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Old 03-16-2004, 03:10 AM   #148
The Saucepan Man
Corpus Cacophonous
 
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Join Date: Jan 2003
Location: A green and pleasant land
Posts: 8,468
The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
The Eye

Soregum stood on the ridge overlooking the GAP of Soreham and watched as the Shopped-out-ship made ready to leave the parking lot. He recalled what Ssssam the Thingwraith had told him the previous day, in between enthusiastic descriptions of the revue that they were rehearsing for the planned celebration of the Dread Developer’s soon-to-be dominion over Muddled-Mirth. Môgul now wanted Soregum to infiltrate the Quest-ship. To what purpose, he knew not and could not guess. But here he was with an immediate opportunity to carry out his Master’s command.

Then again, the shopping mall did boast a rather good cake shop. And a hostelry of some repute. And a tobacconist (even though Ssssam had delivered a welcome consignment of Old Toothrot from Moredough, one could never have enough pipe weed) …

Predictably, Soregum was, within the hour, seated comfortably in a corner of the Happy Chopper, sinking his fifth pint of ale and mopping up the gravy from an otherwise empty plate. He had noticed the sign of the Red Nostril above the shop-fronts in the GAP, and again found himself strangely disconcerted by this further evidence of his Master’s ever-increasing hold over Muddled-Mirth.

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

The following day found Soregum and Twinkle once more picking out with ease the trail left by the Clutter-ship. It led north-west. Towards territory that Soregum knew well. In that direction lay the Mire, with its comfortable inns, well-stocked pantries, provincial attitudes and petty bourgeois sensibilities. But first the Meander-ship’s route would take him through the Marrow Bones, a haunted region populated by pale insubstantial wights whose obsession with the spectral realm (vértuïll ríallitïe in the Simian tongue) had led them long ago to abandon the physical plane. The thought of venturing into that forbidding land filled Soregum with dread. What was it his old Duffer used to say? Ah yes, Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Marrow Bones. Then again, he had been in the advanced stages of senile dementia by then.

As they ascended the first of the hills that marked the boundary of the Marrow Bones, Twinkle let out a gentle whinny to signify her irritation at being so heavily laden with the numerous sugary foodstuffs, potent ales and varieties of pipeweed that Soregum had stocked up on in the GAP. Yet, as they journeyed, the sun mounted and grew hot, and the going was surprisingly pleasant. Their path wound over broad hills and through deep valleys. There was neither tree nor shrub to be seen but, atop the hills on either side, Soregum could make out the jagged piles of sun-bleached rocks, like the bones of the great beasts of old, which gave the region its name. He was glad to see that his quarry had kept to the path, since he recalled from his youth the warnings given to travellers through the Marrow Bones: Don't stray from the path! Mind you, where Soregum grew up, just about anywhere else was considered the kind of strange and unknown territory in which one was well advised to keep to the path. Still, Soregum thought it better to be safe than sorry and made sure that Twinkle’s dainty footfalls scrupulously followed the narrow muddy trail that wound through the bleak landscape.

About midday, they stopped in a hollow circle in the midst of which stood a single white stone. It was shapeless and yet significant, as if marking the forum for some ancient gathering. The path wound around the hollow and, taking care to keep it in sight, Soregum settled down to indulge in the delights of the GAP’s food halls. Twinkle, unburdened, strayed upon the grass. And it was not long before, having made light work of the contents of her saddlebags, Soregum’s eyes began to droop.

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

Suddenly, he awoke from a deep sleep that he had never meant to take. The sky above was black and, to his dismay, Soregum saw that a dense green fog had built up around the edges of the hollow. He sprang to his feet in alarm, and ran to the rim, but the path was nowhere to be seen. And neither was his little pony.

“Drat and confound you, Twinkle!” he called. “Where are you?”

Receiving no answer, he began to cast about first one way and then the other, desperately seeking the path, which impertinently defied his attempts to locate it. Then, turning back, he found that he could no longer see the hollow from which he had emerged. Swirls of thick green mist surrounded him in every direction, blocking out all but the blackness beyond, and it seemed to Soregum that it was whispering to him. Straining his ears, he realised that the whispers were faint voices. And they seemed to be debating and discussing matters pertaining to Muddled-Mirth, both trivial and arcane. Some courteously, yet others less so.

