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Old 07-07-2004, 07:36 AM   #193
The Saucepan Man
Corpus Cacophonous
 
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Join Date: Jan 2003
Location: A green and pleasant land
Posts: 8,468
The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
The Eye

Ever since entering the Mire, Soregum had kept his cloak and hood tightly wrapped around him for fear of being recognised. He had even pulled on his over-sized boots, although that was largely on account of the exceptionally poor state of the road.

“Can’t think why they have let it get into this state,” he had muttered to the others apologetically. “Although it has been a while since I was last here.”

At this, Grrralph had peered at him suspiciously.

As they stood outside The Ivy Bush, Merisuwyniel turned to her muddy and bedraggled companions.

“Now, remember,” she said in a commanding yet feminine voice. “We seek here only a hearty meal and a good night’s rest. I don’t want any of you getting us into trouble.”

“As if we would,” the Trouble-Magnet-Ship replied in unison and, astoundingly, without any hint of irony.

“Just try to blend in and don’t do anything to attract attention to yourselves,” she continued.

“And just how are we supposed to do that?” asked Orogarn Two, surveying the distinctly un-Hobbit-like company.

“This is the only road that leads to the Pay-Havens,” replied Merisu sharply. “There will be many travellers in an inn such as this.”

“Yeah, and I suppose they are all accompanied by Dragons too,” muttered Kuruharan.

All concurred that the Dwarf had a point and it was agreed that, in the interests of discretion, Chrysophylax should find himself a secluded spot to hide away while the company tarried at the inn.

“Keep yourself out of sight,” instructed Merisu. “And don’t go worrying livestock or toasting Hobbits.”

“Of course not,” replied Chrysophylax obligingly, his golden eyes glinting as he smiled inwardly in anticipation of the fun that he would have tonight.

As the great Dragon launched himself into the air and flew off, Merisu turned and, stooping, entered the lively inn.

At once, the room went silent and all eyes turned to the newcomers. A dart, missing its target, went flying into the wall. Trying to look as inconspicuous as they could (and failing miserably in the effort), the Sore-Thumb-Ship braved the glare of fifty pairs of Hobbit eyes and made for an empty table in the corner.

“Well that went well,” muttered Kuruharan.

“Oh, you think so?” said Earnur. “I was worried that we might have been noticed.”

Once they were settled, Merisu stood up and made her way to the bar.

“Good evening, sir. We require board and lodgings for the night, and stabling for our animals,” she said to the landlord.

“Yoom bee strayngerz in theezle ‘ere parrtz, bain’t yoom?” he said, peering at Merisu suspiciously.

The Shieldmaiden blinked momentarily, before replying in perfect rustic Hobbitish.

“Aye, tharrt weem bee, koind zirr. Weem bee in need o’ vittles n’ laardgin’ n’ stayblin’ fo’ theezle ‘ere noight.”

“Warrll, woi daadn’t yoom zay zo? Yoom beez in larrk. ‘Appen oi’ve garrt warrn spayre roome yoom can ‘arrve.”

“Now look here, my good man – er – Hobbit,” roared Lord Earnur Etceteron, striding up to the bar manfully as fifty Hobbit hands reached for their sling-shots. “We don’t want any trouble. We simply …”. His voice faltered as a well-placed knee cut him short in his prime.

“Just let me handle this,” Merisu hissed at him. Wincing, he turned and limped back to the table somewhat less manfully.

Within the hour, the horses and pony had been stabled in the adjoining building and a young Hobbit lass was serving the weary travellers with assorted food and drinks (in predictably prodigious quantities). Soregum launched into a particularly succulent leg of lamb, taking care to keep his face shrouded. Grrralph sat opposite him, his red eyes flickering like burning coals.

“So your journey’s over, my friend,” he said at length.

“Mmph ebble ob?” replied the Hobbit through a mouthful of beer and lamb.

“When we met you, you said you were on your way back to the Mire,” continued Grrralph. “Well, here you are.”

“Yes,” replied Soregum, swallowing hastily. “But now I think of it, it occurs to me that you need someone like me on this journey of yours.”

“Oh yes,” said Merisuwyniel. “And why should that be?“

“Yes, what use could someone like you possibly be on a heroic quest such as that with which we are charged – er - with?” interjected Vogonwë dramatically, seizing on the seeming opportunity to rid himself of this would-be rival for Pimpiowyn’s affections.

“In Grundor, little one, we let the children play when there’s adults work to be done,” laughed Orogarn Two, tousling Soregum’s hair patronisingly.

“Looks like your application’s about to be terminated, my friend,” added the Gateskeeper, smirking.

“No hard feelings, eh, old bean?” chimed in Earnur, proffering a hand.

“Face facts, darling, you’re just not wanted. Why don’t you take a hike?” spat Leninia, who had still not forgiven Soregum for outcome of the singing contest.

“Loser,” added Kuruharan, warming to the conversation.

“Well,” continued Soregum, steeling himself. “It seems to me that any delegation to Valleyum on behalf of the Free Peoples of Muddled-Mirth should comprise representatives of each race. You have an Elf, a Half-Elf, a Dwarf, assorted Men, er - whatever it is that Grralph is, and, of course, various Entish fragments. Even a Dragon. But you have no Hobbit.”

