The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Thenamir]

With the exception of Vogonwë the rest of the Food-N-Drinkship roundly rejected Gateskeeper's suggestion that they leave Soregum (and Earnur for that matter) in the busy lane where he lay until morning, so Gatesy grumblingly helped the others lug the insensate hobbit and the comatose Warden of the Oddly-Shaped Disputed Bit back into the Nancing Bow-ny and up to their second-floor rooms. Since the drunken Soregum would probably be sleeping off his cups for at least 12 hours, Gateskeeper volunteered to share the room with Soregum and "take care" of him through the night. Unlike his former proposal, this suggestion was quickly accepted by the group -- the women gaining yet another measure of esteem for Gateskeeper for appearing to be a caring soul, and the men glad to not have to sleep with the customary clothespin over their noses to block the black breath of the inebriated shorty. Gateskeeper valued only the fact that his movements and conversations later on would be noticed by no one. And that he'd save half on the room.

Once the soused had been put to bed, the remainder of the lets-make-the-best-of-it-ship returned to their table refreshed and in a much better mood, having settled their meal-tab arguments by relieving Earnur's pockets of the costs of the evening's repast. After an hour of stories and songs (during which Orogarn Two reprised his Marrow-Bones performance for the locals) the exhausted travelers walked, slogged, and crawled away to their rooms for the night, grateful for a chance to rest. Except for Gateskeeper who just waited for everything to grow still from his berth next to Soregum. And while he passed the time he began thinking, never a safe thing to do for an evil character battling with his good side.

"We must have the Entish Bow! Victory over the Pea Sea depends on it!"
"But if we steal the Bow, we lose all our friends in the whatever-ship!"
"You don't *have* any friends! No one likes *you*..."
"No one?"
"Well, maybe Mogul..."
"Really??"
"No, I'm lying to you. Mogul would skin a flea for it's hide and tallow."
"I'm not listening! I'm not listening!"
"You're a liar, and a thief!"
"Everyone has his idiosyncracies..."
"Murrrderrrerrr..."
"Why are you talking like that?"
"Like what"
"Come on, you sound like you've lost your voice whispering like that."
"It's part of the U.E.C. requirements."
"U.E.C.?"
"Union of Evil Consciences, local 1626, charter member, have you forgotten?"
"Oh, that."
"Anyway, there's one thing you know you can't escape."
"SPAM o-mails? I invented them, you know..."
"NO, you goody-goody twit! The Mark of Mogul, the Clozd-dheal!"
"Oops I see we've gone over-time, we have to wrap up this scene. Leave now, and never come back."
"GRRR!! Stop changing the subject!"
"Leave! Now! And never...come...back!"
"OK, OK, I'm going already."
"Really?"
"No, I lied again. But I'll be quiet for a bit, as long as I'm still in charge."
"That'll do for now."

Fortuitously for Gateskeeper, the sounds of preparation-for-sleep (and a small argument between Vogie and Pimpi) had died away, and it was time for Gateskeeper to slip out into the night. Once he was comfortably out of earshot of the Nance, he fired up his cell-antir, as he was long overdue for a report to Mogul. He was just about to hit the send button when he tripped over a slightly-less-dark form in the surrounding blackness.

"Hi, now guv'nor," said the small, sleepy whatever-it-was, "make way for a poor 'alfling amputee.." Gateskeeper, stepping back, saw a hobbit, apparantly on crutches. "Who are you, and why are you out on the streets so late?" Gateskeeper demanded, brushing the detritus of the street off himself and hiding his cell-antir from curious eyes. He noted that the hobbit seemed much shorter than the average hobbit, and indeed had had both legs cut off at the knees , which now grew fur as if they were hobbit feet.

"Bill Fur-Knee, at yer service. I was just comin back 'ome after a a midnight snack. There's quite the 'ot dog vender at the edge of town, most popular thing since Lardiman's lamb stews."

