[Durelin]

Valde had a lovely chat with the trolls on the way to the Trobe Theatre, and began slipping into Jamesian English as he was always wont to do when trying to impress someone, or simply when talking to a number of trolls. He was in great spirits, since it seemed his skill as a playwright was finally being recognized. He mentioned this, and the Trolls seemed happy to oblige in bringing many of his dreams to reality.

“Ah, playwrights. ’Tis a sorry state indeed, that most of thy kind live their fruitful lives unbeknownst to most eyes and ears, until their death bed doth bring them fame.”

Valde bowed his head slightly in respect, smiling at the troll, and flourishing his hand toward him, silently offering a compliment and agreement to him concerning his words. His face practically split in a wide green that displayed yellow teeth to Valde, who politely continued to smile. trolls, no matter their GPA as a graduate of University of Mordor, nor how poetic they could be, often slipped back into their more primitive ways, enjoying praise as a child does. The thought reminded the man of a tragedy he wrote about the ‘Childlike Poet,’ and he was brought back to thoughts of scripts and stages.

“Such is the playwright’s bane, yes. But only one who suffers so can truly grasp the meaning of tragedy.”

“Aye, aye,” the trolls agreed, nodding, and falling into their own deep and dark thoughts of their deepest and darkest memory from somewhere in their dark and mysterious past that made them the brooding geniuses that they were, and which had secured them a part in the upcoming tragedy of the Spamlet.

One troll, the new Trollonius, suddenly spoke up. “I do wonder, though, my dear tragic fellow, if thou would’st be so kind as to act as the sun does on a fog fettered dawn, to scatter the mist that doth cloud my vision on a particular subject that thou knowest well?”

“I would, verily and gladly,” Valde replied in what he believed to be a professional way, hiding his excitement at being consulted by such trolls as these.

“Is a playwright thusly named because he doth craft plays, or because he doth write them?”

Another of the trolls, the one playing Trollrick, jumped in. “Thou knowest ‘tis due to the write, for the answer is found in the very name itself!”

The troll who had voiced the question immediately snapped back at his comrade. “No, thou art a beslubbering pottle-deep coxcomb, and thoust would not know a pillow from a hedgerow!”

“You loggerheaded swag-bellied flea! I shall instruct thee in thy fiendish ways, and show you that it is indeed the wright and not the write!”

The new Trollonius stopped to look at his fellow troll. “What on earth are you gibbering about?”

“How darest you say that I gibber, cur!”

And so Trollrick jumped upon Trollonius in an awful bout, the likes of which Valde had never seen before. Admiring the punches thrown, and with his mind still dwelling on wrighting and writing plays, he made a few notes in his head, hoping to remember some of the moves in order to choreograph a fight scene later. But then Trollonius pushed Trollrick off of him, causing the latter to land on the litter (Valde later tried to say that five times faster) that the man still sat on. He gasped in shock as he felt his seat rock, and squeaked in surprise upon hearing the breaking of wood as Trollonius jumped back on to his opponent. It was not until a screaming Lead Tragic Actor was pulled out of the back of the van along with his fine seat, one troll he knew well, and one not so, that Valde realized that he had not answered the troll’s question yet.

Rising from the pavement and rushing out of the street, rubbing his bruised bottom, Valde watched in awe as the two trolls continued their brawl in the street, and caught the last sight of the Pretentious Blimcasting Corruption van with a mournful glance. Tires screeched and several crashes rang out as the orcs, poor drivers as they were, failed in coming to a halt soon enough and were forced to hit more solid objects than the trolls in the middle of the road. Valde counted exactly five cars that had found each other to be their preference when it came to solid objects. At least the victims of the accident could be comforted in knowing that Mordor’s towing companies would soon be on their way.

“It is playwright, you know,” Valde shouted at the wrestling duo. Somehow, Trollrick had found a ‘mail receptacle’ and had it raised above his head, prepared to keep Trollonius down for the count, but he paused now, and both turned to the man on the sidewalk. “Wha?” they both asked, and Valde shook his head, and swirled his cloak in a dramatic fashion as he turned to walk briskly away. But he stopped in his tracks and turned back to the trolls with just a bit more dramatic swirling. “W-r-i-g-h-t. You know, like those Wright brothers who Trollinci is suing over stealing his designs.”

Trollrick dropped his ‘mail receptacle’ with a heavy metal thud, and began to wail. Trollonius placed a comforting arm around him, and the two began to share some strange kind of moment of reconciliation, though it was as if it were a scene from a play that they should never have been characters in, with Trollrick muttering something about ‘tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’ Valde bothered them only once more after a moment, asking politely if they could tell him where ‘Edge-where’ was. They gave him detailed directions amidst sobbings and splutterings and many a ‘thou,’ ‘tis,’ and the like. The Lead Tragic Actor, feeling even more tragic at having lost his part, settled on a solemn vow to make it out of Mordor, even though he knew that it would make such a good play if he did not.