“The position of Hobbit is already taken” snorted Vogonwë, inadvertently coughing up a hairball.

“But Pimpi is only Half-Hobbit,” said Merisu. “Soregum is right. We need a full compliment if our company is to be truly representative.”

“Well, it’s no hair off my toes,” replied Pimpi, draining her fifth mug of ale top and letting fly with an impressive belch. Soregum looked at her in admiration as Vogonwë retrieved his fallen crest.

“What?” she exclaimed as he glared at her. “I’m just blending in like Merisu told us to.”

It was not long before their jugs of ale had run dry and Soregum, his eagerness to prove his worth getting the better of him (not to mention the six pints he had already downed), volunteered to have them refilled. But as he crossed the room, jugs in hand, his hood slipped.

[Editor’s note: For ease of reference, the following passages have been translated from the rustic Hobbitish.]

“Well, well! As I drink and smoke! If it isn’t Mercasor Gummidge!” exclaimed a grizzled old Hobbit. “There’s a face I haven’t seen in nigh on fifty years.”

Soregum stopped abruptly, his mind racing as he desperately tried to think of some way out of the situation. Looking back, he saw that his erstwhile companions had all taken a sudden and intense interest in the patterns made by the beer-stains on their table. There was nothing for it.

“Dodo Muddifoot,” he said with a heavy sigh. “How goes it with you, old friend?”

“Badly, as it happens,” replied the old Hobbit darkly. “But that’s quite beside the point. Where have you been all these years, Murky you old rascal?”

Inevitably a crowd had gathered round, and Soregum was forced to sit and spend the next hour fabricating exotic tales to account for his fifty years’ absence from the Mire. At length, the conversation turned to the Mire itself.

“These be queer times,” said Dodo Muddifoot ominously. “They say there’s wolves abroad on the North Moors at night.”

“Aye,” agreed Holdfast Buttonbelly. “My cousin Cal, him as works for old Mr Bodkin at Overthehill, said he saw a beetle big as a house up beyond Spooky not long back.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” sneered a mean looking fellow who had sat himself opposite Soregum. “Fire-side tales and stories fit for nought but to scare the bejeepers out of the young’uns.”

“Hush you, Ned Candyman,” said a pale Hobbit who had arrived shortly before looking rather shaken. “Just ten minutes hence, I saw a Dragon flying over old Farmer Gobbins’ marshmallow fields.”

“You saw a Dragon fly? That’s nothing! I saw a Horse fly,” declared Flabby Bulgebottom.

“I saw a Front-porch Swing and heard a Diamond Ring,” added Old Soakes.

“Well I’d been done seen about everything, when I saw an Oliphaunt fly,” intoned old Daddy Twobellies solemnly.

At this, the Hobbits could contain themselves no longer. As one, they all collapsed in great merriment. All except Ned Candyman.

“Get with it Daddy-oh!” cried Dodo Muddifoot, tears rolling down his face. “You’ve got to make it believable. Elsewise you lose the effect. Flying Oliphaunts indeed! That’s just plain ludicrous.”

“But I did see a Dragon,” said the newcomer quietly.

“Yeah, right!” snarled Ned Candyman as he headed for the door. “Well, it’s an early start for me tomorrow, Dragon or no Dragon. Sweet shops don’t run themselves you know, and business has been mighty brisk of late.”

As the confectioner departed, the mood became sombre once more. Dodo Muddifoot drew close to Soregum conspiratorially.

“All the same Murky, things ain’t right here in the Mire,” he said in hushed tones. “Not since old Sparkey* arrived.”

“Sparkey?” said Soregum blankly.

“Yes,” continued Dodo. “He turned up four weeks ago with a gang of ruffians from Beer in tow. Selling sausages in bread rolls he was. Well, as you can imagine, they were selling like hot dogs.”

“In no time, Ned Candyman was in league with him,” added Daddy Twobellies. “That’s why his shop is doing so well, you see. New recipes he says. But everyone knows it’s Sparkey behind it all.”

“Yes, there’s something queer in them lollipops, and no mistake,” Old Soakes chipped in. “Anyone taking a bite out of one of them comes over all strange like, if you get my meaning. Lollygags they call themselves, making out they’re all friendly like. Truth is, they’re just doing Sparkey’s bidding.”

“So, where’s this Sparkey now?” asked Soregum.

“Up at Bog End,” replied Dodo. “Holed up with his ruffians. He’s taken young Lotto Boggins-Ssmythe under his wing. And now we all have to do as he says. Those as don’t get dragged off to the Recycle-Bins.”

“There must be something you can do,” said Soregum.

“Not on our own there ain’t, Mercasor Gummidge. Mind, if a hardy bunch of adventurers were to come along …”

“Funny you should say that,” smirked Soregum looking back towards the Oblivious-ship.
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* A corruption of the Orcish, Sparkű, meaning “Cable-Man”

Last edited by The Saucepan Man; 07-14-2004 at 06:51 AM.
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