Gateskeeper was instantly alert at the mention of "'ot dogs" "This vendor, was he dressed all in white?"

"Aye, that 'ee was, and 'ee 'ad two of the worst lookin' trap ponies i'd ever seen. I got one 'ee could 'ave 'ad for a reasonable price, but 'ee wouldn't 'ave nothin ter do with it. 'Ee was just lookin' fer a talkin' bow and a group o' low-lifes, if yer take me meanin', guv'nor...hi! where ye goin' so quick?"

But Gateskeeper had heard enough and was fleeing back to the Nance as quickly as his skinny legs and flowing robe would carry him. Whichever side of his personality won the battle, he had to keep that Bow (and all the other Entish parts for that matter) out of the hands of Sauerkraut at all costs...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A slight smile played around the corners of Merisuwyniel’s rosy lips as she rode through the village of Beer toward the Inn. She had enjoyed the party in the Mire – or was it ‘Shire’? – and been reassured by the eclectic mixture of guests that her motley crew would certainly find a welcome amongst that hospitable folk. Now she was anxious to get back to the Slow-Ship-to-China, hoping that the others had not missed her too much or found it difficult to manage without her expert leadership.

Her worst fears seemed justified as she entered the rooms where her companions had slept. The windows had been opened and were swinging, and the curtains were flapping; the beds were tossed about, and the bolsters slashed and flung upon the floor; and the ‘welcome’ mat was torn to pieces.

“AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE!” she cried, blowing on her harmonica for lack of a horn. Then, as it occurred to her that she had seen scenes like this before without enemy intervention, she called out, “Chrysophylax?” Still no answer. “Well, I’m back,” she stated to no one in particular.

“Oh, it’s you,” Leninia said, looking around the corner. “Were you gone?”

“What’s going on here?” Merisu asked in consternation.

“We have, uh, decided to carry on our journey with no further delay,” Gateskeeper informed her, coming around another corner with his hands full of baggage. He hurried off to the stall before she could ask any more questions.

“Did someone attack?” she queried.

“No,” Vogonwë said, carrying a big bag that sent out enticing smells of food. “Pimpi was trying to find the package of cookies she’d stashed in the room for emergencies, and didn’t remember where she’d put them.”

Orogarn Two and Kuruharan came from the stall. “We’ve heaved Soregum and Earnur into the cart,” the Dwarf said. “That will help us to get moving faster – is everyone else ready?”

The first grey light of day entered the windows, and cold air was coming through the open door as they left the Nancing Bow-ny Inn and headed westwards again. Pimpiowyn shivered as they passed through the gate and into Ye Aulde Foreste, a scenic park that lay between them and their next goal. Were the rumours told by her mother’s people true, that the Forest was haunted?

Merisuwyniel rode at the head of the Gallop-Ship; the others stayed well behind her, remembering the stories they had heard at the Inn last evening. “The Forest is queer,” one of the Hobbits, a very merry fellow, had told them. “Everything in it is very much alive, more aware of what is going on, so to speak, than elsewhere. And the trees do not like strangers. They watch you, whispering to each other, and the branches sway and grope without any wind. They do say the trees actually move, and can surround strangers…”

The trees grew taller as they rode on, and closer on both sides, and the day seemed to become darker instead of lighter as the hours passed. Vogonwë tried to sing a song to encourage them, but his voice sank to a murmur.

O! Questers in the tree-ed land
Despair not! For though trunks do stand,
All branches here must end at last
And see the axe go cutting past:
The hewing Dwarf, the hacking Man,
The campfire site for mealtime plan.
For Elf or Hobbit, all must cook…

Just then a branch crashed down in their path, narrowly missing the heads of those behind the Elven maiden. She turned around and smiled triumphantly. “Mealtime!” she exclaimed. And lo! the branch bore apples, and they plucked them and found them to be wonderfully crisp, juicy, and sweet.

