The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Mithadan]

While Merisuwyniel sought out an appropriate ship to carry the Itship across the Blundering Seas, the remainder of her companions settled in at Sethamir's and bought most of the bar (together with a few snacks). Soon all were merry and chatting animatedly about the coming voyage and their visit to Valleyum. That is, all were merry, animated and chatting except for one...

Grrralph, if it were humanly (or wraithly) possible, looked glummer than usual. As was his practice, he declined to eat or drink, but while the others engaged in a bit of revelry, Grrralph sat slumped on his bench with his hood pulled down over his non-face. He remained like this despite the best efforts of his companions... ok, well Pimpiowyn at least... to raise his spirits. He even refused to play his favorite game, set the drunkard's foot on fire. After about 3 seconds of concern, the Itship turned to other, more important matters, such as ale, porter, stout, wine and mead.

It was into this scene that Merisu entered, coming through the door of the common room with a bang, followed by a portly gentleman dressed in an odd uniform of gold colored cloth and black breeches. On the man's shoulder was a brightly colored parrot. Merisu made her way to the Slightly-soused-ship, and stood next to the table, bubbling with excitement. She waved a few of the bubbles away from in front of her face and announced proudly, "I have found a ship to carry us to Valleyum!"

In all likelihood, the reaction of her companions would have been as expected, ranging from polite interest to wild cheering, but for one thing. Even as she spoke, an unearthly wail shook dust from the rafters, shattered several wineglasses, and caused one chicken in the yard to die of cardiac arrest. "Put a cork in it, Grrralph!" cried Kuruharan as he shook his head to see if his hearing would return. But Merisu turned to the wraith with a look of concern, for she saw steam rising from his glowing red eyes.

"Grrralph, what could be the matter?" she asked. "Is this not good news?"

"Alas!" the wraith answered. "I cannot come with you fair Shieldmaiden!"

Merisu silenced Orogarn Two's cheers with a glare (and froze Gateskeeper and Earnur in the midst of a high five). "Why not?" she queried. "You have journeyed far with us. Surely you do not wish to leave us even as we approach the fulfillment of our quest? Come with us!" Kuruharan and Vogonwë began waving their arms and shaking their heads silently behind Merisu's back.

"I do wish to stay with you all," Grralph said. But, well, I do not think that I, a black wraith of evil, would be welcome in the land of the Velour. Even were this not so.... well... you see..."

"Wraiths don't like water," Gateskeeper chimed in, finishing Grrralph's sentence for him. Grrralph nodded sadly in confirmation.

"Indeed, the thought of sailing upon the waves of the Blundering Seas makes my cloak crawl," the wraith added. Vogonwë shuddered and slapped at the hem of Grrralph's garb which had began inching across the table towards him.

"Well," said Orogarn Two without a hint of sorrow. "That's that! Been nice knowing you. Don't forget to write. Bon voyage! Later! The road leads that way. Don't let the door hit you on your way out..."

"Now, now," said Merisu. "Surely there must be a way to solve this little problem. I'm sure the Velour would take into consideration your heroic..." At this moment, an odd coughing fit simultaneously overcame Orogarn, Earnur and Vogonwë. "HEROIC," continued Merisu. "Heroic assistance that you have lent us. As for your dislike of water..."

"Actually its more like a discomfort," clarified Grrralph. "A deep discomfort. Very deep. Deep down inside me. That kind of affects my digestive tract and makes me..."

At the verge of again receiving too much information, Merisu raised her hand to stop Grrralph's description of the adverse (and rather disgusting) effect which water had upon him. But before she could continue, her oddly garbed companion spoke up. Strangely enough, he punctuated every word he spoke with a gesture.

"Fear.. of... water... IS... nothing to be... ashamed of," he said in a choppy and over-emphasized fashion.

"And who might you be?" asked Earnur as he slid a knife from its sheath.

"I... am... Cirkdan," the man answered. "CAPTAIN... Dimwi T. Cirkdan of the... Ent's Surprise, but you... can call me... Dim." Kuruharan closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Of course..."

"And this... is... my ship's healer, Dr. Macaw," he continued. The Itship looked about in confusion, as there appeared to be no one else about. Then, to their surprise, the parrot spoke. "Pleased to meet you," it said.

"What?" said Leninia. "The pigeon is a healer?"

"I'm a doctor, not a pigeon," growled the bird irritably.

Sensing some doubt arising in his new clients, Cirkdan continued. "To... conquer... your fear... of water, you...must... look... deep within yourself... for courage."

Grrralph considered Cirkdan's words and seemed to search within what passed for his soul for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "Nothing!"

"Failing that," said Earnur as he unsteadily waved a pint about as if to emphasize his words. "I've often found that courage can be found in a bottle."

Grrralph pondered these words, then slowly and reluctantly, reached into his cloak and retrieved the bottle of Old Rotgut which Earnur had given him while at the Nancing Bow-ny in the Mire. As he uncorked the bottle of home-brewed spirits a hiss came from the flask as doubtful fumes escaped, causing the eyes of those assembled to water (except for Earnur who muttered something about "a good year"). The wraith raised the bottle to the dark space within his hood and drained the bottle in a single draught. His eyes glowed bright and he rose to his feet with a wheeze. A strong wind arose outside and caused the door to swing open. The breeze caught Grrralph's cloak and caused it to swirl about him like dark flapping wings of shadow. The glowing red coals which passed for his eyes seemed to spin like pinwheels and his body grew stiff. Then his eyes went dark and he slowly tilted and toppled, like a great tree falling, to the ground.

Doctor Macaw flew from Cirkdan's shoulder and landed on the ground next to Grrralph's prone form. He examined the wraith for a moment, then turned to Cirkdan and pronounced in profoundly shocked and sorrowful tones, "He's dead Dim."

Orogarn leapt to his feet with a loud cry, "YES!" But Merisu hurried to the wraith's side. "He's a wraith," she said irritatedly. "He's always been kind of dead." Then she brought her face close to his and listened intently. Hearing a slight hiss, she extended her arm and held the brightly burnished vambrace before Grrralph's non-face. A faint mist appeared upon the polished metal. "He yet lives!" she cried. Orogarn collapsed back into his chair and moaned in disappointment.

