The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Go, Questers, go! Go, Entish Bow!” The spirited cries of the Velour cheerleaders were slightly belated, as the AreWeThereYetShip was already rapidly proceeding toward the holy mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill. And such was the virtue of the hallowed lands of Valleyum that the usual trail of destruction and food wrappers that otherwise followed in their wake was conspicuously absent.

The Velour were lagging behind them, sorely missing the dune buggies with which they normally preferred to travel, but still feeling buoyantly virtuous. Since it looked like there was no further danger to them, nor any activity required of them, they could bask in the glow of seeming to participate without actually doing anything.

The Green Goddess was busy thinking of all that needed to be organized while she walked hand-in-hand with her spouse. She mentally composed an o-mail of condolence to Orogarn’s father:

To the Honourable Lord Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor and Guardian of the Porcelain Throne of Minus Teeth, from Yawanna, greetings!

I have the sad task of informing you as his father that your noble and valiant son Orogarn Two has lost his life in the fulfillment of his duty as a hero of the Questship of the Entish Bow. We now bear his body in great honour; would you like to have it transported back to the city of his ancestors for burial? Please inform us of your wishes and we will provide for carriage worthy of his person and rank.

Unfortunately, the static caused a poor connection between the far Western lands of Valleyum and the kingdom of Grundor in Muddled-Mirth, so that only a truncated message reached the Proctor:

Yawanna have your son’s body back?

Since Denimthor had seen a vision of Orogarn (Two, of course) lying pale beneath the skies of Valleyum, he was not surprised. However, the official news of the death of the Not-Prince, successor to the Not-Throne, caused much weeping and mourning in the city of his origin. Poems were made and sung that were equal at least to Vogonwë’s best efforts, the flags of Minus Teeth flew at half mast, and the elderly wore only the bottom half of their dentures in honour of his memory. The children strewed their toothbrushes with ashes, crying bitterly when they had to use them.

Denimthor wrote a return answer:

No father should have to bury his child! Since he is no longer of use to our country, it matters not where he lies buried. Do as you think.

Alas, even this brief answer suffered from the static, so that Yawanna received the following reply:

No!

Reaperneep considered himself the deceased hero’s guard of honour and walked beside the humble cart which bore his remains, holding his sword high and looking grim, though no one approached them.

Vogonwë had spent the first miles speechless, sucking on throat lozenges to soothe his weary vocal chords. Yet after awhile he could not resist the opportunity offered him by the somber, somewhat festive procession (which moreover provided him with a captive audience) and began chanting a dirge:

His head was higher than the helm of kings
with heathen crowns, his heart keener
and his soul clearer than swords of heroes
polished and proven; than plated gold
his worth was greater. From the world has passed
a prince peerless in peace and war,
just in judgement, generous-handed
as the golden lords of long ago.
He has gone to Emu glory seeking,
Orogarn Two beloved.


“Hush!” Pimpiowyn exclaimed suddenly. The others turned toward her in astonishment, wondering why she would object to Vogonwë’s poem. For he had spoken with authority and great skill, as if with the voice of one who was a master of words, and they would feign have listened longer.

“I’m sorry, darling, I don’t mean you!” she said contritely when she realized that he had taken her outcry personally. “I mean my sword Hush – it’s gone!”

“When do you last remember having it in your hands?” Merisuwyniel asked helpfully.

“Hmm, I don’t know – on the battlefield, I think,” the Half-Halfling answered.

All eyes were on Pimpi, or someone might have noticed that Soregum’s face turned pale, then flushed, and his hand went to his breast pocket. He hesitated, but soon realizing the extent of her distress, edged over alongside the cart. His hands moved with the skill of the Little People, faster than the eye, and then raised the sword triumphantly. “Here it is,” he called out. “It must have been in the cart all the while.”

“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, giving him a kiss on the cheek in reward. And though this history does not tell the tale, it is said that he never after did wash that cheek and became known as Soregum, the Black-Faced.

Watching the cart, Vogonwë continued:

Hey! rattle and bump over rut and boulder!
The roads are rough and rest is short...


but the mood had passed, the mountain was nigh, and his audience was distracted. Eager to reach their goal, they pressed forward. Gateskeeper even pressed fast forward, but nothing happened and he had to content himself with normal speed.