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Old 03-28-2005, 06:02 PM   #246
The Saucepan Man
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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

As soon as the battle had commenced, Soregum had lost no time in finding a comfortable vantage point on a nearby hill from which to view the proceedings.

“Er - fighting’s not really my thing,” he explained to a quizzical Hal as the limp haired handyman drilled his way through a column of Orcs and nailed a couple of Trolls for good measure.

“Coward!” cried a rampaging Reaperneep, leaping happily from one adversary to another, his tiny but (appropriately) rapier-sharp rapier introducing them all to an assorted selection of their internal organs.

“So what is your thing?” enquired Orogarn Two, overjoyed at the opportunity to revive Grundor’s ancient feud with Dumbar at the expense of a troop of red-clad and rouge-faced Dumbarian warriors.

Soregum did not answer (judging it imprudent to explain that it might not be in his best interests to join in the slaughter of his Master’s army), but instead took out a pouch of Old Toothrot and charged his pipe. Resting his hairy and fungally challenged feet upon a still unconscious Grrralph, he sat back to enjoy the spectacle.

The Entish Bow purred with delight as Merisuwyniel fired off one shot after another from a seemingly endless supply of arrows. Her violet eyes flashed as she paused momentarily to brush a stray auburn hair back into place and wipe a tiny speck of blood from her otherwise spotless face. Pimpiowyn stood proudly beside her, covered from head to foot in gore, relishing the opportunity to put her recently acquired shieldmaidening skills into action at last. Hush was silent no more as it contended loudly with any enemy who dared approach Merisu. Nearby, the Gateskeeper was fiddling with the controls on his staff (a cluster of buttons marked, respectively, with a circle, a square, a triangle and a cross). Every so often, random missiles (lightning bolts, arrows, a hail of bullets and, inexplicably, a bouquet of pink carnations) shot out from his staff and hit an Orc or a Troll, upon which they exploded in a shower of red and green pixels and quickly faded without trace. Leninia moved like a shadow through the fallen, dispatching the enemy wounded with the lethal tip of her umbrella, taking care not to break any of her well-manicured (and equally lethal) nails in the process.

Kuruharan stood to one side, busy drawing up odds on which member of the Battle-ship would score the most kills and raking in bets from the docile and gullible locals. Chrysophylax circled overhead barbequing any enemies who showed an interest in the Dwarf’s impromptu bookmaking enterprise.

Vogonwë, meanwhile, had warmed to his role of Master Elf Gunner and was training his fire on a second attack Aerophaunt as it swept in ballistas blazing. A resounding blast rang out over the battlefield and the mighty flying pachyderm and its crew were no more. Or rather, they were many more - only smaller and less cohesive.

“That only counts as one!” cried Kuruharan. He had placed rather long odds on the Half-Elf coming top in the headcount stakes, and was now rather regretting entrusting the mighty weapon of the Velour to him.

“Astounding,” thought a baffled Soregum to himself as he puffed on his pipe while the frenzied action carried on apace all round. “These guys really seem to enjoy this sort of thing.”

But his thoughts were cut short as the remains of the disassembled Aerophaunt fell down about him. As he scrambled for cover, he was dimly aware of a flock of winged shapes far in the distance but fast approaching.

“The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!” he cried predictably, but then fell forward as an unidentifiable, but hefty, chunk of Aerophaunt landed on top of him and darkness engulfed him.

The Eagles, meanwhile, passed high overhead as they flew towards the Council Chamber of the Velour, glancing only with passing interest at the proceedings below.

The Slaughter-ship pressed on. But, though they toiled diligently and characteristically in seeking to eliminate everything in sight, there seemed to be no end to Môgul’s hordes. The Dread Developer’s loyers had not been idle. As soon as the army had reached Valleyum, a small detachment had been despatched to the Pad of Mantoes, where they had busied themselves slapping requisition orders drawn up under the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat on the bewildered Elvish officials. The custodians of the Pad were powerless to resist, as the paperwork was all in proper order, and had proceeded to release the resident Orcs from their Holding Pens. And so, every time an Orc died on the field of battle, he was immediately processed and sent back out to fight once more, slightly dazed and confused but otherwise none the worse for wear. The skulls in the cliff walls from which they emerged were an extra touch added by Greedhog, who had often regretted that his early artistic promise had been overshadowed by his loyering duties.