But every effort to rouse Grrralph failed. After propping him up in the corner and using him as a cloak-rack for a while, they dragged him off with them...

[The Saucepan Man]

Black clouds heavy with rain rolled thunderously over the skies of Moredough, their lower reaches tinged with scarlet as they caught the columns of flame that erupted unceasingly from Mount Odouruin. Occasional flashes of lightning burst through the gloom, threatening to split the murky skies into a thousand fragments. A fell gale howled down from the surrounding peaks of the Ered Lethargi and the Ephel Dûwot, driving a streaming torrent of greasy rain hard into the foetid Plateau of Gorgonbreath. One thing that could be said about the weather of Muddled-Mirth was that it had a profound sense of occasion.

Atop the dark and forbidding Tower Block of Barát-Höm, the noseless nostril flared and writhed fitfully as it savoured a scent that originated in the Pay Havens, some fifteen hundred miles to the west: the unmistakable scent of rent Ent (and the somewhat less savoury odour of rucksacks stuffed full of clothes that had gone unwashed for many months on end).

From his balcony below, Môgul Bildûr surveyed the vast army ranged across the Plateau. Battalions of Orcs, each ten thousand strong, stood in disorderly lines brandishing a perplexing assortment of viciously jagged and barbed weapons. The greater part raised their harsh guttural voices to their Master in anticipation of his impending victory, although those recently returned from Valleyum wandered silently and aimlessly across the plain, occasionally dropping the odd limb or facial feature, while their Uruk captains attempted somewhat vainly to herd them into some semblance of order. Hordes of great armoured trolls, the flame-hardened oL0g-hA1, each carrying a range of mighty insults to hurl at their foes, lumbered back and forth eager for action. And the races of Men who had pledged their allegiance to Môgul, the wild Beasterlings of Near Hardup, the pitiless Poltroons of Far Hardup and the ferocious Scallywags of Khant, Men who had entered the Land of Shadowy Deals through the Black Gate of Uncanon only days before, sat grimly in their camps. Their ludicrously exotic armour and weaponry gleamed in the light of their camp-fires as they touched up their war-paint and eyeliner. Here and there, the dark wraith-like figures of Korprat Loyers could be seen preparing their loopholes and sharpening their clauses.

But prominent amongst the forces assembled before the Dark Tower Block were the great beasts of the Aircorps of Dumbar. Each as grey as a mouse and as big as a house with a nose like a snake, they made the earth shake as they tramped o‘er the plain, tethered by chain. With horns in their mouth, they had flown from the South, flapping big ears - ruddy big ears. Aerophaunts were they. Arranged in squadrons, some carried great howdahs on their back capable of transporting whole battalions of troops while others were mounted with an array of heavy weaponry: trebuchets, arbalests and ballistas. A great trumpeting and roaring issued forth from the mighty beasts as their Dumbarian crews, clad in bright red uniforms, tended to them and loaded them with weaponry and provisions.

Satisfied with his inspection, Môgul turned and glided back into his office, carefully avoiding the remains of various Orcish clerks and functionaries, the legacy of the temporary disconnection of his Satel-antir and the downing of the Aircorps patrol. Within the office suite, Môgul’s Chiefs of Staff stood around a great table bearing a map of Muddled-Mirth. Tiny black flags stood ominously out from various locations: Ham Steep, Improvas, the Halls of Trebor and the Golden Malls of Topfloorien. Yet other locations bore brighter flags of varying colours: the Last Home Grown Cows, the Mire, the Pay Havens and, yet still, Minus Teeth. Carved wooden blocks represented the forces deployed throughout the land, the majority of them black and spiky.

A palpable sense of irritation emanated from the Dread Developer as he examined the blue denim flag that sprang defiantly from Minus Teeth.

“What news from the Wight City, Greedhog?” he enquired.

“It ssseemsss that Grundor has monetary resservesss of which we were unaware, O Profoundly Prosperous One,” the Senior Loyer hissed. “A dark cloud of Lítig-aî-Shön permeates the entire realm and the repaymentsss on our loan to the Proctor are crippling. Yet still he holds out.”

“He cannot stand alone against the financial might of Moredough for long,” spat Môgul. “There will be time enough to de-credit and discredit him and his upstart hair when we return from Valleyum.”

“Sire,” spoke up a thin, weasly figure with hair greased back into a ponytail and sporting bright red braces. “Our marketing campaign is meeting with great success.” The speaker was Perlandeen, Arch I-Mage of the dark art of Pé-Är. As he spoke, he conjured from the air a plethora of charts covered with graphs, pie charts and survey results.

“Consumer recognition of the red nostril logo is at an all-time high and our Môgul branded products are selling like hot-cram,” Perlandeen explained. “In tests, eight out of ten Muddled-Mirthlings expressed a preference for black over white, green, silver or, indeed, any other colour favoured by the so-called Free-Peoples. Evil really is the new good. And our cause has been greatly assisted by the general carnage spread throughout the land by the renegade Merisuwyniel and the buffoons that she laughably calls her companions.”

“At leassst until recently,” added Greedhog. “Lately it appearsss that they have found sssome sssupport amongssst those that they have encountered. Their defeat of the upssstart Sssauerkraut has won them sssome renown.”

“Yes, poor Colin,” replied Môgul. “He never was the sharpest note in the symphony, but he sure knew how to make an exit. Still, who knows when he might be popping up again.”

A dreadful wheezing, bubbling, grinding sound filled the office as the Dread Developer chuckled at his dreadful quip and his minions dutifully followed suit.

“We are most grateful to you for your information, Rrrogerrr,” said Môgul, recovering his composure and turning to the chipper Thingwraith, “It will stand us in good stead in Valleyum.” Although the Nazgul, being a Fell collective, had no appointed leader, they had all agreed that Rrrogerrr should attend the briefing to represent them and to relay in Wraith what he had learned from Soregum.