“Was it fate, my dears, that led Feeblenor to depart Valleyum, or did he do so of his own free will?” whispered one ghostly voice.

“Oh no, my dear. It was his fate to fulfil the doom of Mantoes.” came the faint reply.

“You’re talking rubbish,” intoned another. “You’re thinking of Tintin Rum-baba.”

“Oh, I like him,” interrupted yet another faint voice. “But who’s your favourite Elf?”

“No no, my dear. Do not ask such things here,” a slightly sterner voice reprimanded. “You must go to the hill of Nand’n.”

Then, suddenly, a new voice, harsh and insistent, began to bellow in the Black Speech of Slangbad.

“HAHAHAHA!” it roared. “U IZ AL LAMERZ! LOL! WOT U AL DOIN HEER??!!!! I ROOL HEER COZ I IZ K666L! I IZ NMMUBER 111111!! U IZ 0000!!! HAHAHA! DUM WIHGTS! LOL! L8RZ!!!”

“Troll!” whispered the ghostly voices as one in apparent alarm.

Panic seized Soregum and he began to run as fast as his ill-fitting boots would allow. He ran blindly and with no idea of where he was going, his outsized black cloak billowing out behind him. All he knew was that he had to get away. And as he blundered through the thick fog, the whispers of half-caught conversations continued to beset him from every direction.

“What befell Pettyghast, my dears? What befell him at the Balfrog rumble sale?”

“… with wings … no such … [QU0TE] ‘fly you fools’ [/QU0TE] … fallen into shadow … Nazzgurl …”

“… nature of evil … loyers … my dear … no such redemption …”

“… think … from the void … said ‘Doh’ … meant …”

“… Zerls … come from … I believe that … Last Home Grown Cows …”

“… but Lord Roneld … more powerful … Elvish Non-Queen Saladriel, my …”

“… but what … mean when you say … power … saw in … Salad Bowl … Workmud …”

“…structure … theme … poetry … Vogonwë … clearly symbolic … cruel and unusual torture”

“… allegory … bah! … applicability … ”

Desperately, Soregum bobbed and weaved, trying to escape those insistent voices. But still they continued. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to him that one of the wights addressed him directly and he stopped, as if bewitched.

“Welcome to the Bones, my dear! Enjoy being dead! Lol! Pï-émm me if you have any questions …”

“SQUEEEEEEEEE!!!”

The shriek pierced his ears and he fell to the ground. Quickly, he picked himself up and carried on running. Somehow, he knew that if he stopped for just one minute to listen to those spectral voices, he would find himself caught up in their ghostly conversations. And then he would be lost.

“… my dears … Roneld’s guestbook … cannot find ... love it so … gone …”

“… luv O Lando … going to … marry him …”

“… wave … Orogarn … Disco King …”

“Orogarn Two!”

The last voice made Soregum stop in his tracks, for it was deeper, somehow more real, and it seemed to him that it came from the ground below him. And even as he stood there, his ears straining, the mist rolled up and thrust aside, and the starry sky was unveiled. A glance showed him that he was now facing southwards and was on a round hill-top, which he must have climbed from the north. Out of the east the biting wind was blowing. To his right there loomed against the westward stars a dark black shape. A ruddy great gothic mansion stood there.

“Where are you?” he cried, both angry and afraid.

“Here!” said a voice, fair and cold, from within the black marble edifice. “I am waiting for you!”

His heart in his mouth, Soregum drew his cowl closely about his head and crept towards to the great doors. As he reached out to turn the handle they swung open and, even in his fearful state, Soregum rolled his eyes as they creaked in predictably gothic fashion. A swathe of grey-green smoke poured out. Now Soregum’s constitution was well-acquainted with a variety of toxic smoke-borne chemicals, but it was sorely flummoxed by those which infused the mist which now enveloped him, and they had an immediate effect. Against his will, as if pulled by some ethereal force, he stumbled forward into the dark forbidding interior of the mansion.

“Darling! You’ve arrived!”

Then painted fingernails stronger and colder than iron seized him. The icy touch froze his bones to the marrow, and he remembered no more.

Last edited by The Saucepan Man; 03-16-2004 at 06:46 PM.
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