[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 ]