“That’s quite alright, my Lord, old chap. Glad to be of service.”

“Well,” continued Môgul. “If the people of this ripe and potentially lucrative land cannot be won over by subtle persuasion and crippling debt, there are always the more traditional methods. You have assembled a fine army, General Gzzmmmphllgg.”

“Thank you sir, Lord Bildûr, sir!” roared the General, standing to attention. General Gzzmmmphllgg was an enormous and heavily-built Orc, so enormous indeed that he might have beeen mistaken for an Ogre were it not for the fact that, as everyone knows, there are no such things as Ogres in Muddled-Mirth. He was extraordinarily old, having been born in the time of the Dread Developer’s rule of Dairyland, and had risen to become commander of Môgul’s armies in Moredough by virtue of the simple fact that he had not died during the intervening years (a feat which no other Orc had managed to achieve). But age and experience had taken their toll on him. He wore a patch over one eye, his left arm was withered and useless, he loped with a limp and his mottled and scabrous skin had turned a yellowish shade of pink through excessive exposure to the sun.

“You will take charge of Moredough while we are in Valleyum, General,” directed Môgul. A formidable force will remain behind. After all, we don’t want anyone sneaking in and getting up to no good while we are away, do we? Oh, and dispatch a detachment to secure Dorktank.”

“Yessir, Lord Bildûr, sir!” barked General Gzzmmmphllgg, raising his good arm in a salute.

“As for the remainder of the army, they will travel with us to Valleyum. Captain, are the Aircorps ready for action?”

“Yeah, right on, my Lord,“ replied a hairy brute of a man dressed in the bright red uniform of the Aircorps. “Mad for it. Sorted, like. Know what I mean.”

The Aircorps of Dumbar were a cruel and merciless outfit. And none was more cruel or merciless than their commander, Cap’n Ar-Kidd. He was descended from the corrupt line of Ar-Pheronome, King of Noodleor, who had flown an ill-fated mission to Valleyum some three thousand years before in defiance of the power of the Velour. A Black Noodleorian he was (or Morally-challenged Noodleorian as those of a more politically correct persuasion preferred to call them). And he was mad keen, like, at the prospect of launching an airborne assault on Valleyum to fulfil the vision of his ancestor.

“Shine on, man” he added, raising his great bushy eyebrows and flashing his gold-capped teeth in a broad grin.

“Yes, er, quite,” replied Môgul. “Very good. Commence loading the troops immediately. Dismissed!”

As the Chiefs of Staff turned to leave, Môgul called back Greedhog.

“You too will be journeying with us to Valleyum,” he said to the old Korprat Loyer. “Select a company of the most seasoned of your kind to accompany you. You will be escorting the prisoner. I want you personally in charge should negotiations become necessary.”

“I had hoped for no lessss, O Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealing,” replied Greedhog. “I fear neither battle nor negotiation, my Lord. For wasss it not foretold by Macbeth the Ssseer, and comprehensively drafted by Ssstrongclause the Watertight, that no Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, ssshall hinder me?”

“Indeed it was, my faithful advocate.”

As Greedhog departed, Môgul returned to his balcony and watched as line after line of Men, Orcs, Trolls and Loyers filed on board the Aerophaunt carriers. He was still there some hours later as, one after another, the great beasts lumbered across the poisonous plain and launched themselves into the dark and stormy Moredough sky*. In due course, he disappeared into the depths of the Dark Tower Block to make his own arrangements for the journey.
_______________________________________

*Editor’s note: When they come to make the film, Ride of the Valkyrie would be good here.

[Bêthberry]

There's got to be a morning after and this was the one to beat all mornings after, except possibly for the morning after Vinaigrettiel had died. Earnur groaned. A familiar refrain, spoken with irregular stress, and accompanied by tatty tat music, reverberated inside the brain of the Lord of Dun Sóbrin like repeated strikes of dwarven blacksmithery--not that dwarves ever had labour problems or work stoppages. The words seemed punctuated like hammer blows upon an anvil. And Earnur, the Lord Etceteron, the very last of the very manly Manly Men, felt like the anvil. Misery!

These have been the sousings of the Manlyship Etceteron. His well-over-a-year-mission to seek out new beverages and abstain from them, to discover strange new forms of travesty with Merisuewyniel, to boldly go where Vinaigrettiel had not gone before ....

Although it was not a manly thing to do, Etceteron winced at the repetitions. He could not remember if it was the final beer or thoughts of Vinaigrettiel or his stay at the Houses of Bettifordeth which caused him to feel such pain. In search of the dull edge of courage, he fished around for his bottle of Old Rotgut and remembered giving it to Grrralph, who upon emptying it had rapidly gone where any reader worth his or her salt can imagine.

"Blimey, you sot," Earnur said to himself. "Now you've gone and done it. Drunk to the depths of Lethe or sunk or something daft punk like that." He hadn't the faintest idea what punk meant, as it was several ages down the road, turn left at the oak and then hang a right outside the middle of the Seventh Age, but he liked the sound of the word. He didn't think he had reached the depths of delirium, but it had been so long since he had drunk any considerable amount that the effects seemed ... considerable. Not since the screeching tyres of Vinaigrettiel's lamentable death and his lamentations thereof had he felt like this. Perhaps that is why he could hear her calling, calling him back again. Vinaigrettiel! His once and future girlfriend!

Earnur stood up in what can only be termed an approximation of upright stance. He shook his fist at his slanderous sword in one of the famous expressions of wordless sarcasm for which he held himself famously renown. He, Earnur, enobled noble and brazen warrior that he was, would not go before his time but only just before payment to the Taxman was due. Live long and prosper he always said. But this hour was indeed hard: Vinaigrettiel calling to him, in his state of O-can-I-drink-sake-I-can. Once, in the early hours of their relationship, she had tried the elven mind meld with him, but that thing with the fingers had been distracting and he had not been able to master it. But now here She was. Or, rather, she was, as she had renounced her role as She. And so Earnur began one of those famous conversations with himself, which can now be revealed in the pages of this book for the first time, where he gets to play several parts.