Meanwhile, Kuruharan had noticed that Hornme the Foxhunter’s participation in the conflict was somewhat lacking. The red-coated Velou sat perched on a hunting stick swigging from a hip-flask, as his hounds feasted on fricasseed Aerophaunt flesh. Puzzled, Kuruharan once more drew out the Mighty Whistle from Post 215 and blew silently on it. Nothing happened. He blew again, and again, and again until he was red in the face.

“I say old chap,” Hornme shouted over to him. “Would you mind not making that dreadful racket?“

“But what about the battle … your hounds … blood … teeth … guts … ?!!?“ stammered Kuruharan, for once at a loss for words.

“Sorry old bean, nothing I can do,” replied the Foxhunter holding up an official looking piece of paper. “The loyers have served a hunting ban. The paperwork is all in order, don‘t you know. It‘s not really my place to intervene anyway, so I am off for a spot of afternoon tea and crumpets. Best of luck and all that. Toodlepip!”

And so the tide of the battle swiftly began to turn against the Ebb-ship and before long they found themselves hemmed in on all sides by a seemingly (and, as it happened, literally) endless supply of enemies.

“Well it looks like the game is up,” said Merisu, a beautifully tragic expression suffusing her face. “It’s been nice knowing you all. Thank you for your help. I am sorry that it has come to this.”

“But you can’t give up,” protested Pimpi. “You are a shieldmaiden. And shieldmaidens never give up. They keep on going against the odds until a Deus Ex Machina turns up to rescue them. That’s just the way it is - isn’t it?”

“The only Deus Ex Machina around here passed overhead about an hour ago,” said Kuruharan grimly.

“Is this really the end?” asked Soregum, who had just recovered from one near death experience and was understandably miffed to now find himself faced with another.

“End? No, little one, the journey doesn’t end here,” replied the Gateskeeper in a kindly tone. “Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain turns all to silver glass and rolls back. And then you see it …”

“What, Gateskeeper? See what?”

“White shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

“We’ve already seen that,” observed Orogarn Two. “Back in Post 228. When we arrived here in Valleyum.”

“Oh yes,” muttered the Gateskeeper, his beatific expression dissolving. “We’re done for, then.”

*******************************

And so the Backs-to-the-Wall-ship steeled themselves and readied their weapons for the enemy’s final blow. But the dark horde did not advance. Instead, the massed Men, Orcs and Trolls stopped and gazed about themselves in fear and awe. And then, slowly, they began to withdraw.

“Haha! I knew we would prevail!” cried a jubilant Reaperneep.

But no sooner had he spoken than four great Trolls began to beat out a rhythm on their drums and the enemy’s ranks began to part, with the exception of two particularly confused Orcs who were suffering the effects of a succession of hasty reincarnations. Bemused, their eyes rolled up as their foreheads each gave way to black pseudopodial spikes, which then promptly retracted. As the two Orcs slumped lifelessly (albeit only temporarily so) to the ground, a dark nebulous cloud behind them slowly resolved itself into the figure of a man. An incredibly handsome man, clad in black leather trousers and a leather jacket left open at the front to reveal an astonishingly manful chest. He ran a perfectly manicured hand through his mass of luxuriant raven hair and winked devilishly at the Gawp-ship.

Without exception, and against their better judgment, the female members of the It-ship found themselves going weak at the knees, while the remaining companions, to a man, were lost in admiration for this fine specimen of masculinity. Only Soregum was immune to the effect. He was weak at the knees too, but that was because he was only too aware of the identity of the charismatic stranger and was terrified out of his wits.

As raucous Orcish voices struck up a hypnotic chant in time with the rhythm of the Troll’s drums, the darkly angelic man began to sing.

