[The Saucepan Man]

“What do your Goblin eyes see, Snigga?”

Soregum was addressing an Orc of small breed, black-skinned, with wide bulging bloodshot eyes. The Goblin Tracker giggled nervously and gazed at the vista before them, his eyes straining such that they seemed to be in the final stages of taking leave of their sockets.

“Hehe … er … Foodfight!” he exclaimed in a thin, high-pitched snigger, gesturing in the direction of the sun, which was cautiously peering over the crimson horizon as if afraid to look for fear of what antics the day might hold.*

“And how do you figure that out?”

“Er … hehe … um ... A red sun arises. Food has been spilt this night. Hehe”

“Yeah, foodfight.” piped up a second diminutive Orc who was hunched over on the ground before them snuffling in the undergrowth. As he stood up, he sniffed and wiped away the detritus that had become attached to his huge, dripping nose, a nose that was of such enormous proportions that his remaining features gave the appearance of struggling to maintain their rightful place on his face.

“Bacon bits, pie crusts, tomatoes, cheesë-whíz, fish sticks, tartar sauce, bran flakes, spaghetti, meatballs, Jell-ô-Squares, rice pudding, cream of wheat, Caesar salad, hamburger casserole, ice cream, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, onion soup, barbecued ribs, and chocolate fondue are just a few of the foodstuffs that went flying through the air last night. I can smell ‘em all.”

And with that, he proudly hoisted his prodigious proboscis into the air and let out an almighty snort, showering Soregum with an unpleasant green gue.

“Yes. Thank you Schnozza”, muttered Soregum sarcastically, wiping the gunk from his cowled face. “What say you, Sedric?”

Soregum turned to the third Tracker, an ancient and emaciated Goblin tottering precariously on the edge of the low hill on which they stood. Predictably he sported two enormous ears, which he was absent-mindedly drilling with his gnarled fingers.

“Eh? You’ll have to speak up, sonny,” replied Sedric, raising a battered brass trumpet to one of his elephantine auditory organs. “All I can hear is the sound of seven mouths and one reptilian snout munching on a combination of bread, cheese, tomato paste, mushrooms and pepperoni ... oh, and a mournful keening.”

Soregum had had enough. Turning on the Goblins in rage, he exclaimed “Fools! May I remind you that we are on the trail of a crack team of hardened adventurers, quite the most dangerous enemies of the Red Nostril ever to have been assembled in a non-gender-specific grouping. They are unbendingly dedicated toward the Quest that they have set out upon. Do you really think that they are likely to engage in such food-related frippery?”

He shook his head, reflecting sadly on the fact that, of all the Orcs in Mordough, the only Trackers with any hint of a reputation that he had been able to find had been these three sorry specimens. And they had proved utterly useless and, as matters had turned out, quite unnecessary. Tracking the His-and-Hers-Ship had in fact proved astonishingly easy. It had simply been a matter of following the trail of apple-cores, sweet wrappers, chicken bones, half-eaten doughnuts and countless other discarded comestibles, not to mention the odd hairball. Then there was the flattened and scorched shrubbery, punctuated by various swooning adolescent lizards, which unmistakably marked the passing of a Dragon of ancient and imperial lineage. Soregum was beginning to wonder whether there really was any need for his three rather irritating and undoubtedly repulsive companions.

But it was the abundant references to mouth-watering foodstuffs that had really provoked Soregum’s anger. For seven days now they had followed the non-route-specific trail of the Non-Gender-Specific-Ship with nothing to fill their bellies but depressingly bland and alarmingly sugar-free Mordough rations. Indeed, so desperate had Soregum’s predicament become that he had been compelled to consume many of the discarded eatables that marked out their route. Worse, his pipeweed pouch was beginning to run dangerously low. Once again, his mind began to wander back to a time that now seemed so very long ago, replete with well-stocked pantries and …

All of a sudden, his thoughts were scattered by an insistent rumbling, gurgling sound. Immediately, he looked around in alarm and his hand reached for the short sword at his side, before realising that the ominous sound had in fact issued forth from his own poor unfulfilled stomach.

“Pardon me!” he apologised, although his companions were far more concerned with scratching their armpits, picking their noses and sniggering and gibbering inanely than with the affairs of his bowels.

Soregum turned to his steed, which provided yet another reminder of his miserable predicament. To his utter shame, he had to suffer the humiliation of riding on perhaps the least fearsome beast imaginable. Granted, the mount with which he had been furnished came with all the standard Mordough features – jet black hide, piercing red eyes, flaring nostrils – but when all was said and done she was still a pony. And a tiny one at that, he thought to himself, named Twinkle, of all things! Hardly a beast fit for an emissary of the greatest Dark Lord ever to have cut a cunning deal.

Sighing in resignation, Soregum mounted the dishearteningly cute beast and spurred her on with as much enthusiasm as he was able to muster in the circumstances. Whinnying in complaint, for her rider was just as much a disappointment to her as she to him, Twinkle began to trot delicately in the direction of the He-She-and It-Ship, following a line of Gil-Bar wrappers. After some hours, Snigga, Schnozza and Sedric roused themselves from their earnest bodily crevice investigations and set off on foot in pursuit, quickly overtaking Soregum and the daintily treading pony.

Thus continued the journey of the small, dark, cloaked figure, his little pony and the three misshapen Trackers.

* Astute readers may have noticed that the foodfight in fact took place to the west of the position of Soregum and his companions, rather than in the direction of the rising sun to the east, but does such trivial detail really matter in a tale of such epic proportions as that which is relayed in these documents?

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]