[Estelyn Telcontar]

Just as all seemed darkest on the battlefield, with clouds hiding even the faint light that the night had to offer, the sun rose, tinting the entire world (at least that part of it which was visible to the proponents of our story) the appropriately-named rose colour. This was fortunate for Vogonwë, who had been muttering, “The list of our synonyms grows thin!” as he frantically paged through his well-worn thesaurus in search of poetic equivalents to use for “black”. His epic poem was filled to redundancy with a multitude of “sable, coal, raven, ebony, jet, pitch, inky, sooty, burnt,” etc…

Alas, every time he stopped reciting new verses of his imaginative account of the battle, the foes drew nigh again, only to recede when his renewed effort drove them backwards, retching. The fresh colours that now flooded the fields of fighting inspired him, and his fanciful descriptions including but not limited to words like “cherry, orange, peachy, apricot, lemon…” would have made his beloved Pimpiowyn drool, had she been within earshot.

Merisuwyniel paused, resting her sword-arm (strong and muscular yet feminine and attractive) for a moment. Suddenly she recalled words she had heard long ago. A melodious voice chanted, “Look for me at the rising of the sun on the umpteenth morn.” A vision of green loveliness arose to her memory and she was aware of the voices of the Velour, crying out from wherever it was that they now were, “Yawanna is coming!”

And behold, the battlefield now glowed with a hue of emerald that no sunrise has ever produced. Vogonwë’s fruit basket lyrics had now reached “lime” and were rapidly proceeding toward “cucumber”. And lo! she came in her great majesty, clad all in dark green leather, polished to a gleaming sheen and laced to emphasize her breathtaking voluptuousness, and in stiletto boots of the same colour. Her emerald eyes flashed in their regal wrath, and her locks flowed behind her like unto green grasses waving in the wind. Unnumbered verdant vassals surrounded her, pausing by her side, at her feet, and behind her as she surveyed the charred and blackened battlefield. No living thing grew there; her lovely lips tightened wrathfully, then opened in song. And as she sang, she strode forward in time with the rhythm, slashing a whip of ivy to punctuate every word:


Al-ways look on the green side of life!
Al-ways look on the clean side of life!

Some guys in life are bad,
They can really make you mad;
Other dudes just make you swear and curse.
When you're stepping on life's thistle
Don't cry “Ouch!”, just give a whistle,
And I will help things turn out for the best.

And...always look on the green side of life,
Always look on the clean side of life.

If love seems jolly rotten
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to plant and water, prune and weed.
When you're feeling awfully low
Come and watch the garden grow;
It’s amazing what becomes of one small seed.

And...always look on the green side of life,
Always look on the clean side of life.

For romance is quite absurd
And death's the final word;
You must always face your lover with a bow.
I won’t forget your sin, no matter how you grin;
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.

So always look on the green side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath.

You’re a piece of sh**
When I look at it;
Love's a laugh and you're a joke, it's true.
You thought it was all show,
Kept on laughing – now you go;
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And... al-ways look on the green side of life!
Al-ways look on the Queen's side of life!


And lo! vines of ivy and grape-leaves reached out to fetter the orcs and trolls, and roots grew up to make balrogs and wargs stumble and falter. And so they were immobilized yet not killed, the most effective way of bringing their assault to a stillstand.

And even as Yawanna sang, the time-space continuum wavered, debating with itself like unto a computer on the brink of self-destruction when posed with its own illogical reasoning.
“Green – a political philosophy of ecological awareness, arising late in the 7th Age – too far in the future to be known at this time.
Song melody – composed during the 20th century AD – does not belong to this Age.
Clothing and mannerisms of Yawannatrix – do not compute with canonical source materials.”

Smoke began to emerge from the chinks of the continuum, glowing eerily green and covering the battlefield like some ghostly army. With a huge explosion, it vanished completely. Vines now strangled their victims; tree roots pulled others underground, burying them alive; and grains filled the air with pollen dust, choking those who were still breathing. Tendrils reached out to grasp stacks of legal papers and tear them to shreds.


And so it came that Mogûl, robbed of all of his vassals, slaves, and legal consultants, finally stood alone on the now lushly verdant battlefield, facing Yawanna and the Valiant-Ship.