What are you doing thinking you would sail West?

Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time. It was good enough for Morriquendey of the Smithiels and Radiodhol. And like, there's Merisu and Pimpi and Leninia. And we'll have fun, fun, fun till Emu takes our shieldboards away.

This deserves to be discussed within the confines of heroic Muddled Mirth verse, especially the late-flowering epic style which The Entish quest typifies. Vinaigrettiel is not at Valleyum, waiting for you. She had forsaken the West when she pledged herself to you! Ungratefully, you have forgotten this and now she is correcting you, telling you you are not bound to the circles of the world, but that other bonds await you!

Oh right. This Old Age religious stuff with all the Big PoncyWords. I never could get through that book, whazzit called, The SmellyOnion. Why use lots of languages when one'll do?

Once this Muddle Mirth is overthrown in the Drag or Undrag Bath, you will be together again, but only if you don't sail west.

Gotcha. My thoughts must be harder now.

He hiccuped. Earnur was bound, but determined to think this through, although thinking was not necessarily his strong point. At first he couldn't see what the Prime Directive was. But this extra-sensual correction helped focus his mind wonderfully. He recalled one of his favourite Ortho Riddermarking songs and began to hum it: "She put the hurt on me," he sang. He belched a particularly strong belch and tasted the after effects. It was a rough trade, but he submitted to his fate. This brawn, he decided, was bound for glory. Wild meaeras couldn't tear them apart. Orcs maybe, but not wild meaeras.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Later, not wanting to be overthrown at the final test, he joined the Enterprising-Ship downstairs at Sethamir's. He made a handsome entrance even if he did say so himself, but it was wonderfully quiet. Nothing seemed to be going on and nobody seemed to want it to. Not after what had happened the night before. He spoke up in hopes of getting everyone's attention but they all scowled as if to say "SHHHHS.?"

"Flowerless is the grave of Vinaigrettiel."

"Sounds like a right sort of thing for a tart," retorted a muffled voice whose owner Earnur could not determine. It didn't sound like his flask talking this time, so he wondered if it could be his sword. But just in case, he retaliated.

"Be aware of whom you are castigating. I shall crack your knuckles faster than She could crack her whip! This is Merisuwyniel's Mother of whom I speak," replied Earnur. "Keep a civil tongue in your head or my butter knife will slice through your pate faster than you can spread a smile." Pleased with his witticisms, he could have continued in this vein had not another voice come to him. "Get on with it or you'll have me to answer to." Believing he recognised this voice, Earnur took a swig from his Flask of Eternal Refilling, which he swore was becoming as voluble as his sword ever had been. He began again.

"Flowerless is the grave of Vinaigrettiel and rootless the white tree I uprooted when I buried her. What ship would bear me across so wide a sea with such a garden untended as that?"

"Eh?" asked Kuruharan. "MeriSue has found us our ship."

"No, I don't mean what real ship. I mean, an existential ship. An Emuonic ideal."

"When I ask a question, it means exactly what I intend it to mean,?"said Vogonwe.

"You wish," retorted Soregum, willing to grab hold of any occasion to make himself look better than Pimpiowyn's boyfriend.

"As I was saying," intoned Etceteron, "It is time to drink the Cup of Farewell."

"I think we did enough drinking last night," piped up Gateskeeper.

"I have yet to finish shopping," moaned MeriSue, but in a most polite manner.

"Will you shut up and let me get on with it?" hollered Earnur, who slurped another swig from the flask.

"Get it on, by all means," answered Leninia winsomely.

"Cretins!" murmured Etcerton. "I've been surrounded by cretins all this time."

Earnur took yet another swig from his flask, for he was sure now each draught was beaming him closer to Vinnie. In fact, it tasted darn like Jim Beam, a not bad substitute for a Scottish elixir.

"I shall give you all gifts to remember me by for drink is flowing between us and you shall gain what I have lost."

"Did someone mention mathoms?" Pimpi asked.

Earnur groaned. This was turning out to be just as bitter a pill as other partings and he couldn't skip over it easy like as other authors had.

"To the Hair of Isildur I give this Brick that was Broken. I seem to have picked this up during our Seventh Age adventure. It has some runes on it but what Wovercot means I can't translate, unless it means 'Wictory over orcs.'" Orogorn Two grunted as he caught the relic Etceteron threw to him.

"To Gateskeeper who so loveth numbers I give this best of all numbers, its sound round but irregularly rhyming and its consonants pleasingly repeated: Forty-two." Gateskeeper looked up briefly from his ceyboarding and hurriedly typed in the magical number.

Now, the only members of the Soon-To-Be-Broken-Ship who had perked up their ears at the mention of receiving anything were the dragon Chrysophylax and the dwarf Kuruharan, who complimented Earnur's gentle words. Earnur was emboldened. "That no one call you grasping, let me reward your listening, that the both of you may preserve your hearing should you ever return to the smithies of your home. To you I give this golden ball of earwax."

Kuruharan was going to tell Earnur what he could do with such a gift, but MeriSue's gentle hand restrained him and her melodious voice requested The Lord of Dun Sóbrin to continue.

"Soregum, your fondness for the bottle has not gone unnoticed, and so to you I leave this bottle of Sparkling Crystal Waters. May it be a support to you in your thirst as it has supported mine." Soregum was ready to crack the bottle over Earnur's head, but once again our peerless if not perilous Shieldmaiden kept the peace.

"Leninia, my once possible dearest Leninia, whose acid tongue burned many a midnight oil with me, to you and to you alone I leave my talking sword, for you alone know how to keep his tongue in his cheek." Leninia was secretly ecstatic to receive so noble a gift, but, determined to stay in character, she thus sat nonchalantly blowing little puffs of air over her fingernails to dry her new manicure.

