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Old 07-22-2003, 10:42 PM   #22
The Barrow-Wight
Night In Wight Satin
 
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Sting

Still wallet-less, still horseless, and now city-less, Orogarn Two looked back in utter disbelief at the wreckage of the once beautiful Minus Teeth. Where recently row upon row of tall, beautifully straight enamel towers had stood, now only great gaping holes appeared, cavities more numerous than even the most experienced troop of Orthodontic Engineers could ever hope to bridge in a lifetime. The Wight City had withstood countless assaults from many enemies over its long history, but it had at last fallen to an unexpected combination of foes - a de-sobered Dun Sóbrin and a combustible Chrysophylax Dives.

“I should never have allowed them both into the city,” muttered Orogarn Two, shaking his head at the carnage that had been his home.

“You!” he shouted to a smoldering Police Chief who stood nearby leaning against the remains of a smoking lamppost and sobbing loudly. “Stop your blubbering and send someone to the Citibank to discover if my father yet lives.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the started city official, rubbing soot from his eyes. He attempted to brush away the dirt and blood that covered his uniform, but he only managed to smear it deeper into the material. Finally, he shrugged and ran quickly up the road that had once led upward to the Porcelain Throne.

Orogarn Two looked down at his own splendid wardrobe, which was as spotless as the moment he had put it on that morning. I shall have to write that man up for sloppiness when he returns. He turned to his companions.

“My father warned me that my decision to rejoin you would lead to my downfall, and already it has caused the destruction of Minus Teeth. With the city now in ruins and the fate of Denimthor unknown, I do not see how I can leave.”

“Awww,” cried Pimiowyn as she and Vogonwë rode up.

“Whaaa,” mumbled Earnur before dozing off again.

“Sorry to see you go,” coughed the dragon insincerely from somewhere nearby.

“On the other hand,” answered Orogarn Two as he approached Dives shoving a four-inch thick copy of the Minus Teeth Fire Ordinance into his monstrous snout, “I do not see how I can allow you to wander freely through Grundor. So, either I have to throw you all in chains, or I have to go with you to ensure you don’t burn down the rest of my country. Which would you prefer.”

“Lock us up?” asked Merisuwyniel in feigned shock, raising her hands to her lovely face. “Where in Muddled-Mirth would you put us? Your city is in shambles.”

Orogarn Two grimaced as if punched in the stomach, and it became immediately apparent that the beautiful Elf-maiden was embarrassed by her hasty remark.

“Please, Orogarn, I’m sorry for that,” she said. “It is a terrible thing that has happened, but you know that our mission is also important, more important than one city or even one country. We need you on this journey.”

“Two,” answered the Grundorian, regaining his composure, “it’s Orogarn Two, and you are correct. I have neither the facilities to detain you or a true reason for staying, unless my father truly is dead. But I shall discover his fate shortly.”

Orogarn Two turned sharply on his blue suede shoes and strode quickly to where he had addressed the singed fireman. He sat himself down upon the head of a toppled statue and pulled out his citation booklet, writing out the reprimand for the grungy Police Chief. He did not have to wait long. Soon the harried official appeared with a note from the Citibank bearing the seal of Denimthor himself. Orogarn Two tore it open eagerly.

Dear Orie,

I have survived the crash of the Citibank and secured our personal holdings in the you-know-what in the you-know-where. As you surely know, Minus Teeth now looks like a hockey veteran with a discount dental plan, so I have, for the moment, officially renamed the city Minus Toothless. Do not fear! We have already summoned a team of Denturians who should have our fair city rebuilt before the third molars come in. In the meantime, with the majority of our citizens demanding your head (and those of you your companions), I now think it best that you leave Grundor for an extended vacation.

Sincerely, your father who told you so,
Orogarn One, Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor

P.S. I have changed our motto: “Stewards of Grundor do it on the Porcelain Throne”. So, the whole horse thing is null and void. Look for a steed to follow shortly behind this message.


“Cool!” shouted Pimpi, who was reading over his shoulder. “Orie is getting a horsie!”

[ July 23, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]
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