[The Barrow-Wight]

The Half-elf and she-elf fell suddenly silent, he halfway drawing his mighty sword, she fully exposing her quivering arrows. Both listened to an unseen sound that soon became visible as the steady beat of a horse, far in the distance, but running with great speed through the woods encircling the Last Home-Grown Cows. Moments seemed like minutes, minutes like hours, and hours like days, and still the mighty stomping grew until elf ears, she- and half-he alike, twitched in frenzied curiosity. At last, they gained sight a great mane of black hair rising above the top of a nearby hill.

“There is one of the Mearas, no doubt,” said Halfullion, “of the likes of Falafel and Baklava, or I’m a dwarf.”

The mane approached closer and the whole beast seemingly sprung from the ground as it crested the hill, stopping to paw gallantly in the setting sunlight.

“Well, master longbeard,” laughed Merisuwyniel, “I hope you don’t try to ride him, for I fear he may object.”

Though blinded by the glaring rising sun, it soon became apparent to the Half-elf that no Mearas had entered the farm. Instead, silhouetted against the glowing midday orb was a Man, almost as tall as he, but thinner, and with much bigger hair. The Man approached the two gaping people and politely closed their mouths with the index finger of each of his hands.

“Greetings,” he said. “Is this where one might find the Keeper of the Cows?”

Merisuwyniel was the first to break out of her amazed stupor, and quickly notched an arrow to her living bow. The Man before her was one of most handsome she had ever seen, but also the most strangely clothed. His feet were clad in soft, blue suede, and his trousers were similarly colored but made of a woven fabric that appeared supple yet strong. Above a wide leather belt he wore a short sleeved, green shirt with the image of a great sword woven across his chest. He had no hat, but instead let his massive amount of feathered, dark-brown hair blow freely in the wind.

The stranger stared directly into her eyes and she began to feel odd, as if this were a dream and she need only close her eyes to return to blissful sleep.

This was no dream!

“Your name, stranger!” she shouted, breaking whatever spell had overcome her. “One does not… um… gallop to the Hidden Valley Ranch dressing in such a strange manner!”

“One does, apparently,” muttered Halfullion.

The stranger’s eyes grew wide and he dropped to one knee, looking in reverence at the bow Merisuwyniel held in her shaking hands.

“The Ent that was Broken!” he whispered.

“How do you know of such things?” she demanded. “Tell us now who you are and why you are here or you will surely perish.”

He looked into her eyes and told his tale.

“I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, son of Garn Eight, son of Garn Seven, son of Kevin, son of Garn Six,…”

“Will this go on long?” asked Halffullion.

“Only 77 generations more,” said the panting stranger who had forgotten to breath during his broken line of begots. “My journey has been long, so I will give you the short version.”

He paused for effect.

“I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed!”

He paused again for effect, but again got no reaction.

“And I have returned!”

Nothing

“ Seek for the Ent that was broken:
With the Cow Keeper it dwells;
There shall nonsense be spoken
More wicked than Dulldor-spells.
There shall be a token dwarf
A half-elf, elf, wizard and man,
For Isildur's cousin shall waken,
And form a big-hair 80’s band.”

“That’s lovely,” sighed Meriswyniel. “What does it mean.”

Orogarn Two stood.

“I have no idea. Have you seen a brown, leather wallet?”

[ January 09, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]