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Old 04-02-2005, 08:37 PM   #249
Eidolon of a Took
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Eye The Lay of Vogonwë's Temptation

Next Mogul beckoned to Vogonwë Brownbark, son of Geppetuil the Elven-partyking, third cousin of Thranduil, Thrice Removed. Far from the boughs of Workmud had Vogonwë traveled, in passive voice. When he was but a wee elf-lad, he would never have dreamed of finding himself one day standing on the shores of Valleyum, face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour (as Mogul did seem to him at that moment). But there he was, undeniably standing there. And there was Mogul. And by all appearances, this surely was Valleyum.

He would have continued to marvel at these facts if a vision had not appeared to him then. But it did, so he didn’t.

He saw himself no longer standing on the shores of Valleyum (face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour) but rather he was riding through the boughs of Workmud on a gallant steed the color of wet sand. A steed with a twinkle of immense intelligence and dry wit behind its almond shaped eyes. The horse tossed its flowing mane and snorted, rearing onto its hind legs and pawing at the air majestically. Vogonwë’s own luxuriant gray-brown hair flowed behind him in the non-existent forest breeze, and he tossed his head as the horse reared. His locks danced about his head yet fell back into place impeccably.

“Whoa, Nelly,” said he, and his mount dropped its hooves to the fertile Workmud loam, snorting and pawing like a truly gallant steed. There before him gawked a gaggle of fine Workmudian lasses, who somehow found his luscious locks and skittish horse all very manly, or elvenly, or whatever.

“Oh Vogy,” one sighed, “recite us some poetry!”

He smiled (with gleaming white teeth) and opened his mouth to recite them some poetry, but of a sudden there came a commotion from his left, and his right. And behind! There was commotion all around! The elven lasses squealed and huddled together as vague yet menacing shapes advanced through the trees.

“Orcs!” Vogonwë exclaimed, making a face as if Orcs did smell mightily bad. (Which they do).

“Oh no!” screamed the lasses.

“Never fear,” he said, winking, and quick as a flash drew a handful of arrows from his quiver. Without hardly seeming to look, he hurled them in every direction, and lo! every one of them hit its mark, the blood curdling scream of an unlucky Orc signaling his success. Vogonwë’s hands moved at lightning speed, drawing arrows and flinging them into the woods, yet his head remained squarely upon his shoulders and he even had time to wink some more at the fine elven lasses.

When the last Orc was killed (for the foolish creatures kept coming even in the face of his awe inspiring arrow tossing) Vogonwë brushed one stray hair back down into place.

“No more orcs,” he proclaimed, and the lasses jumped and clapped and whooped and hollered.

“Poetry! Poetry!” they cried.

And then, he did recite them a poem. It was the most beautiful poem ever to be recited in the boughs of Workmud, or anywhere else for that matter. Even Vogonwë marveled at the words dripping from his tongue as if he were Midus and his drool liquid gold. Effortless rhymes came into his head and he wove an epic so beauteous, so moving, so lyrical, so dashing, that the fine elven lasses began to either swoon or throw items of their clothing at him (depending on their stamina).

The poem came to its triumphant conclusion just as another figure burst through the trees.


It was Pimpiowyn, fairest of all the fine young lasses. She bounded gracefully into view, her golden curls flying about her head in a blaze of bouncing tresses, and her gigantic, almost animesque eyes (Vogonwë did not know what animesque meant anymore than he knew who Midus was, but such thoughts kept leaping to his head as if he were coining them himself) blazing with a fury so awful and terrifying that the elven lasses screamed louder than they had for any Orc. Pimpi brandished Hush above her head, her shapely young bosom heaving as she arched her back and hissed like a cat.

“Get away from my half-elf!” she cried, and fell upon the lasses in a rage. Chop, slash, gouge, slice, rip went Hush as Pimpi mowed through the half clad she-elves, screaming “He’s mine! Don’t even think it! If you want him, come and claim him!” and other such territorial declarations. Soon a waste of blood and gore replaced the group of lasses, and Pimpi stood triumphant in the carnage.

“Pimpi-love,” Vogonwë sniffed, moved. “I didn’t know you cared so much!”

Pimpi put away her sword and smiled prettily up at him. “Of course, Vogy-my-dear, I love you more than any other and no one shall ever come between us.”

Just as she said this, two more figures burst from the trees. One was instantly recognizable as O’Lando L’oreal Bloom, his distant cousin, and the other was a squat fellow in a cloak. Soregum!

They panted after Pimpi, exclaiming in unison, “We love you, Pimpiowyn, let us come between you!”

But Pimpi strode past them and put out a hand for Vogonwë to hoist her up onto the back of his gallant steed. She did not look towards them or even seem to hear them -- she took no notice of them whatsoever, as if they did not even exist. “Come, Vogy, my genius,” she said, “your father is throwing a massive party in honor of your mother coming back from the dead, and you are to recite a poem for her, so we must hasten before we are too late.”

“Gladly!” Vogonwë cried, his heart soaring. He lifted her up, light as a feather, and urged his horse forward as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Shall I practice my recitation as we ride?”

“Oh yes! I would love that!” said Pimpi with the utmost sincerity.

O’Lando and Soregum, meanwhile, were moaning and crying out for her attention and affection. Vogonwë waved gleefully to his cousin as he rode away, trampling Soregum deep into the fertile Workmud loam in the process. They galloped off into the sunset, Vogonwë chanting a stupendous ode as Pimpi sighed dreamily, their hair flowing out behind them, tangled together in the non-existent forest breeze.

And then, it was over, and Vogonwë found himself standing again upon the shores of Valleyum, face to face with the mightiest and most poetically gifted of all the Velour.
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