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Old 01-14-2004, 12:58 AM   #123
Diamond18
Eidolon of a Took
 
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Join Date: Sep 2002
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Silmaril

Pimpi was slightly perplexed. The whole episode unfolded before her large, stunning, innocent yet seductive blue eyes, in a manner she could hardly follow. A lot of hacking. Or something. Earnur was having a row with the trees, and also shouting periodically at Vogonwë to shut up, which was very disconcerting, as Vogonwë was nowhere to be seen, or heard. She was beginning to get a little worried about him (hobbit alarm being notoriously slow to set in) and she thought to tell Earnur that she did not find his references to her missing beau the least bit funny.

However, after observing the mad gleam in his eyes and the irrationalities flowing from his mouth, she thought better of it. So instead, she decided to busy herself by cooking dinner. There was plenty of wood for a fire, and so she drew from her skirt various implements of food preparation—a kettle, a stirring spoon, mushrooms, a side of ham, etc. and set to work creating a stew. She hummed a merry little tune as she did so (something about “all shall fade” and many paths being available to tread) and her mind was happily taken off both Vogonwë’s alarmingly long disappearance, and Earnur’s alarmingly fey behavior.

“Mmmm,” she said to herself, sprinkling some thyme over the bubbling stew, “I think this pot is turning out extra good.” Pimpi, being half-hobbit (in case you’d forgot) was an excellent cook. A culinary goddess, if you will, and so any stew she stewed was good but an extra good stew by her was divine, if you will. Vogonwë was half-human, so half the way to his heart was his stomach (or something like that) and she knew how much he liked her stew. He had composed a poem about it, and also mentioned it in his ode, “Ten and a Half Things I Like About You”.

Pimpi recalled, at that inopportune moment, that both her parents were dead, she had found no relations back in Soreham, her fiancé/boyfriend/thing was lost in a hostile wood, and that the last words she had spoken to him were “get lost”. That she had been translating for Merisu meant little at this moment. So, naturally, she burst into large, stunning, innocent yet seductive blue tears.

Her tears fell like rain (or some other liquid that falls) into the kettle of stew, and lo! it became a magic stew, so that whomsoever should partake of its bits and broth, should henceforth know bitter anguish until the end of his/her/its natural born days.
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