Pre-party stories

[the real findorfin]

As some of you may know, Fin the flirtatious elf-lord has been sending messages via his Chamberlain Fingil to many a fair lady asking for escorts to the party. Unfortunately, Lord Thalind whisked Lanthiriel out of his hands. This is what I wrote quickly when my dad needed to use the phone line for several minutes.

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(It is night time and two elves sit in a lavishly decorated sitting room of a huge mansion. The fire crackles and Fin is sat, brandy in hand with a crumpled letter on his knee.)

Fin: Gone, just like that (sobs and takes a sip of the brandy) . How could she do that Fingil?

Fingil: Do not fret my lord, the tally is now down to 12, we are still in double figures.

Fin: (crying out with drunken sobs) BUT SHE’S GONE!

Fingil: Yes, my lord.

Fin: It was that Thalind’s fault. Damn him to hell. You know what Fingil.

Fingil: What, my lord.

Fin: We must make him pay. Revenge must be swift and brutal. We must travel to his mansion, bring him out, thrash him, tie him to horses (building up to a feverous finale) and drag him around his own lands. Then we will gut him, take out his liver and feed it to him!

(Thunder crackles outside as he strikes a fearsome pose over the fireplace where he is now stood)

Fingil: Of course my lord, I will add it to the to do list for this week.

Fin: Good (returning to his normal voice), now what’s for dinner Fingil, I’m famished.

Fingil: Um..Liver I do believe, my lord.

Fin: Ah quick work Fingil, I knew you had it in you. But I did mean to feed it to him, not me.

Fingil: Um…

Fin: But never mind, just bring it in and I’ll try and stomach it.

Fingil: (shaking head) Yes my lord.

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Not great, but it was a quick job.

[ April 28, 2003: Message edited by: the real findorfin ]