Pimpi, on the other hand, could not control her curiosity and began to tire of waiting for her mathom. Earnur turned to her and Vogonwe. "I shall suffer mild depression at leaving you, my dear half-Halfling." Vogonwe was ready to take offense at the wink which accompanied thus, but Pimpi held him down. "For the excellence with which you have followed this quest, I give to Pimpi my housecoat, my very best housecoat, and to Vogonwe, a very good cup of tea." Pimpi nearly choked, had Vogonwe not patted her solicitously on the back and murmured endearments about worrying not over canonicity and the bleeding of other books into this one. Who but Vogonwe could argue this best?

Finally, The Lord Etceteron turned to the last members of the Smaller-now-by-one-Ship. Grrralph had been stayin' alive, but barely so. Only one of his red glowing eyes could be seen. "In my stead, Wraith, you shall go and pass over the water without grief." And he gave to Grrralph the bottle of old Rotgut that had been broken the night before. There had always been a great deal of breakage wherever the Could Care Less Ship had been, and this was no little reminder of the indispensable aid they had always been. Grrralph knew he would be troubled by the memory of darkness only just a little from then on.

"Your hands are now empty, Lord Eceteron,"spoke MeriSue quietly.

"They are," he replied to the maiden he regarded as his stepdaughter. "Yet I leave you with the greatest gift of all. I acknowledge you MeriSuewyniel, daughter of Vinaigrettiel, and henceforth all ages shall know your name."

"That's it" That's all you leave me with?" she questioned, almost unbelievingly.

"It is more than other writers have left daughters with and if you appreciate it not, in later ages many others will thank me for this."

"I .. I ... I would have thought you would have left me with greater token of my mother."

"Ah, yes. I had a piece of her jewelry that I was going to leave with Cirkdan. He needed a cloaking device, he said. But when I went to hand it to him, a swan from the harbour walked up and pecked it and so it fell into the harbour. But don't worry. It could have been worse. You could have been a boy named Sue."

Silence fell over the room at Sethamir's. Something touched them deep inside, but it wasn't gratitude. More like disappointment. It was not quite the parting the Lord of Dun Sóbrin had been expecting. Nor what the others had imagined either. Bunch of self-indulgent narcissists, he murmured to himself.

"Well, of course I'd like to stay and chat. Of course I'd like to chew the fat. But I've got a date with destiny. I'm off," he said. "Those who are about to sail West, I salute you." And as Earnur departed, he no longer seemed perilous or terrible or even all that manly but as someone already left far behind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As with all journeys of heroic quests, Etceteron's return took fewer pages to cover than the setting out, especially since nothing more strenuous occurred than his constant recourse to the Flask that was Never Ending. In short, Earnur found himself back in Topfloorien in no time, and thence to the heart of the ancient emporium, to the Hotel sacred to him and Vinaigrettiel, the Roll and Toss, where their troth had been blighted.

And he dwelt there alone in the cold nights and partook of his Flask unfailingly, ever anxious to hold off despair. And the end of his days was utterly unknown for there came upon the hotell one night a huge flash of fire. It was said in after ages that the Lord of Dun Sóbrin had found a legendary end, one as highly wrought of fantasy as any subcreative faculty could imagine, for Earnur, the Lord Etceteron, went out like a flame, burning in the middle as well as both ends, combusting spontaneously one night and leaving behind nothing but blackened earth where grew no longer elanor and niphredil.

And who but the most obtuse reader could imagine unquiet slumbers for the Last Manly Man and his Vinaigrettiel when the Last Bath is drawn.

[Kuruharan]

While all this was going on, Kuruharan once again slipped off on yet another useless tangent. This was not his original intention, and it would turn out to be important later, so I guess it wasn’t entirely useless. It just didn’t make much sense at the time. Well, it still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I digress.

Kuruharan had a natural desire to deposit his earnings in the bank. However, being a dwarf (and more than a little bit picky), he could not make a deposit in just any old bank. Thankfully, Khmun and Sons had a secret branch office in the Aquamarine Mountains right next door to Mithfortune.

By taking many wary and secret paths, Kuruharan and Chrysophylax managed to drag several enormous bags through the alleys of Mithfortune and only attract a small throng of onlookers. What happened to the onlookers is best left to the imagination. Suffice to say it was only dwarf and dragon who reached the secret entrance, knocked the secret knock, spoke the secret password, flashed the secret hand-signal, danced the secret dance, sang the secret song, pulled the secret lever, and kicked the secret door when all of the above failed to work.

“Chrysophylax,” said Kuruharan, “use your tail.”

Problem solved.

After the door was reduced to rubble, the pair shoved their bags into the hole.

“Wait here,” said Kuruharan, “I don’t want any repetitions of last time.”

So saying, the dwarf vanished in the darkness.

He dragged the bags along a rough and narrow passage for a considerable distance.

Without warning, the passage opened into a wide, colonnaded promenade overlooking a great plaza with a large fountain in the center. Kuruharan dragged his bags out of the tunnel and collapsed into a nearby couch, gasping for air. After collecting himself, Kuruharan looked about. There did not seem to be anyone else about, so he had to drag the bags along and down the stairs by himself. After more dragging and puffing, Kuruharan pulled his bags over to a large marble counter on the far side of the plaza. He stood there panting expectantly. Nobody came.

“Urrungh!” groaned Kuruharan. “Hello,” he shouted, “is anybody there?”

No reply.

Kuruharan reached into one of his bags and pulled out a single coin. He dropped it on the counter.

There was a noise deep beyond the closed door behind the counter. Kuruharan tucked the coin away as the sounds of footsteps and doors slamming neared him.

“WHERE IS IT?! WHERE IS IT?!” screeched a funny dwarf with a neon orange beard who came bursting out of the door. Catching sight of Kuruharan, the dwarf yelled, “JAIL BREAK!! JAIL BREAK!! Some of the money’s escaping!! Did you see anything?!”

Kuruharan cleared his throat to speak as the other dwarf dived under the counter.

“Sometimes it likes to tunnel out from underneath the floor!! Stomp will you!!”

Kuruharan reached over the counter and picked up the fiery dwarf.

“Stop that!” he said. “The money is not escaping!”