Please allow me to introduce myself
A Velou of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long year
Laid many a realm to waste

I was ’round when the Elven folk
First came to Valleyum’s gate
Made damn sure that Feeblenor
Saw the light and sealed his fate

M’yeah

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around ol’ Dairyland
When I saw it was a land for a change
Built up towns, malls and factories
’Til Yawanna screamed in vain

I charged a fee
Brought prosperity
While the deals were made
And the taxes paid

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah
Ah, what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, oh yeah

I watched dismayed
As the Velour played
While you toiled through the years
Thinking that they cared

I shouted out
“Who split the Entish boughs?”
When after all
It was Mantoes’ vows

Let me please introduce myself
A Velou of wealth and taste
And I salute you Entish Questors
Who have led me a merry chase

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

Just as every light has a shadow
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Melvin
And I’m in need of no restraint

So now you’ve met me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
If you do, we all can profit
And save Muddled-Mirth from waste

M’yeah

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is just the nature of my game


The Orcs were now in full swing with their chanting as Môgul (for it was he) conjured a gleaming obsidian Fender Spellcaster out of nowhere and played a gratuitously unrestrained guitar solo before continuing with his song. The tale had been going for seven pages now without him having the opportunity of a musical number and he was enjoying himself.

Tell me Merisu, what’s my name
Tell me Pimpi, can ya guess my name
Tell me Vogy, what’s my name
Join me now, there’s no shame

Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo

Oh, yeah
What’s my name
Tell me, Leni, what’s my name
Tell me, Gatesy, what’s my name

Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo
Ooo, woo


As the Orcish chants faded, Môgul sauntered impudently up to Merisu and, taking her hand, planted a kiss on it.

“We meet at last, my dear,” he said in a suitably sinister and clichéd manner. “And how delightful you are in the flesh.”

And with that, an amazing thing happened. Merisu’s cheeks flushed bright red, her hair fell dishevelled about her shoulders and she began to perspire. Her companions would not have believed it, had they had sufficient wit to notice. But each of them was bewitched, seeing in this man the perfect being, each according to their fancy. Kuruharan saw the astute businessman whose ability to turn a profit knew no bounds, while Leninia was once more the young and naïve groupie transfixed by the rock legend that she perceived. The Gateskeeper could only begin to guess at the power which lay behind his dark sorcery, while Vogonwë marvelled at the beauty of his poetry. Orogarn Two, meanwhile, was lost in admiration for the manliness of the man and was busy wondering just how he managed to keep his hair in such good condition. Each member of the Dumb-struck-ship fell instantly for him, with the exception of Grrralph, who was snoring loudly, and Soregum, who was once again trying (and failing) to merge unseen into the background.

“My dear Entish Questors, how enchanting it is to meet you all, old friends and new,” continued Môgul addressing the enthralled companions, who were oblivious to his villainous clichés hearing only the persuasive oratory of a master wordsmith. “It’s wonderful to see you here. It’s certainly a thrill. You’re such a lovely audience, I’d like to take you home with me. I’d love to take you home. But first, to business. You have met my breth/sist-ren and had the opportunity to see them for the uncaring fools that they are. I would hazard a guess that they were not too interested in your Quest. Am I right?”

As one, the Taken-In-ship nodded dumbly.

“As I thought. Do you really think that they give a flying flet what happens to Muddled-Mirth? Of course they don’t. They have not taken any interest in it for the past six millennia, so why would they start now? There is only one Velou who has the best interests of Muddled-Mirth at heart, and you are fortunate enough to have met him before it is too late. And now you each have a wonderful opportunity before you. For together, we can build a parodic paradise in Mirth. An unashamedly uncanonical Utopia where you can fulfil your wildest dreams. Think what splendour and riches await you if you will only relinquish the Entish parts and join with me.”

And as the Dread Developer continued to enthral them with his words, the companions’ thoughts drifted away and visions were conjured up in their minds of that which they each desired the most.

Last edited by The Saucepan Man; 03-30-2005 at 04:55 AM.
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