwyniel

And the Itship took up the cry:

"Well, would you look at that: an Eagle"

That's one big Eagle."

"I've seen bigger Eagles."

"Yes, but not this far south."

"What is he carrying?"

And with a shriek embarrassingly high for such a massive bird, Haywire the Windlorn hovered over the heads of the astonished survivors and unceremoniously dumped two squirming equine forms at their feet.

"Tofu and Falafel!" squealed Pimpi, whose own voice no longer seemed to match her new size, being higher than woman's wont.

"That's it for me!" declared Haywire. "I'm not carrying anyone else. I have a life, you know." And without further word, the fed-up raptor leapt on high in a flurry of bulky down, circled to get his bearings, and soared off in the wrong direction.

Tofu dropped like a stone onto Middle-terra firma and immediately lost his lunch. Falafel just stood there with a sheepish grin.

"Well, I'm back", she said.

[Mithadan]

[Slow zoom out from the dragon and the Dwarf flying off into the sunset (warn mailroom to expect bags of mail complaining the shot is not faithful to canon) and fade to black]

[Roll credits]

[Cue closing music -- "Kuruharan's Theme"]

Covered wagon, medicine show.
Take you to the place where the healing flows.
Weak in spirit we got the juice,
Won't save your soul, it`ll shine your shoes.
Treated king to kangaroo,
Santa Fe to Timbuktu.
Don`t be fooled by imitation,
This is the stuff that cured a nation.
We took the tube and the high plains too,
Never stopped long just passing through.
A drop of the laughter of the maids of France
Makes a hopeless cripple dance

It was really vile weather,
When we got to tarred and feathered.
You could hear the six guns sound,
As they chased us out of town.

In India we`re all the rave.
Discovered that its great as aftershave.
Dropped in the sea just off Japan,
Swapped 20 bottles for an aqua-walkman.
Immunity from ridicule,
Improves your brains if you`re a fool.
And I read in the Middle East
They traded some for a hostage release.
Now if you`re bald it`ll give you hair,
If you got straight trousers it`ll give you flares.
Feeling up, you`ll get depressed.
Out of style? Here`s a brand new dress

It was really vile weather,
When we got to tarred and feathered.
You could hear the six guns sound,
As they chased us out of town.

The stuff we sell is just the best,
Passing all consumer tests.
Days of heaven, nights of sin,
Voodoo stick and sharks fin.
When all around you seems like hell,
Just one sip will make you well.
Multipurpose in a jar,
If you ain`t ill it`ll fix your car.
In days of yore for all bad feelings,
Washing socks and stripping ceilings.
Nowadays its used medicinally
For all known human malady.

It was really vile weather,
When we got to tarred and feathered.
You could hear the six guns sound,
As they chased us out of town.

Guaranteed don`t you know?
Money back?
You`ll get a no!
It`s the one and only medicine show.

(Big Audio Dynamite, Jones/Lett, 1985)

[Mithadan]

Under the spotlights in Los Angeles, what is real and what is illusory often mix and blur into one another. The result is sometimes art and sometimes pap, but most often falls somewhere in between. But perhaps the most unfortunate aspect of the cinema industry and its market is the tendency of the public to rely upon the judgments of others in discerning art from pap. These others, a most evil and corrupted group, by and large, spend their time deconstructing the work of others rather than themselves engaging in subcreation. Such is the case here.

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

"and 3, 2, 1..."

A red light glows atop a camera and two persons straighten in their chairs. One speaks.

"Good evening. Welcome to "Ebert and Roeper and the Movies [undoubtedly a trademarked moniker, the use of which is here in the form of parody] and tonight we have the most unfortunate duty to review a film which should never have been made..."

"Right, Ebert. Tonight we review the first offering of Estelyn Telcontar to the world of the big screen. While Estelyn is undoubtedly talented, 'Entish Bow' is a film which should never have seen the light of day."

"The word 'sophomoric' leaps to mind, followed quickly by the word 'tortured'. This assay into the realm of comedy is simply not...comedy that is. One need go no farther than the subject matter to determine the inanity of this film. Entish Bow focuses upon an animate tree, cut to pieces, whose parts seek to find one another. If that were not enough..."

A peal of thunder splits the air of the soundstage and a cloud forms above the heads of Ebert and Roeper who cower in their chairs. The cloud glows gold and red and is lit by a bright fire within. From within this nebulous veil comes a deep voice, speaking in tones which shake the firmament.

"Yea, verily! It is well and truthfully said that, 'For this precise reason—that the characters, and even the scenes, are in Drama not imagined but actually beheld—Drama is, even though it uses a similar material (words, verse, plot), an art fundamentally different from narrative art. Thus, if you prefer Drama to Literature (as many
literary critics plainly do), or form your critical theories primarily from dramatic critics, or even from Drama, you are apt to misunderstand pure story-making, and to constrain it to the limitations of stage-plays. You are, for instance, likely to
prefer characters, even the basest and dullest, to things. Very little about trees as trees can be got into a play.' Thou art warned! So sayeth Mantoes!"

The cloud departed with a crash of thunder. The two men straightened again in their chairs and faced the camera.

"Right! A brilliant offering from this freshman tale-weaver, not to be missed! Two thumbs up!"

[ April 18, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Thus endeth Part the First of the Tale of the Revenge of the Entish Bow. Indeed, the Bow hath had its revenge, for She who was responsible for its sundering has perished. And Pimpiowyn has had her revenge, for he who hath cruelly slain her parents has perished as well.

And yet, the Ent That Was Broken is not yet reunited with all of its parts. A sequel seemeth very necessary to bring the tale to a conclusion. Stay tuned for... the Reunification of the Entish Bow!