“I heard it!” cried the dwarf..

*SMACK* Kuruharan slapped him and plopped him on the floor.

“I’ve come to make a deposit and withdraw some articles from my safety deposit box,” Kuruharan announced.

“A deposit?” the other dwarf perked up mightily.

“Yes, I…” Kuruharan trailed off as he noticed that he had orange paint all over his hands. “Where did this come from?”

The other dwarf grabbed Kuruharan’s hand and started sniffing.

“A very good year!” he announced.

Kuruharan grabbed the other dwarf by his beard, but the beard was wet and the other dwarf easily pulled himself free.

“You’ve been painting your beard orange!” said Kuruharan

“Prevents baldness,” said the other dwarf.

“Hmm…I’ve got some stuff that prevents baldness, but never mind,” said Kuruharan. “About my deposit…”

“Deposit?!” yelped the other dwarf, springing up onto the counter like an overeager puppy with his eyes shining.

“Yeeeesss,” said Kuruharan. “I’d like to deposit these.”

“We don’t take bags here,” announced the painted dwarf importantly.

“Not the bags,” groaned Kuruharan. “What’s in the bags!” Kuruharan pulled open one of the bags and a mountain of coins poured out.

“MONEY!!!” shrieked the orange dwarf, diving into the pile.

“Stop that!” shouted Kuruharan. “You’re getting paint all over my coins!” Kuruharan grabbed the dwarf and tried to pull him out. “Stoppit!!”

Kuruharan dragged the dwarf out and tossed him over the counter.

“Just get the deposit slip,” said Kuruharan.

The orange dwarf handed over a slip and as Kuruharan filled it out, he stared down at the pile of money with all the intensity of The Thinker. After a moment, he pulled out a mallet and started sucking on it.

“Here you go,” said Kuruharan absently, without looking at the clerk. He glanced up.

“EEEKKKK!” he yelped, as the clerk turned around with the handle sticking rakishly out of his mouth.

“Oughsh hugh wawor?” said the clerk.

“Ah, hee hee erm,” stammered Kuruharan.

“Wuuclush cquan comen!” said the clerk.

Kuruharan reached forward and yanked the mallet out of the clerk’s mouth.

“Yeeouch!” cried the clerk.

“Why were you sucking on this mallet?” asked Kuruharan.

“It helps hold my gall bladder in place,” answered the clerk. “Want one?”

“No,” said Kuruharan. “Just get the money in the vault, tell it not to tunnel out in the middle of the night, give me my receipt, and let me have my safety deposit box, if you please.”

“Ahhh,” said the clerk. “That’s the trick isn’t it!” He looked carefully around to make sure that nobody was listening. He motioned Kuruharan closer. “That’ll be very…very dangerous because…” the clerk suddenly spun around and kicked the wall.

“GOTCHA!!” he cried in triumph. “Listenin’ in were ye!!”

“Let me guess,” said Kuruharan, “the walls have ears.”

“GASP!” gasped the clerk. “The skwerls told you too?!!”

“Evidently,” moaned Kuruharan.

“Then I can trust you,” the clerk leaned forward. “It’s the safety deposit boxes…they’re in cahoots with the green chicken gizzards!”

“You don’t say!” hissed Kuruharan. He looked over his shoulder. It was an awfully long way back to the surface, and there was no other bank this side of Beer.

“Hurry,” Kuruharan said. “You have to get my money into the vault before the flying gerbils of doom drop their coconuts upon us!”

“Right away,” said the clerk as he dragged the bags over the counter and back through the door.

“Give me my safety deposit box!” said Kuruharan, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll conduct a thorough interrogation and make it tell all it knows about the migrations of pooka-dotted ninja grasshoppers.”

“Here you go,” puffed the clerk as he came running back. He handed over the box. Then he leaned forward again.

“And always remember,” the clerk whispered as he pulled an awl out of his pants. He stuck the handle into his mouth, “Ouyghc, ouuggh wwwoic!”

“Right back at ‘cha!” said Kuruharan as he started to run across the plaza.

He stopped.

“By the way,” he said, “how did you get to be a banker?”

“King Gain Lotsomoola is my uncle-cousin four times removed-brother-sister-in-law,” replied the clerk.

“Figures,” said Kuruharan as he ran back up the stairs and darted into the tunnel.

“Phew,” he said as he stopped for a moment. He opened the box and pulled two small bundles out. He tucked the bundles in his robes and tossed the safety deposit box on the floor and walked off.

“We’ll show them some day!” thought the deposit box as it lay on the ground alone and neglected. “I have friends who won’t let me be mistreated like this anymore! The Lord High Toaster has promised! Someday all aardvarks and sprockets shall live as one!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Sethamir’s was a beehive of activity on this day, the Sail-for-Sale-Ship’s last on these shores. Each member was busy preparing for the journey in his/her/its own manner. They realized that a journey to the end of the world was not just one of your run-of-the-mill There-and-Back-Again hobbit boating parties. Would they find the Straight-Jacket Way of which the old legends told? So many had gone mad searching for it. And if they reached Valleyum, would they be able to return afterwards? None knew, yet they prepared without hesitating: some recklessly, caring not about future risks; some bravely, despite their knowledge of the potential dangers facing them; and some ignorantly, not having stopped to think about the consequences of their foolhardiness.

Merisuwyniel had revelled in the last opportunity to seek out the Elven shops in Mithfortune. She saw many beautiful things which she would have liked to possess, but considering how few of her precious coins were left after advance payment of their passage (and how little baggage they were allowed to take on board), she hesitated. Then, assuming that Muddled-Mirth coinage would not be needed in Valleyum, she recklessly splurged, buying a lovely new blouse – ruffled, as always, since she was, as always, unruffled. It was made of a shimmering material and had the colour of a pale pink rose, which set off her golden locks and violet eyes to great advantage. She managed to convince herself that it was a necessary purchase, in order to appear appropriately attired before the Velour.

