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Old 04-18-2007, 09:33 AM   #22
Estelyn Telcontar
Princess of Skwerlz
 
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Join Date: Jan 2002
Location: where the Sea is eastwards (WtR: 6060 miles)
Posts: 7,645
Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!Estelyn Telcontar has reached the Cracks of Doom and destroyed the Ring!
The ship’s gentle landing on the island lulled its crew and passengers into the misconception that it was a place of peace and quietness, and so did it seem at first glance. But when the roaring waves had ceased their rhythmic pounding, and the deck no longer swayed, so that they could see clearly, they perceived glimpses of gaily coloured banners amongst the greenery and heard the strains of lively music. The sailors pulled the ship onto the beach, securing it with the remains of the rope. And lo! an expansive figure appeared there, spreading his arms wide in a universally recognizable welcoming gesture.

His head was wreathed with ivy vines, and grapes hung about his otherwise sparsely clothed limbs. He held cups filled with rich liquid in both hands. “Welcome to Bâcchanalië!” he called out, and the sailors responded with enthusiastic cheers. They did not wait for their captain’s permission to leave ship, and indeed it was not necessary – Mëanderin was the first to follow their host* for the purpose of moistening a parched throat.

Halfemption, Squire Windsor, and the Gateskeeper hurried to catch up with them, eager to partake of the promised refreshments as well. Gravendil turned to his spouse apologetically: “I should go after them to make sure there is no danger,” he said. “Will you two, ummm - ladies be alright here?”

“Certainly,” Merisuwyniel answered, just a touch too brightly. “Don’t you worry about us; all those strong, armed men may need you more. I’m sure no one would even think of approaching an abandoned ship – we’ll be quite safe.”

Soon he arrived at tents under which stood long tables, laden with plates, glasses, tankards, and other auspicious articles. Numerous females, the Maenadwens, bustled about with pads of paper in hand, intent upon collecting the wishes of their customers.

“Hi there, my name is Tiffanë, and I’ll be your serving wench for this orgy. What would you like to order?” said one young maiden, whose skirt had apparently suffered shrinkage in the laundry, to a group of sailors.

Another, dressed in a very low cut, laced bodice and a long, wide skirt, with footwear akin to that of the herders of kine, bent over the table and purred, “What’ll it be, boys? Name your poison!”

Still another buxom woman, whose ample girth was exceeded only by the strength of her arms, carried a load of foam-topped tankards and retorted, “Here you are, chentelmen. Ziss is a beergarten, you vere eggspecting maybe côk-täls?!”

Quite obviously this was a land according to the men’s liking. They settled down for a long bout of toasting each others’ health, their journey, their ship, their host, the serving wenches – well, suffice it to say that the evening lasted far into the night...


(*Who was, of course, the fabled Bâcchwë, son of Wrongwë, son of Onewë, master of those children of Yawanna which bore fruits that fermented to become the liquids used for merry-making all over Muddled-Mirth.)
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