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Grrralph then threw down the wooden club that had so mysteriously appeared in his hands. Where it had come from, he did not know and did not want to consider, being as the fact that he wore red sox beneath his thigh high red boots was his own little secret. His appreciation of the obscure rituals of the peoples of the distant land of of Zænd-Lôt had little to do with this tale.
He cleared his throat and looked off towards the west before asking nervously, "Do we now proceed on to the Pay-Havens where you plan to take ship into the Lands of Mith far over the seas?"
"Nay," replied Merisu, with a toss of her comely hair. As usual, a ray of light suddenly appeared to illuminate her lovely tresses as she spoke. "We go now to the fair to middlin' land of the Mire, where we can rest for a time from our adventures."
"What is the Mire like?" asked Grrralph hesitantly. Here, Pimpi interjected her response. "It is a place of rural fields and many cow pastures, for the people of the Mire love their food and especially their beef." And if Pimpi drooled a bit as she spoke, she must be forgiven, for she spoke of a place and a pastime dear to her heart.
"Then we will not be attacked there?" prodded Grrralph. "No," answered Pimpi with a smile. "We will not be caught up in a disater, tragedy or other devastation?" he queried. "No," replied Pipmiowyn patiently. "We will not be dumped into a dungeon?" continued Grrralph. "No," responded the half-Hobbit with an impassive face. "We will not be enchanted, bound, chained or otherwise bushwhacked?" asked Grrralph. "NO!" cried Pimpi with a scowl. "The Mire is a land of peace and plenty!"
Grrralph capered happily in the road. No ships, no ocean travel, no emotional or physical distress; the Mire sounded like a place he would like. He realized suddenly that it had been some time since a show tune had come to his mind, and, as he skipped almost happily along the path before the rest of the Very-Mistakenship (Pimpiowyn in particular), he began to sing.
"Oh the Mire-Folk and the Itship should be friends!
Oh the Mire-folk and the Itship should be friends!
The Mire-folk like to eat a cow,
the Itship makes things go ker-pow.
But thats no reason why we can't be friends..."
So the Thoroughly-Deludedship proceeded along the road to the west, and in the space of a day or so, found themselves amid carefully tended, if a bit muddy, fields on which stood quaint thatched houses of wattle and mud-brick. A hill stood before them which was riddled with holes and burrows like the work of huge termites. The sky was blue and the sun was bright. All seemed well...
"#@%$&%$#@," cried Kuruharan. The members of the Itship halted and turned to see what ailed the Dwarf. He stood at the side of the road, holding the rail of a fence with one hand and wiping at the bottom of his left boot with a leaf held in his other hand. "Cow patty!" he grumbled as he rubbed the sole of his footwear. And so it began...
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