Bushes seemed to grow nearer and they shrank together, feeling hemmed in and breathless as the air got hot and stuffy. But Merisu gathered berries from them with nary a scratch on her pale, graceful hands and distributed them to her comrades.

“Ow!! Ow!!” Soregum cried out, wakened from his stupor by a missile from above. It seemed to them that hail fell all around them, but when they looked, they perceived that nuts were lying on the ground, ripe and tasty.

When they had eaten enough to satisfy even Pimpi, they sat down to stretch their weary legs. Their eyes dropped shut from drowsiness, and none of them noticed that the roots of the surrounding trees moved toward their feet. But they sighed blissfully in their sleep as they dreamt of a wonderful, relaxing massage.

When they awoke later, the trees had moved apart just enough to let speckled sunlight through their green leaves. They mounted their horses refreshed and followed the path ahead of them. None noticed that it seemed to shift away from the direction they thought they were going, moving ever upwards and to the left.

After an hour or two they lost all clear sense of direction, though they knew well enough that they had long ceased to go westwards at all. They were being headed off, and were simply following a course chosen for them – into the heart of the Forest and not out of it. The afternoon was wearing away when they suddenly reached a clearing. There they saw – the strangest little man, dancing the strangest little dance! He had saucepans and kettles hung all over him, he wore a saucepan for a hat, and he crashed two saucepans together as he danced!

Ooops – sorry! Wrong story…

But just what did they see on the clearing??

[Thenamir]

"So close," Sauerkraut grumbled to himself, "almost within my grasp...no matter. The fools have fled into Ye Auld Foreste. The trees there will hold them until I arrive, I and my new 'hot dog friends'."

He permitted himself a single evil chuckle as he drove his hot dog cart down the road that left Beer at a leisurely pace, followed on foot by almost the entire population of Beer. Their eyes were glazed, their movements mechanical, their foreheads emblazoned with the emblem of the white bratwurst, their lips synchronized and softly chanting "IM...HO...TEP...(oops, wrong movie) SA...UER...KRAUT...SA...UER...KRAUT..."

[Lush]

The green cloud of what appeared to be some sort of poison gas that Leninia rode through the Forest gave a noticeable jerk as she neared the clearing, the last in line.

"What is it, Stoli?" The rider purred, reaching down to pat the cloud with one hand, keeping the latest issue of Con de Nastí open with another.

"I can't believe you're talking to a cloud, let alone riding one," Pimpi turned around and snorted.

"Stoli is not a cloud, he's just shy around strangers," Leninia hissed through pearly teeth.

"If it ducks like a quack, and...I mean, if it quakes like a...er..." Vogonwë sputtered, his expression shifting from grave to terribly confused.

"What he's is trying to say," Pimpi jumped in, waving at Vogonwë to keep quiet, "is that you are most definitely riding on a creepy green cloud and until we have proof otherwise we will continue to lambast you for not having a proper noble steed, like all great tales require."

"Oh stuff your face!" Leninia growled.

"With what?" Pimpi inquired eagerly.

Leninia opened her pretty mouth, prepared to issue forth a torrent of furious, yet landylike invective, but just then the green cloud bucked underneath her in great agitation, and Leninia had to dig a stylish heel into its side in an attempt to resume control, entering the clearing braced for attack and ruinage of her exquisite manicure.

[Bêthberry]

Alas and alack for the at last Shipshape Itship, the clang of kettle, pot and pan was not some kind of man. That had been a trick, an anthropomorphic misadventure, their eyes had played upon them. Slowly, as the rag-taggle band of heroes and goddesses searched their memories, they became aware of an even more improbable thing, something from beyond any myth they knew. Someone's memory was in overdrive, or, more poetically, they had stepped through a window that had opened on an alternate time and a light was upon an object for which they had no name. (One forest is as good as another for that thief called writer.) The clash and bash of copper-coated kettle and iron pot was coming from inside a strange, long, narrow house, clad in yellow and a metal as precious as mithril, and set atop wheels no less. Which said house was rocking and rolling, though not in a musical fashion, as now loud wails were emanating from it.

