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Old 09-22-2004, 08:49 PM   #213
The Saucepan Man
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Join Date: Jan 2003
Location: A green and pleasant land
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The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
The Eye Operation Darklord

Black clouds heavy with rain rolled thunderously over the skies of Moredough, their lower reaches tinged with scarlet as they caught the columns of flame that erupted unceasingly from Mount Odouruin. Occasional flashes of lightning burst through the gloom, threatening to split the murky skies into a thousand fragments. A fell gale howled down from the surrounding peaks of the Ered Lethargi and the Ephel Dûwot, driving a streaming torrent of greasy rain hard into the foetid Plateau of Gorgonbreath. One thing that could be said about the weather of Muddled-Mirth was that it had a profound sense of occasion.

Atop the dark and forbidding Tower Block of Barát-Höm, the noseless nostril flared and writhed fitfully as it savoured a scent that originated in the Pay Havens, some fifteen hundred miles to the west: the unmistakable scent of rent Ent (and the somewhat less savoury odour of rucksacks stuffed full of clothes that had gone unwashed for many months on end).

From his balcony below, Môgul Bildûr surveyed the vast army ranged across the Plateau. Battalions of Orcs, each ten thousand strong, stood in disorderly lines brandishing a perplexing assortment of viciously jagged and barbed weapons. The greater part raised their harsh guttural voices to their Master in anticipation of his impending victory, although those recently returned from Valleyum wandered silently and aimlessly across the plain, occasionally dropping the odd limb or facial feature, while their Uruk captains attempted somewhat vainly to herd them into some semblance of order. Hordes of great armoured trolls, the flame-hardened oL0g-hA1, each carrying a range of mighty insults to hurl at their foes, lumbered back and forth eager for action. And the races of Men who had pledged their allegiance to Môgul, the wild Beasterlings of Near Hardup, the pitiless Poltroons of Far Hardup and the ferocious Scallywags of Khant, Men who had entered the Land of Shadowy Deals through the Black Gate of Uncanon only days before, sat grimly in their camps. Their ludicrously exotic armour and weaponry gleamed in the light of their camp-fires as they touched up their war-paint and eyeliner. Here and there, the dark wraith-like figures of Korprat Loyers could be seen preparing their loopholes and sharpening their clauses.

But prominent amongst the forces assembled before the Dark Tower Block were the great beasts of the Aircorps of Dumbar. Each as grey as a mouse and as big as a house with a nose like a snake, they made the earth shake as they tramped o‘er the plain, tethered by chain. With horns in their mouth, they had flown from the South, flapping big ears - ruddy big ears. Aerophaunts were they. Arranged in squadrons, some carried great howdahs on their back capable of transporting whole battalions of troops while others were mounted with an array of heavy weaponry: trebuchets, arbalests and ballistas. A great trumpeting and roaring issued forth from the mighty beasts as their Dumbarian crews, clad in bright red uniforms, tended to them and loaded them with weaponry and provisions.

Satisfied with his inspection, Môgul turned and glided back into his office, carefully avoiding the remains of various Orcish clerks and functionaries, the legacy of the temporary disconnection of his Satel-antir and the downing of the Aircorps patrol. Within the office suite, Môgul’s Chiefs of Staff stood around a great table bearing a map of Muddled-Mirth. Tiny black flags stood ominously out from various locations: Ham Steep, Improvas, the Halls of Trebor and the Golden Malls of Topfloorien. Yet other locations bore brighter flags of varying colours: the Last Home Grown Cows, the Mire, the Pay Havens and, yet still, Minus Teeth. Carved wooden blocks represented the forces deployed throughout the land, the majority of them black and spiky.

A palpable sense of irritation emanated from the Dread Developer as he examined the blue denim flag that sprang defiantly from Minus Teeth.

“What news from the Wight City, Greedhog?” he enquired.

“It ssseemsss that Grundor has monetary resservesss of which we were unaware, O Profoundly Prosperous One,” the Senior Loyer hissed. “A dark cloud of Lítig-aî-Shön permeates the entire realm and the repaymentsss on our loan to the Proctor are crippling. Yet still he holds out.”

“He cannot stand alone against the financial might of Moredough for long,” spat Môgul. “There will be time enough to de-credit and discredit him and his upstart hair when we return from Valleyum.”

“Sire,” spoke up a thin, weasly figure with hair greased back into a ponytail and sporting bright red braces. “Our marketing campaign is meeting with great success.” The speaker was Perlandeen, Arch I-Mage of the dark art of Pé-Är. As he spoke, he conjured from the air a plethora of charts covered with graphs, pie charts and survey results.

