[Mithadan]

When Pimpiowyn began crying, Grrralph excused himself hastily and spent several hours conducting a careful examination of several pieces of bark and the travel habits of a snail. He returned to the camp later that evening and settled himself in for the night on a pile of shavings that had resulted from Earnur's epic Battle of the Wood.

Morning found him sitting upon a stump near the edge of the camp looking typically dark and menacing. He hummed a few lines from the musical Camlost to amuse himself as he waited for the others to prepare themselves for the day. In Carcharoth/ disappeared Beren's hand/ in Carcharoth/ the flames of heartburn were fanned/ in Carcharoth!

Pimiowyn wandered by as he sang. "Very pretty," she commented. "But you realize that the tale is merely an allegory about evil devouring good which nonetheless survives and grows again. Kind of like a Phoenix rising from the flames."

In the face of such an erudite interpretation of what Grrralph believed to be a slice 'em, dice 'em story, he could only respond with, "Huh?"

Pimpi shook her comely head with a sad laugh. "Love prevails, as should my love for Vogonwë." With that she sobbed and the tears started again from her eyes.

Her tears smote Grrralph to the core. But not in the way one would normally think. Tears are to a wraith as the sound of one scratching a blackboard is to just about everyone else. As a result, when faced with an opponent tearfully begging for mercy, a wraith's instinctive reaction is to lop off the head of the sobbing subject. This has led many to believe that wraiths are heartless. This is, of course untrue. Wraiths are not heartless; just easily annoyed.

Grrralph resisted the urge to reach for his sword and instead sat upon his twitching hands. "Perhaps it's for the best," he suggested hoarsely as what passed for his skin crawled in reaction to her tears. "Maybe you could get a dog, or a parrot."

"I've got a parrot, you can have it cheap," announced Kuruharan who rummaged through his bag and pulled out a brightly colored bird which was clearly in the final stages of rigor mortis. He attempted to place it on his shoulder, but lacking the motivation or ability to remain upright, it fell to the ground. The Dwarf picked it up and held it out to Grrralph.

The wraith resisted the urge to argue with Kuruharan about the virtue and value of a dead parrot, and instead turned back to Pimpi. "Please, stop crying," he asked in a strained voice. In response, her sobs grew even louder. Grrralph's right hand emerged from under his rump and crawled of its own accord towards his morningstar. He attempted to seize his right hand with his left, which caused it to rear back and smack him between his burning eyes. He fell over backwards off the log.

Pimpiowyn looked up for a moment, then her tears resumed. "Don't try to cheer me up with jokes, Grrralph," he whimpered. "I'm inconsolable."

By the time he had gained his feet, Grrralph's hand had seized his sword and was straining towards Pimpi. With a cry of anguish, Grrralph gave in.

"All right!" he shouted. "We'll find the little twit! Just stop crying!"

He leaped away and began sniffing about the clearing. Then he sped away in a crouch seeking the distinctive scent of Vogonwë's mousse. In a matter of minutes, he returned. "He's off that way somewhere," Grrralph said weakly.

Pimpiowyn sniffed, snuffled and wiped her face. Then she smiled. "Grrralph! I could just k...shake your hand!" she cried happily. Then she sped off to tell the others.

"Don't bother," muttered Grrralph at her receding back. Then he pulled his right hand out from his belt and shook violently it before sitting back down...