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Old 03-08-2007, 08:46 PM   #13
The Saucepan Man
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The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
White Tree

On opening the door that led from the Chamber of the Cell-antír, Denimthor was somewhat surprised to find no one there.

“Curious …” he thought to himself.

Suddenly a dazzling array of bright, shining teeth appeared in the darkness.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he mused as he shielded his eyes.

“Visitor for you, sire,” said the teeth in a familiar voice.

Bergassol, the Captain of the Tower Guard, stepped out from the shadows which had masked his tanned features. Countless days spent on guard duty in the bright Grundorian sun, reflected mercilessly off the pearly white walls of Minus Teeth, had turned his face a burnished bronze, which contrasted sharply with his sparkling teeth, a hallmark of all residents of the Wight City.

“Visitor for you, sire,” repeated Bergassol. “He is rather insistent, sire, only …”

“Yes?” prompted Denimthor as he followed the Captain down the staircase that wound round and round, around the bound of the Tower of renown, down to the ground.

“Well, he’s a little chap, sire. Only so high,” replied Bergassol, somewhat dizzy from the circular descent and excessive narrative rhyming, and gesturing to his waist. “He is as like a child to my eyes, only with the voice of a man.”

“Hmm, I wonder what brings one of the Teiniewyniedhil to these parts,” mused Denimthor, adopting the (rather offensive, if the truth be told) Grundorian term. “Perhaps he is looking for an opportunity to trade with our people. Could do wonders for the local hospitality industry. Show him in. I will meet him in the Throne Room.”

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

Denimthor sat regally on the grand Throne of the King, studiously ignoring the smaller and significantly less impressive Proctor’s Seat which stood below it. It was not long before Bergassol entered with a Hobbit in tow.

“Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor?” enquired the Halfling. He was a particularly rotund specimen, middle-aged and finely garbed in an expensive pin-striped three piece suit. Unusually for a Hobbit, he wore an expensive pair of spotless patent leather brogues, and sported pince-nez spectacles on his nose. He peered over them expectantly at the Proctor.

“Yes. I am he,” replied Denimthor, imperiously.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the Hobbit, proffering a small white card.

Denimthor took the card and studied it.

Billingsworth A. Fastbuck, Esq.
~Attorney-at-Law~

Charger, Fastbuck & Bankitt
13, Pennyfarthing Lane
Big Buckland
The Mire

“A loyer!” he exclaimed.

“A respectable profession, I am sure you will agree, Proctor. I specialise in the recovery of debt.”

“Ah well, I have no need of your services. Rest assured that I have adequate provision of my own in that regard.”

“No, you quite misunderstand me. I am here in connection with a certain sum loaned by Mögul Bildûr Enterprises LLC in connection with restoration work on the Wight City.”

“But you must be mistaken,” exclaimed Denimthor, as a slight facial tic manifested itself on his drawn features. “The Dread Developer is no more. That debt is discharged.”

“I fear that it is you who are mistaken, Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor,” replied the Halfling loyer. “I have been engaged on behalf of the Liquidator in connection with the winding-up of Mögul Bildûr Enterprises LLC.”

Denimthor blanched at the name of the relentless Receiver.

“And I am duly authorised to seek repossession of Minus Teeth, the Wight City, upon which the debt was secured.”

“Ah,” ventured Denimthor, recovering slightly and surreptitiously slipping into the Proctor‘s Seat. “But, you see, neither Grundor nor the Wight City are actually mine. I am merely the Proctor. A shepherd, if you like, tending to the flock of Grundor until the King returns. And I hear tell that the rightful King is on his way back as we speak. You’ll have to take this matter up with him.”

“I am aware of the returning King’s claim,” replied Fastbuck. “And, if his claim is established, I accept that the encumbrance over the Wight City will stand discharged ...”

“Well there you are,” said Denimthor, relaxing. “Now, if you have no further business …”

“… only, there is the small matter of the personal guarantee.”

“The wha …?” spluttered Denimthor, his face tic-ing faster than the Halfling's pocket watch.

“You personally guaranteed the debt in the event that the charge over the Wight City was insufficient to disharge it. I am therefore also duly authorised to seek repayment from you personally of the full amount of the debt, namely, let me see …” Fastbuck unfurled and studied a parchment which he had removed from his inside pocket, before continuing, “… the sum of 10,500,000 guineas ...”