“Consumer recognition of the red nostril logo is at an all-time high and our Môgul branded products are selling like hot-cram,” Perlandeen explained. “In tests, eight out of ten Muddled-Mirthlings expressed a preference for black over white, green, silver or, indeed, any other colour favoured by the so-called Free-Peoples. Evil really is the new good. And our cause has been greatly assisted by the general carnage spread throughout the land by the renegade Merisuwyniel and the buffoons that she laughably calls her companions.”

“At leassst until recently,” added Greedhog. “Lately it appearsss that they have found sssome sssupport amongssst those that they have encountered. Their defeat of the upssstart Sssauerkraut has won them sssome renown.”

“Yes, poor Colin,” replied Môgul. “He never was the sharpest note in the symphony, but he sure knew how to make an exit. Still, who knows when he might be popping up again.”

A dreadful wheezing, bubbling, grinding sound filled the office as the Dread Developer chuckled at his dreadful quip and his minions dutifully followed suit.

“We are most grateful to you for your information, Rrrogerrr,” said Môgul, recovering his composure and turning to the chipper Thingwraith, “It will stand us in good stead in Valleyum.” Although the Nazgul, being a Fell collective, had no appointed leader, they had all agreed that Rrrogerrr should attend the briefing to represent them and to relay in Wraith what he had learned from Soregum.

“That’s quite alright, my Lord, old chap. Glad to be of service.”

“Well,” continued Môgul. “If the people of this ripe and potentially lucrative land cannot be won over by subtle persuasion and crippling debt, there are always the more traditional methods. You have assembled a fine army, General Gzzmmmphllgg.”

“Thank you sir, Lord Bildûr, sir!” roared the General, standing to attention. General Gzzmmmphllgg was an enormous and heavily-built Orc, so enormous indeed that he might have beeen mistaken for an Ogre were it not for the fact that, as everyone knows, there are no such things as Ogres in Muddled-Mirth. He was extraordinarily old, having been born in the time of the Dread Developer’s rule of Dairyland, and had risen to become commander of Môgul’s armies in Moredough by virtue of the simple fact that he had not died during the intervening years (a feat which no other Orc had managed to achieve). But age and experience had taken their toll on him. He wore a patch over one eye, his left arm was withered and useless, he loped with a limp and his mottled and scabrous skin had turned a yellowish shade of pink through excessive exposure to the sun.

“You will take charge of Moredough while we are in Valleyum, General,” directed Môgul. A formidable force will remain behind. After all, we don’t want anyone sneaking in and getting up to no good while we are away, do we? Oh, and dispatch a detachment to secure Dorktank.”

“Yessir, Lord Bildûr, sir!” barked General Gzzmmmphllgg, raising his good arm in a salute.

“As for the remainder of the army, they will travel with us to Valleyum. Captain, are the Aircorps ready for action?”

“Yeah, right on, my Lord,“ replied a hairy brute of a man dressed in the bright red uniform of the Aircorps. “Mad for it. Sorted, like. Know what I mean.”

The Aircorps of Dumbar were a cruel and merciless outfit. And none was more cruel or merciless than their commander, Cap’n Ar-Kidd. He was descended from the corrupt line of Ar-Pheronome, King of Noodleor, who had flown an ill-fated mission to Valleyum some three thousand years before in defiance of the power of the Velour. A Black Noodleorian he was (or Morally-challenged Noodleorian as those of a more politically correct persuasion preferred to call them). And he was mad keen, like, at the prospect of launching an airborne assault on Valleyum to fulfil the vision of his ancestor.

“Shine on, man” he added, raising his great bushy eyebrows and flashing his gold-capped teeth in a broad grin.

“Yes, er, quite,” replied Môgul. “Very good. Commence loading the troops immediately. Dismissed!”

As the Chiefs of Staff turned to leave, Môgul called back Greedhog.

“You too will be journeying with us to Valleyum,” he said to the old Korprat Loyer. “Select a company of the most seasoned of your kind to accompany you. You will be escorting the prisoner. I want you personally in charge should negotiations become necessary.”

“I had hoped for no lessss, O Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealing,” replied Greedhog. “I fear neither battle nor negotiation, my Lord. For wasss it not foretold by Macbeth the Ssseer, and comprehensively drafted by Ssstrongclause the Watertight, that no Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, ssshall hinder me?”

“Indeed it was, my faithful advocate.”

As Greedhog departed, Môgul returned to his balcony and watched as line after line of Men, Orcs, Trolls and Loyers filed on board the Aerophaunt carriers. He was still there some hours later as, one after another, the great beasts lumbered across the poisonous plain and launched themselves into the dark and stormy Moredough sky*. In due course, he disappeared into the depths of the Dark Tower Block to make his own arrangements for the journey.
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*Editor’s note: When they come to make the film, Ride of the Valkyrie would be good here.

Last edited by The Saucepan Man; 09-24-2004 at 08:46 PM.
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