At the next shop, a music store, she found a booklet called “101 Favourite Mournful Melodies for the Hâr-mónicä”. It contained such perennial hits as:

Sittin’ On the Dock of the Pay Havens
500 Leagues (Away from HoME)
Hang Down Your Head, Tom Bomby
and many more…

That was certainly a good investment for a long cruise, especially as her companions had given her to understand in no uncertain terms that they did not want to hear ‘that Western tune’ ever again.

When she returned to Sethamir’s, she found Orogarn Two struggling with a long, narrow package. Courteously opening the door for him, she inquired, “What did you purchase, Orogarn?”

“Two,” he replied.

“I see only one package,” Merisu answered, puzzled. He sighed in exasperation, realizing that her female curiosity had gotten the upper hand over her usual polite attentiveness to such details as name suffixes, and said, “It’s an Umbar-Élar.”

“An umbrella?” she asked.

“Umbar-Élar,” he corrected. “It’s a portable precipitation protection which can be opened in times of need.”

“I saw those in the Mire,” she said enthusiastically. “They really need them there, what with the terrible rain they have; but they called them ‘umbrellas’. I suppose they must have corrupt- um, adapted the original name to their own language. But why are you taking one along on our journey? Do you not remember the words of the Wise, who said: ‘It never rains in Valley-Fornya’?”

“I’m not taking it along,” he mumbled. “I’m sending it to my father.”

Merisu had met his father, and at the thought of the incongruity of the Proctor of Grundor carrying an umbrella, she almost burst into peals of her silvery, melodious laughter. Her kind heart stopped her just in time; she knew how eager Orogarn was to find something that would finally please his fastidious father. Thankful, not for the first time, that she could share her amusement silently with the Entish Bow on her back, she thought, LOL! Just imagine! Denimthor the Stewed carrying an umbrella, my dear! Isn’t it delicious!

;D Most astonishing wonderful! came the mirthful answer.

What she actually said was: “Oh, that reminds me – I want to write a postcard before we leave. I’d better get that done now.” With those words, she vanished into her room to pen a brief “Wish you were here” missive to Roneld at the Hidden Valley Ranch. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to her that she was leaving her foster father behind when departing from Muddled-Mirth. Now that Earnur, her deceased mother’s once-and-future beloved, was leaving the DiminishingShip, she felt quite fatherless and shed a brief tear. (It glistened most becomingly on her cheek and left her lovely Elven eyes unreddened, of course.) However, the excitement of preparing for the journey soon drove sad thoughts from her mind.

As she checked to see if her bags were packed so as to prevent the creasing of the garments contained therein, she found herself singing a little Elven ditty that was currently in the Top Ten and consequently playing everywhere at all times:

O! What are you doing,
And where are you questing?
The Loyers are sueing,
And you need a resting!
O! tra-la-la-lavens
Here down in the Havens!

O! What are you seeking,
And what do you carry?
The Entwood is creaking,
It’s time to make merry!
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly
The Havens are jolly,
Ha! Ha!

O! Where are you going,
With locks all a-flowing?
No knowing, no knowing
Why eyes are a-glowing,
What brings a shieldmaiden
Down into the Havens
At noon.
Ha! Ha!

O! Will you be staying,
Or will you be sailing?
Your horses are neighing!
The daylight is failing!

To sail would be folly,
To stay would be jolly
And listen and rest
Till the end of the Quest
To our tune -
Ha! Ha!

So she laughed and sang in the Inn; and pretty fair nonsense I daresay you think it. Not that she would care; she would only laugh all the more if you told her so. For she was an Elvish shieldmaiden!

[Mithadan]

Grrralph wandered through black and empty places as he slumbered. The best efforts of the Itship, which included prodding him with a sword, splashing him with cold water, exposing him to Chrysophylax's heady breath and beating him with clubs, sticks and a mace, failed to rouse him. Ever quick on the uptake, the members of the Itship realized that this was no normal sleep and, grudgingly, dragged him about wherever they went.

Grrralph himself had little awareness of what was happening. Indeed, he had no awareness at all, at least until he began to dream.

He dreamed he was in an Elvenwood musical,
and that he was the star of that musical.
That really blew his mind,
that he, a long-legged, black-cloaked, leaping wraith
was the star of an Elvenwoog musical.

But there he was,
he was taken to a place,
the hall of the Mountain King.
He stood high on the mountain top,
cloaked before the world,
in front of every type of Zerl.

There was black ones, brown ones,
big ones, round ones,
short ones, long ones,
pink ones, fat ones.

Out of the middle,
there came a Zerly.
And she whispered in his ear,
something crazy.
She said:

"Well, what shall we do with him?" And another Zerl approached him and answered, somewhat reluctantly. "I suppose we should should restore him. After all, he did break the curse..."

The first Zerl looked carefully at the wraith, then sniffed. "I suppose he did. What was it? Oh yes:

'You've been traded to me,
for fair compensation.
For a reasonable fee,
you'll join our dark nation.

You'll wear my gear,
cloak, armor and hood,
now don't shed a tear,
but they're with you for good.

They'll weigh on your mind,
they ain't going away soon,
until potion you find,
made from light of the moon.'"

The second Zerl nodded. "Rather nasty, but that Sourone did turn out to be rather a bad egg. So he drank that bottle of moonshine and the curse is broken. I guess we take him back."

And Grrralph thought to himself,

What could this mean?
Am I going crazy or is this just a dream.
Now wait a minute.
I know I'm lying in a field of grass somewhere,
so it's all in my head,
but then he heard the Zerl say

"But what about all the horrible things he did during the War of the Thing?" The second Zerl answered, "Well, he was under the curse and in Sourone's power. And he was traded to Sourone for a minor leaguer and compensation to be named later if I recall."

The first Zerl scowled. "Yeah, we got a musty old Barrow-Wight and some old rusty shields..." The second Zerl nodded. "A deal's a deal. So we restore him?" The first Zerl scowled again. "I guess we do. You're right. A deal's a deal and the curse is broken..."

