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Old 09-12-2003, 10:46 AM   #66
The Saucepan Man
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Join Date: Jan 2003
Location: A green and pleasant land
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The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
The Eye

“Are we there, yet? I can smell burnt dog flesh.” whined Schnozza in a voice which seemed to emanate almost entirely from his bulbous nose, despite the constant stream of thick unpleasant gloop that should have blocked its passage.

“What’s that, sonny? I can’t hear a word yer saying for the racket of those darned hooves and that blessed music,” replied Sedric, his ears flapping in the soft breeze as he swayed unsteadily on his scrawny legs.

“Don’t be silly,” giggled Snigga as his bulging eyes scanned the horizon. “There’s the King’s Hall, look. Over there. They just went in. Hehe. We got miles to go yet.”

The group stood on the outskirts of Soreham regarding the wide plains and great open lands of the Mike, the dazzling view spoiled only by the detritus which marked the passing of their quarry. They were indeed at least a days’ ride from Improvas. The stubborn footfalls of Twinkle had proved no match for the sturdy mounts of the Riders of Soreham and the Guys’n Dolls-ship’s own steeds and so they had fallen somewhat behind in their pursuit.

“Who you callin’ silly, yer gibbering clown?” growled Schnozza.

“That would be you, big-nose.” tittered Snigga.

“Eh?” said Sedric.

“Why, you …” spluttered Schnozza, picking up a rock and hurling it at Snigga. The goggle-eyed Goblin ducked and the rock hit Sedric squarely on the forehead, knocking him to the ground. Snigga was by now giggling uncontrollably.

“Hey! Watch it, sonny. Or I’ll punch that fat hooter of yours clean through yer head!” exclaimed Sedric, his joints creaking as he slowly picked himself up.

“Oh yeah! You and whose army?”

“Barmy am I? Well, I can still show yer a thing or two, yer young whipper-snapper. That’s the problem with you young Orcs these days. No regard for yer elders. I am Sedric! I command …” he paused, groping for the right word “… respect!”

“You don’t even have command over yer own bladder.”

At this, the ancient Orc flew at Schnozza, displaying an agility which had previously been notably lacking. The two of them rolled around on the ground in a whirl of flying fists, flapping ears and droplets of goo.

“He he … tee hee … a-ha … a-ha … A-HAA HAA HAA!” howled Snigga, huge tears welling up in his enormous eyes as he too rolled around on the ground convulsing with laughter, until the two grappling Goblins grabbed him.

Some days previously, Soregum had taken the decision to ignore his companions. But now, as he sat on his dainty steed slightly apart from them, the sound of their bickering and the ensuing melee nurtured in him an intense desire to be rid of them. And gradually a plan emerged within his shrouded head.

“Come on,” he said, urging the reluctant Twinkle forward.

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

Several hours later the gormless Goblins, noticing Soregum’s absence, curtailed their scrapping and set off after him. They found him lying on a low hill, surveying a Sorthighhim settlement that lay a short distance away. Twinkle stood at some distance grazing on the patchy grass.

“You stay here,” he commanded them. “I’ll scout ahead.” As he moved off stealthily, the grotesque trio took no time in resuming their squabble.

The settlement comprised a large grouping of covered wagons clustered around a low thatched building. The site was littered with burnt-out chariots, discarded wagon-wheels and other such rubbish and drab clothes hung from lines strung between the wagons. As Soregum approached, the place seemed deserted, although he could discern above the sound of dogs barking a low murmur, punctuated by the occasional howl, which seemed to come from the building in the centre. Slowly, he crept between the long wagons, which had clearly not moved in many a year, making for the building. Once there, he hid in the shadows at the side and peered through a grimy window.

Inside, he saw a large number of people, seemingly the entire population of the Wagon Park, sitting in rows facing a stage, chattering excitedly amongst themselves and letting off the odd enthusiastic whoop every now and then. They were rough and unkempt and presented a startling variety of shapes and sizes ranging from the clinically obese to the dangerously skeletal. Their hair was, without exception, a pale straw colour, the favoured style (for both men and women) being long at the back but cropped short on the top and sides. For some strange reason, the style put Soregum in mind of a fish of some description, although he could not place which one. But, despite their apparent modest means and poor fashion sense, they seemed a merry folk. And they certainly appeared to be enjoying their food and drink. Soregum’s heart leapt at the sight of the enormous portions of beefsteaks, chops, ribs, cutlets, beans and fried potatoes, and the copious quantities of ale, being served at the bar.