"I didn't mean a little place we could call our own and never go any where else," cried a female voice, the cry embellished by the ringing sound of a pan hitting a wall.

"But honey, I thought this was complete for you. Remember how happy you were that it came complete with everything, furnishings and closets and lamps and beds."

"You never told me this would be all there was," retorted the woman, her voice dripping with tears, which were punctuated by the ping and crash of multiple plates hitting a wall and not a few cries of "Ouch! Ow! Watch it!"

"What's the point of a trailer if we don't take it anywhere?" Cue the sound of more pans hitting the wall, this time in seeming syncopation from two directions.

"You said you wanted to make a home for me. Yê Auldë Forestë it is. I am Master here."

"Don't get all bossy with me. It's fine and dandy for you to run off and have adventures with hobbits and wights and then come home and expect me to be waiting here for you with dinner ready."

The sounds of pots and pans being kicked around the floor accompanied this shrill cry of petelant independence and, suddenly, the door swung open to the chimes of "Breezing with the Breeze', a hip song which somehow had found this window of opportunity to infiltrate the memories of the Third Age. Out came a vision of domestic bliss, less keen and lofty than any Merisuwyniel-inspired dream but definitely closer to mortal parts if not hearts.

She was clad in a fabulous dress of green chiffon with white lace. It sported a nipped-in waist, princess neckline and flaring swing skirt which flounced around upon umpteen layers of petticoats in time to the stormy shakings of her head. She had the uplift of a Saturn booster rocket and it was clear she was wearing a girdle. Her full lips, perfectly heart shaped, were red, her eyebrows, pencil thin, and her hair the perfect curly (golden)red which one day would be called a poodle cut. Leninia would have died for such lips and hips had she been willing to die herself. As it was, she satisfied herself merely with killing looks. And at the sight of this domestic paragon a spell was laid upon Vogonwë about the pleasures of subservience so that he immediately began contemplating a robust poem with which he would later regale the firmament--or would have, had Pimpi not herself administered a punishing kick to this bottom.

Suddenly, the sky was wracked with lightning and thunder overwhelmed the graceful caperings of the couple.

"Aw, come on, honey," pleaded the voice of the man who was exiting the trailer himself. He was a dashing caballero who spoke with a vaguely Cubadorian, er, Grudorian, er, H'radcal accent. His attire was as remarkable in its own way as was that of the woman, for he wore a blue, short-waisted windbreaker jacket which accentuated his legs and hips, all the more to show off his dancing skills, which were highlighted by the yellow golf shoes upon his feet. At least that is what Orogorn Two claimed they were when an astonished Thingship of one accord pointed to them. The man's dark hair was combed back from his face, in a high pompadour on top, in what came to be known as a jelly roll. He followed the woman.

"You know how you bring storms on when you get in a huff, Gucyberry."

She crossed her arms petulantly across her bosom, her fingers tapping upon her forearms and her feet stamping the ground. Rain appeared out of nowhere and began to drench the Wouldship as well as the two, who began to discourse some more in their version of sweet domestic bliss.

Chrysophylax huffed and puffed, his firey breath attempting to evaporate the rain but it came in torrents so heavy that his breath was extinguished. As it was, though, his breath managed to singe a curl or two of the woman's hair and she immediately turned towards the assembled guests.

"Oh, Ricky Ricadillo we have guests and our table isn't laid. Is supper ready?"

At the mention of supper, Pimpiowyn decided that this woman was a dangerous rival who meant to get to the heart of Vogonwë through his stomach. She for one was certainly not going to fall for this social panacea of the dinner table.

