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Old 11-14-2003, 09:01 AM   #104
The Saucepan Man
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The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
The Eye

“How can it have come to this?” Cir-Roïalle the Underwrighter mused sadly to himself as he watched a troop of Orcs removing the nameplate outside his offices under the direction of a coven of gleeful Korprat-Loyers.

The Last Alliance Mutual Insurance Company had been serving the insurance needs of loyal customers in Muddled-Mirth for some 3,000 years. But two recent claims in short succession had devastated the company’s balance sheet and left Cir-Roïalle with no option but to sell out to the highest bidder. The claim for structural damage to the Goldlamé Hall would have been manageable on its own, but the flood damage and business interruption claim lodged by Lord Dimli shortly thereafter had been enough to seal the Last Alliance’s fate*.

The Elven Underwrighter absent-mindedly stroked his beard as he reflected ruefully on the circumstances that had led him to this sad state of affairs. Was it coincidence? Or was there some terrible and catastrophic force at loose in Muddled-Mirth leaving a trail of destruction and devastation in its wake? Suspiciously, reports of Dragon sightings had found their way into the loss adjuster’s reports on both incidents. And then there was the Minus Teeth claim. That had seemed to involve a Dragon too. Cir-Roïalle wondered at the foresight of Malbeth the Insurer of the Arnorian Royal Exchange in writing an Urulóki Exclusion into his coverage of the Wight City.

He grimaced as the Orcs replaced the previous nameplate with a massive obsidian monstrosity bearing a Red Nostril insignia and the inscription: “Môgul Claims Direct, a subsidiary of Môgul Enterprises LLC”. Then, ruefully, he turned away resigning himself to his new life in his brother’s shipbuilding business.

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

Meanwhile, back in Soreham, a small cloaked figure astride a dark but delightfully delicate pony was lost in pleasant thoughts involving a comfortable hole in the ground and a certain cute, blue eyed, red curled maid as he made his way towards Ham Steep.

On reaching Improvas, he had deduced from the pile of rubble that had once passed for the Goldlamé Hall that the Whatevership had already passed through. Clearly, there was no time to lose. And so he had immediately headed for the nearest tavern.

Some hours later, having enjoyed yet another hearty Sorethighim repast and restocked his pouch with the local pipeweed, Sorehamlet, he had been relaxing in a comfortable chair by the window downing his eighth pint of ale when a commotion outside had drawn his attention. Gazing out, he had seen a group of sheepish Orcs bearing the sign of the White Mouse that marked them out as minions of the Wizard Sauerkraut being forcibly ejected from the city. With some concern he had wondered whether his Master’s plans for Soreham might have gone awry. And his concern had turned to confusion as he had observed the sinister figure of a Korprat-Loyer, surrounded by Red Nostril Orcs, in deep and conspiratorial conversation with Théboleggen King. But, placating himself with the thought that his Master surely knew what he was doing, he had turned back to share his pint’s fate in getting well and truly drunk.

The next day, a somewhat bleary-eyed Soregum had experienced some difficulty in tearing Twinkle away from the delights the Sorethighim stallions that had spent the night vying for her attentions. But, at last they had been on their way and had soon picked up the rubbish-strewn trail of their untidy quarry. And, as they had navigated the paths of Soreham, on route to Hams Deep, Soregum had noted with interest the billboards that appeared to have sprung up overnight, each bearing the unmistakable Red Nostril of his Master.

“Hello Boys!” declared one underneath the image of a flirtatious Shieldmaiden clothed in a chainmail bikini that seemed to emphasise her upper body musculature (or something like that).

“Because I’m worth it!” announced another as an unfeasibly gorgeous Elf ran his fingers through his golden locks**.

“Vorsprung dóork Têknik” stated a third in the harsh tongue of the Dwarves, next to the image of a suitably dour Dwarven Craftsman displaying a range of Axes for every occasion.

Soregum should have been comforted by these signs of his Master’s success in these lands, and yet he had felt strangely saddened by what had seen.

And so it came to pass that, after only two day’s hard (but dainty) ride, Soregum and Twinkle found themselves on the final approach to Ham Steep. As their journey had taken them closer to their destination, Soregum’s spirits had gradually lifted. The luxury resort and casino was well known to him and he had veritably bristled in anticipation at the thought of a brief interlude enjoying the delights of its rûë-lét wheels and pöekar tables, not to mention its exotic wines and spirits.

“Happiness is a pipe called Sorehamlet,” Soregum thought to himself as he puffed away contentedly, recalling yet another of the billboards that had lined his route. And, as a distant rumble reached his ears from beyond the spur that marked the entrance to Ham Steep, he wondered at the power of the music machines on the dance floors of the entertainment complex. Yet the rumbling seemed to be getting louder. Twinkle began to whinny nervously (yet cutely) at the building crescendo.

Then the wall of water hit them.
___________________________________________

* Fortuitously (for him), Lord Dimli had somehow managed to “lose” the documents transferring ownership of Ham Steep to the Gateskeeper in the confusion occasioned by the impromptu flood.

** Sad to relate, but O Lando L'oréal Bloom’s agent had not been able to find it within himself to refuse the offer made by Môgul’s publicists.

[ November 17, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]
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