As he watched, a small bespectacled man clutching a mikestand sprang neatly onto the stage. Immediately, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, howls and catcalls, chanting at the tops of their voices: “JÉORRI! … JÉORRI! … JÉORRI! …”

“Thank you. You are most kind.” began Jéorri as the noise of the audience subsided. Adopting an earnest expression, he continued “Have you ever wondered whether your partner might be seeing someone else behind your back? Well that’s exactly what our next guest has been doing. And it wasn’t another man, or even a woman, she was seeing. Let’s meet her. Put your hands together for Léonora.”

The crowd went wild again as a plump woman with short cropped hair jumped out of her seat and ran on to the stage waving her arms wildly and screaming uncontrollably.

“Hello Léonora.”

“Hi Jéorri.”

“You’ve been seeing Éodmund for some months now, is that right?”

“Why, dat’s right, Jéorri. An’ ah do lurve him, Jéorri. Ah really do.”

“But you’ve got something to tell him, haven’t you.”

“Yeah, ah sure have, Jéorri … ah bin gone seein’ someone else on da side.”

Léonora sniffled and wiped non-existent tears from her eyes as the audience engaged in some good-natured booing and whistling.

“Well let’s bring Éoddi on so you can tell him yourself.”

Again, the crowd erupted as a mountain of a man, his head completely shaven save for a braided strand that resembled the tail of a rat hanging down at the rear, entered the room and took to the stage. He was apparently quite oblivious to what had been occurring up to now and waved and smiled to the audience as he made his way up to Léonora and embraced her. Then, egged on by Jéorri, she sat down and took his hands in hers, looking down at the floor in feigned embarrassment.

“Ya know ah lurve ya, Éoddi baby, dontcha …. but ah got somethin’ dat ah gotta say to ya …. um … well, it’s like dis, baby … ah bin seein’ someone else …”

Éoddi looked crestfallen. As the tears welled up in his eyes, all he could say was “But … who …?”

“It’s Dwain Hammerhand, baby…”

“Why dat *bleep*in’ midget! I’ll *bleep*in’ grind his *bleep*in’ bones to *bleep*! I’ll fry his *bleep*in’ beard!” exclaimed Éoddi, rising to his feet as his temper got the better of him. The bleeps came courtesy of a little old man with a loud tin whistle standing at the rear of the stage, whose job it was to drown out the most colourful of the expletives.

“He ain’t no *bleep*in’ midget, Éoddi! He’s a Dwaaarf, a *bleep*in’ Dwaaarf!” cried Léonora, as if the correction was likely to calm the distraught man down.

“Well, let’s meet him.” said Jéorri, helpfully.

Howls, whistles, jeers and whoops filled the room as a sturdy Dwarf with a long red beard, braided in the manner of his kind, entered and walked up to the group on stage. As Éoddi made a lunge for him, two burly fellows leapt on stage to restrain him and hold them apart. By now all three were cursing loudly at each other and the little old man with the tin whistle began to turn an alarming shade of red with the effort of keeping it clean.

Judging that the time was right, Soregum ran up to the door and burst into the room, feigning terror and shouting at the top of his voice “ORCS! ORCS ARE COMING! HELP!”

As one the crowd went silent and turned to look at Soregum.

“I’m being chased by a band of Orcs! Help me!” he cried.

This crowd erupted again, cheering, howling, whooping and whistling all at once.

“Where?” cried Éoddi, immediately forgetting his former woes in the excitement.

“Just outside town to the east.” replied Soregum.

“Well how d’ya like dat! Looks like we gonna hunt ourselves some Orc!” shouted Éoddi, making for the door. The entire room followed him, brandishing an assortment of crude wooden mikestands, banjos, mouth organs and wash-boards.

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

The Goblin trackers, still thoroughly engrossed in their dispute, never stood a chance. Within no time, their three misshapen heads were proudly on display, impaled on wooden mikestands on the outskirts of the Wagon Park. And shortly thereafter, Soregum was sitting comfortably at the bar with a large mug of ale and drawing with satisfaction on his pipe, having just polished off six courses of assorted meat, fried vegetables and pastries, while a local poet, Éominem, entertained the crowd.

As he happily went on his way the following morning, Soregum stopped to smile cheerfully at his unfortunate former companions. Things were looking up. Even Twinkle was happier, having been comfortably stabled overnight and sharing his pleasure at the absence of the quarrelsome Orcs. As they rode off in the direction of Improvas, Soregum began to whistle.

Shortly after his departure, a dark horde appeared on the hills surrounding the Wagon Park and began to file inexorably towards the small settlement, brandishing cruel eviction notices and terrible redevelopment signs.

[ September 12, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]
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