Ricky, who was in fact the coolest bandmaster ever at Ye Hippe Forecana nightclub, clapped his hands in rhumba rhythm and offered to refresh the Wouldship, giving Merisuwyniel in particular a very appreciative eye. She was much in awe of his attention, but like the dauntless goddess she was, she demurrred politely and said they were on a mission from Eru and designed to reach Valleyum with the help of the Velour but had became terribly lost in this tricksome Forest.

When Gucyberry heard this, a look of wifely, conniving intrigue came over her face as she saw an opportunity. She gushed over Merisu's quest.

"Ricky, honey, you can't dissuade this courageous maiden from her mission. The rain has ended. Let us now laugh and teach them the right road."

"But no one comes by Yê Oldë Forestë without spending the night under my roof or at my table," complained Ricky, who found quite enough to occupy his time in Yê Auldë Forestë.

Gucyberry walked over to Ricky and began to run her fingers over his ears. "Ricky, we can do both. You can drive the Mercury and I can make dinner in the trailer."

Gateskeeper ran up to Ricky at this point. "Say, son, is that a '53 Mercury Monterey? What horsepower do you have there?"

"It surely is, Pop. It's a 125 horsepower flathead V8 with 3700 rpm," Ricky answered proudly.

"You don't say. 255.4 cubic inch piston displacement?"

"Nothing less for my baby."

"211 lb.ft of torque?"

"She's fast and made in the shade," Ricky pronounced.

"That's one classy chassis. Cloth and vinyl seats and dress-up chrome mirror?" You could tell that Gateskeeper's love of technology was bringing out Ricky's vanity to the point where soon he couldn't say no.

"See, Ricky, you just have to show these nice people the powertrain and the leg room."

Gucyberry's pleading was too much for Ricky to take, along with her puppy eyes and melting pout. He nodded his agreement and plans were soon made to fit everyone into either the trailer or the convertible.

"We shall fear nothing," proclaimed Kuruharan and Gucyberry pronounced him "Smelf-friend," the first and only dwarf ever to receive such an accolade. Kuruharan surveyed the trailer, contemplating the potential for sales in Middle-earth should the Eye ever be defeated enough to allow a sufficient tourist trade to be established between Beer and Grundor. It is true that Merisuwyniel had some trouble persuading Grrralph to accept this plan, for the wraith was sure Ricky would be tempted to hold a knife to his throat, but Merisu finally persuaded him that Cubadorians could be as trustworthy as any denizen of the florida and fauna or at least as good for business.

So it came to pass that both Earnur and Orogorn Two vied to enter the trailer together. It was a tight squeeze for both to fit in the low door and they stumbled manfully in their efforts to avoid encumbering the other in their arms. Immediately, Earnur bowed, but hit his head upon the doorframe, which allowed Orogorn to attempt the entrance at one large jump but his prowess resulted only in his tripping upon the step, whereupon our two challenging champions decided to ride with that other venturesome fellow Ricky in the horsepowered vehicle which would draw the trailer. Leninia immediately chose to sit between the two in case a good game of back seat bingo could be had, even beneath the watchful eye of the wizard Gateskeeper, who sat behind them on the rear deck, with the rag top down. Chrysophyllax, far too large even for a thirty foot trailer, had to fly atop the trailer and stick his head in an open window while Kuruharan jumped into the front passenger seat the better to survey the prospects for trade routes. Vogonwë insisted upon offering help to the lovely Gucyberry, to which offer Pimpi scowled, but a scowl not missed by Soregum who lost no opportunity to be of service by offering the ample hobbit miss his arm to steady herself as she attempted the flighty stairs into the trailer, which nearly bent beneath her weight. Grrralph decided to ride atop the trailer hitch, covered in his cloak, the better to keep a suspicious eye upon this prancing Forest fellow while Merisu, determined not to be outdone in the sartorial category, jumped at the chance, but only in the most decorous manner, to explore the inner sanctum of Gucyberry's clothes closet.