“But …”

“… plus interest, compounded daily at a rate of 22.5%, amounting to 2,385,999 guineas, making 12,885,999 guineas in total as at today‘s date …”

“How …?”

“… plus all legal costs and disbursements incurred in the recovery of said debt.”

Denimthor was by now a quivering wreck, having calculated that, with the current strength of the guinea to the Grundorian kabob, he was short to the tune of approximately 25 million kabobs. He was not, however, a Proctor to be fleeced lightly. Composing himself, he glared defiantly at the diminutive loyer and countered with a speech of great eloquence.

“Yeah, you and who’s army?”

“Ahem,” answered the Hobbit. “Since you ask ….”

With this, he began to mutter beneath his breath. Denimthor’s hand moved to his great sword, Äurrel’Bei, but before he could unsheathe it, the spell of summoning was complete and two terrifying figures materialised in the chamber.

The first was a mountain of a man, as like a half-troll, only with less charm. Shaven was his head, and pot-bellied his physique. He wore a black short-sleeved-shirt and tracking-suit bottoms, and his feet were shod with the large black boots favoured by the physicians of Mahrten. His rough skin was wrought with colourful designs, some declaring his love for his mother, others depicting tigers and anchors. And in one great hand, adorned with a sovreign ring, he bore a thick chain, at the end of which languished an enormous black hound, flat of face and toothy of maw, and sporting a sharply studded collar of great girth.

The other was smaller, but no less fearsome. Swarthy of complexion, lean of frame and muscular in build, he wore a bandanna on his head bearing a grinning skull and crossbones. A dangerously mad glint was in his eyes and his mouth leered maniacally as he puffed on a weedstick, revealing two shining gold teeth. He wore a black vest, black leather trousers and boots as like those of his companion. His skin, too, was decorated, but in a more stylised fashion, with swirling, jagged patterns. Thrust in his belt were two evil-looking light crossbows, cocked and ready to fire.

“Permit me to introduce my … ah … associates,” said Fastbuck. “Myhrrdôk and Ess’Tevèz.”

To Denimthor, who had studied well the ancient texts, the two interlopers required no further introduction. The Baîllíffs were they, the Reaperwraiths, the Liquidator's most terrible servants. Destitution went with them, and they rejoiced in the collection of debt.

Bergassol stepped forth, his spear at the ready, determined to to protect his lord from these dreadful foes and to enforce the Wight Tower‘s strict no smoking policy. But as he did so, Myhrrdôk’s fearsome hound growled menacingly and Ess’Tevèz let out an ear-splitting whoop.

“Come not between a Baîllíff and his claim!” warned Fastbuck. “Or he will not rough thee up where thee stand. He will bear thee away to the courts of administration, beyond all beaurocracy, where thy assets shall be stripped, and thy bankrupt estate be left naked to the Grasping Hand.”

“Yeah punk, and you most definitely do not want that to occur,” added Ess’Tevèz.

Bergassol faltered, and Denimthor, ashen faced, waved him back.

“I cannot pay this debt,” he said. “My coffers will not avail me now.”

“Then I would advise that you take precautions to ensure that this King, rightful or not, does not return,” replied Fastbuck. “For then, the debt may be redeemed through repossession of the Wight City. You have two weeks. In the meantime, I have taken the precaution of invoking an Ynch’ankh-Shön enchantment over your assets. They shall remain encased in ice until further notice, although you may have a weekly allowance of 5 guineas for personal expenses. Good day.”

And with that, Billingsworth Fastbuck turned and walked briskly from the chamber, flanked by the Baîllíffs, leaving the Proctor utterly shaken and languishing in the depths of despair, where he remained for the rest of the day.

The next morning, however, he had brightened somewhat. After a sleepless night turning over in his mind the seemingly hopeless situation in which he found himself, an idea had occurred to him in the early hours as to how he might raise the necessary funds. For this Proctor liked to gamble. And so, anonymously hooded and cloaked, he set off on foot (his horse having been clamped) for the Wight Mountains.

Last edited by The Saucepan Man; 03-09-2007 at 03:47 AM.
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