[The Barrow-Wight]

The swaybacked little horse trudged along steadily, eyes to the ground and nose hanging low. On his tired back, the son of Denimthor rocked precariously from side to side as he sat perched in a semblance of sleep, occasionally startled into semi-consciousness when a blue sueded shoe collided with a small rock or tangle of prairie grass. For more than 24 hours since awakening his master in the cold waters of the Contrived River, the tiny horse had carried the heavy Grundorian along the food-strewn trail of the Itship.

Slowly, the inky blackness of night gave way to the muddled watercolor grey of impending dawn, and the devastation of the Whatevership’s passing began to become more painfully apparent. What had seemed as only a wide swath of trampled grass and discarded candy wrappers soon became a deep, wide, ugly gouge in earth coated in a morass of bacon bits, ranch dressing, and molted dragon scales. Worse yet, all along the disgusting highway of filth, great billboards had been hastily erected touting various unfamiliar products and services.

Orogarn Two, suddenly awake at the sight of such vulgar promotionalism, read some of the signs aloud.

“Dude, yer getting’ a Dale.”
“Mike – Just do it!”
“Feed a Woozie for only 19sp a day.”

Orogarn Two was flabbergasted. Never before had he seen such blatant advertising, not even in the Denturian’s Quarter during ‘Brush Your Teeth Week’. Though he did not recognize most of the products, it was obvious that they were wicked, subversive items that would surely undermine the rules of common decency and good behavior. Who had erected the monstrosities, and how had they done it so fast? Where were the Proctor’s legions of inspectors and regulators?

He kicked Singéd, who was munching on a crumbled package of Pûkel Pop Rocks, and the little horse picked up speed and trotted away from the offending eyesores. With his mouth fizzing and foaming, the midget Morosa soon carried its master past the most offensive poster (“Mantoes – The Freshmaker!”), over a high ridge, and down the trail toward the imposing fortress of Improvas, which had conveniently come into view. With a shout of triumph and a last look backwards, Orogarn Two forced his mount into an all-out gallop but soon had to stop because his shoes were getting gunked up with all of the little white flowers they were running through.

“Odd place for flower gardens, I’d say,” muttered the Grundorian as he noted the dozen or so mounds covered in tiny white, star-like blooms. He swung a leg over the beast and stood beside it, leaning down to brush his shoes off. “Let’s enter this place to see where our companions are.”

The two strode forward, and as he entered the gates of the fortress, a flag bearing the symbol of a horse’s head fluttered over the wall and landed near his feet. He picked it up, folded it neatly, and put it carefully into one of Singéd’s saddlebags.

[ September 07, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]