Ricky released the trailer brake and lay a patch and the Monterey Convertible with the 32-foot, 3-ton New Moon trailer and The Last Hope for the Entish Wood sped out onto a highway, a window of which opened opportunely for him. And so it was that the Back-to-the-future-ship was brought to explore the simultaneous but sorry existence of Yê Auldë Forestë in the Seventh Age.

[The Saucepan Man]

The Korprat-Loyers, Cheetem and Ripoff, sped over the Plateau of Gorgonbreath on their top of the range turbo-charged Wargs, Porsha and Furrari. Behind them, slung across the back of a horse and still bound and gagged by their injunctive spells, trailed Gravlox. As they went, Cheetem and Ripoff regaled their captive audience (of one) with a customary Loyer song:

Claim! Blame! The gravy train!
Red tape! No escape!
And down down to Loyer-town
You go, my lad!

Ipso facto! Lex contracto!
Locus standi! Mutatis mutandi!
Bound, bound, far underground!
Quid pro quo, my lad!

Bad debt! Liquidate!
Warranty clause! Bankruptcy laws!
Sue, sue! And turn the screw,
While Loyers draft, and Loyers laugh,
Pound and hound and cite their grounds
Down you go, my lad!

Soon, they were within the Tower Block of Barát-Höm standing with their prisoner before their chieftain, Greedhog, and none other than the Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealings himself. Môgul Bildûr sat in his leather bound swivel-chair, shrouded as always in a dark and murky cloud, gently stroking (as far as could be told) Heslob’s mangy white fur.

“Your Loyers have done well, Greedhog,” purred Môgul. “See that they are well rewarded.”

“Indeed I ssshall, sssire,” hissed Greedhog. Then, turning to them, he continued, “Look to your annual pay review. Threefold ssshall your performancsse bonusssesss be multiplied for thisss year. Now leave usss.”

As Cheetem and Ripoff withdrew from the Office Suite positively dripping with smug satisfaction, Môgul turned his attention to the prisoner.

“So, Gravlox. We meet again. Only it would appear that your Uruk credentials are not all that I had hoped. You are a traitor to all that is dark and diabolical, are you not? You have besmirched the bad name of Orcs the world over. What, I wonder, should we do with you?”

“We ssshould liquidate him, my liege,” sneered Greedhog. “I could have a Writ of Exssecution drawn up within minutesss if you only sssay the word.”

Gravlox’s increasingly Elven features remained impassive, straining only slightly in an attempt to make out the form of the nebulous figure seated before him. Despite his Orcish origins, it was perhaps better for him that he could not.

“No. We shall stick to the original plan. He may yet prove to be a useful negotiating tool.”

“Indeed sssire. Particularly as it ssseemsss that he hasss … er … feelingsss for the Ssshe-Elf.” A look of distaste crossed Greedhog’s twisted face.

“The she-elf?” uttered Môgul in bemusement. “Why on Muddled-Mirth would he be attracted to a storage unit?”

“No sssire, the Ssshe-Elf. The ring leader of the Entisssh Quessstorss. That Merisssuwyniel.” Greedhog spat the name out as if to stifle it the moment it left his treacherous lips but it hung in the air, feminine yet practical. Gravlox was unable to conceal a mournful sigh.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? How curious. Are these … er … feelings mutual?”

“Yesss, my Lord, we believe ssso.”

There was a pause. Then a familiar gurgling, mewling, strangling sound issued forth from the murk. Môgul was chuckling.

“Excellent! Then his value to us is great indeed. See that he is not harmed.”

“Your wisssh isss my command Massster,” replied Greedhog, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

“Well, my friend, it looks like you will be joining us on our little jaunt to Valleyum. What say you to that?”

Gravlox remained resolutely silent.

“Please yourself. Now, we must arrange transport. Greedhog, send for the Aircorps of Dumbar.”

[Diamond18]

"Oh my ERU!"

Vogonwë leapt up, hitting his head on the roof of the transport. A hollow clang echoed throughout the cab.

“What is it?” Pimpi asked, surprised. Vogonwë sat back down, wincing and muttering a string of Simian under his breath. “Are you all right?”

“I hit my head,” he stated the obvious.

“Yes, but why did you scream and jump up?”

Vogonwë couldn’t remember for a moment or two, but then it came rushing back to him like a flash flood with a grudge against nature. “Harvey!” he cried, nearly jumping up again. Pimpi placed a hand on his arm to keep him down.

“Who?”


“Harvey! Gravlox’s rabbit! I’ve lost him!” Vogonwë cast an agitated gaze around the speeding bus. "I forgot all about him, and I can’t even remember the last time I saw him!”

“I haven’t seen him since Leninia’s dungeon,” Pimpi looked at the diminutive diva sharply.

“You didn’t eat him, did you?” Vogonwë worried. As the bruise near his ribs flowered, he said, “I’m sorry, that was a stupid question. Maybe he’s in one of our packs….”

“If he were, he’d probably have starved and/or suffocated to death,” Pimpi pointed out helpfully as Vogonwë began to rummage through the packs. A few minutes later, having come up empty, Vogonwë sank back into his seat with a groan.

“I’m sorry, Vogie. Perhaps we’ll find another bunny in the Mire,” suggested Pimpi.

“No!” Vogonwë responded, fiddling with a Game-Wizardling he’d found in the bottom of the Gateskeeper’s pack. He threw it over his shoulder in disgust. “Now what am I going to do when Gravlox shows up again, red-eyed, snorting smoke, and hot on revenge? I was going to hold Harvey up and squeal like a girl, ‘You wouldn’t hurt the Elf who saved your pet, would you?’ but now, now I have nothing!”

“Vogie!” Pimpi sought to sooth his gasping speech and frenzied hand motions. “What makes you think he’s going to show up again?” She lowered her voice so that Merisu wouldn’t hear: “When They got back There, They probably killed Him.”

“But I killed him, and he came back! Who’s to say the third time won’t be the charm?” Vogonwë whispered back.

“Well, I don’t know about that… but, sweetie, if you killed him he can’t be that scary, after all,” Pimpi patted his arm.

“I beat him with Aim-well Spells and arrows,” Vogie hissed, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. “He won’t give me the chance of a duel next time. And sure, I know some fancy schmancy martial arts moves, but it’ll be daggers and claws and fangs.”

“But you don’t have claws or fangs.”

“Precisely.”

Pimpi looked worried for the first time. “Well,” she said, “maybe he’ll forgive you even though you killed him and then lost his rabbit.”

They both fell silent, contemplating this possibility, then shook their heads in unison.

“Hmmm. I know!” Vogonwë’s face lit up after a moment. “I could write a eulogy for Harvey, and present it to Gravlox. That way, he would be so touched by my beautiful words of heartfelt lament that he’ll forget I lost his pet in the first place.”

Pimpi was silent for a moment, then she folded her hands in her lap and studied them a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said finally.

But Vogonwë had already whipped out pen and paper and was busily composing his masterwork. She sighed, and glanced around the bus, noting that Soregum was puffing on his pipe while watching her. She stiffened, but tried to pretend that she didn’t notice the old, short, fat, darkly clad hobbit’s constant and unsettling gaze, by turning away slightly and looking out the window. Little did she realize that by doing so she put her lovely young, tall, lithe, colorfully clad profile at its best advantage, with the sun from the window shining down around her.

Soregum, meanwhile, was contemplating (among other things) the odd conversation between the half-halfing and her nitwit of a boyfriend. Who was this Gravlox? With a name like that, surely not an Elf or any creature these folks were likely to be consorting with. And yet they seemed concerned about gaining his forgiveness for having dispatched with him. Whatever he was, if he harbored a violent grudge against Vogonwë, he might make a valuable acquaintance….