Grrralph could feel hot flames of fire roaring at his back,
as the Zerl disappeared,
but soon she returned.
In her hand was a bottle of wine
and in the other a glass.
She poured some of the wine into the glass,
and raised it to her lips,
and just before she drank it, she said:

"A deal's a deal. Darned Loyers. I sometimes wish we could just round them all up and.... never mind." She snapped her fingers with a sound like a clap of thunder, and Grrralph fell back into blackness. But even as he lost what little consciousness he had, he heard the Zerl's final words. "It'll take a little while to set in. Just what the world needs. Another..." And he heard no more...

[Diamond18]

There comes a time in every tale when a ship must be boarded. This ship can be a real vessel made of wood, or steel, or canvas, or bark, or inflatable rubber, and can be launched into real water, salty or fresh. Or, it can be a metaphorical ship launching into metaphysical waters, destined for metacercaria lands and metacestode adventures of metabolic magnitude. It could also be the result of searching the text of a tale to find the words “board” and “ship”, not necessarily in relation to each other, but contained in the same manuscript as a code which proves Mary of Magdala was the wife of Jesus Christ and bore him a son. Or daughter, depending on how many times the words “board” and “ship” appear and whether “boarded”, “boarding”, “boat”, “canoe” and “rubber dinghy” also appear in said tale.

But I digress.

In Muddled-Mirth, the Itship knew naught of such things, and if you said “Mary of Magdala” they would politely (or rudely, as the case may be) correct your spelling and point you in the direction of Merisuwyniel, who is from Topfloorien but was raised at the Elven Farm, not Magdala, you silly, strangely dressed human. And yet, even unknowingly, they were poised to fulfil the Great Rule that stateth a ship must be boardeth if the tale is worth two shakes of salt on a snail’s tail.

Last minute preparations, departures, and hysterics out of the way, the portentously named Itship headed dutifully out to board the ship.

Vogonwë paused a moment on the gangplank and looked back out over the Pay Havens. “I have passed hundreds of years upon the shores of Muddled-Mirth,” he said wistfully, “and though I am still a young half-elf in the reckoning of my people, I feel a great weight upon my heart and weariness of spirit as I look my last upon the land I have known for so long. Ah, ’Mirth, what joyous poems thou hast inspired, what countless wonders thou hast shown me in my time, what heterogeneous peoples thou hast suckled upon they motherly breast, what… what is it, Pimpi my dear?”

Pimpi stopped poking him in the ribs and said, “The others are waiting, can you do this from the ship as we sail away?”

He sighed. “You’re awfully eager to leave. Does not your heart tremble at the thought of forsaking the home of your youth and departing to the lands of the immortals?”

“If it doesn’t scare Meri, it doesn’t scare me,” Pimpi declared pluckily.

“But Merisuwyniel is immortal,” he pointed out.

She blinked her big blue eyes and asked, “Your point?”

He assumed his most Elven expression and pose, replying loftily, “I only wonder if you realize what you are getting into, a mere quaterling, sailing to the realm of the Velour, eldest and wisest of beings.”

She poked him in the stomach and shoved him up the gangplank with a firm heels-of-hands-to-pectoral-region maneuver, “Oh, pshaw, you’re the one who’s scared. Quit acting like an old gaffer and get onboard before the others leave us behind.”

“I fear neither Velour nor Valleyum,” Vogonwë said with as much dignity as he could salvage while tripping backwards up the plank. “Though I would like a reminder of why we are doing this in the first place.”

“I can’t remember why Merisu and the rest are going, frankly, I haven’t been paying close enough attention,” Pimpi shrugged. “But we’re going because of our unique special differences; you are going to entreat the Velour to allow me to stay with you in Never-Never Land despite the fact that I’m a ‘mere quarterling’ of wholly mortal descent.”

“Valleyum,” Vogonwë corrected. Then he sighed, “I love it when you say ‘unique special differences’.”

“I know.”

“That reminds me,” he mused as they finally got to the top of the ridiculously long gangplank and stood upon the deck of the ship, “whilst the others made their last minute preparations, I devoted my time to composing a fitting farewell to our friend, Lord Etceteron. It seemed wrong that he should leave, bestowing upon us gifts, and receive no tribute or token of esteem from us in return.”

He paused, awaiting a response, and when he got none he looked around. Pimpi was nowhere to be seen, and indeed, the entirety of the remaining Itship was likewise removed from his near vicinity. But in their stead stood many innocent sailors, readying the ship for setting and unawares of the ill about to befall them. Vogonwë, satisfied that he had an audience of sorts, cleared his throat and turned toward the shore. It mattered little to him that the sailors knew naught of Lord Earnur Etceteron, He Who Liked Vogonwë’s Poetry Till He Got Sober, since the object of the tribute wasn’t even around and that wasn’t really the point. There really wasn’t a point, which is very much in keeping with the events thus far.

“Ahem,” he intoned, “I will now speak a special work which I have written, titled ‘Lord Earnur the Fairish’, an epic haiku for two voices. I will be supplying both voices.”

A deckhand spit enthusiastically over the side of the rail, thus providing a prelude to Vogonwë’s great experimental endeavor.

His name is Earnur
Lord Etceteron, call him
Of Dun Sobrin, see

His grand demeanor
And dark manly eyebrows
Where envious to behold

He liked to kill orcs
And lollygaggers and such
With his mighty blade

Long he rode with us
Then he kind of up and left
We’ll miss him, I guess

Well I remember
The first time I met the man
By Bovine Fountain

His horse, Baklava
Was black and shiny, and sneered
At me, and was rude

But Earnur was a
Jolly good fellow, he was
A poet like me

We had adventures
Which I wrote about, in my
Lay of the Ent Bow

And then we rested
In the Wight City a while
Until the fire

When adventure called
Earnur was one of the first
To call back loudly

He was hasty
Ah but we liked him for it
Red wine and red blood

Flowed in his red veins
And so I hope that wherever
He goes he will not

Drink himself to death
Or anything bad like that
Farewell E. old chap

Several loud splashes signaled that at least on third of the ship’s crew had abandoned ship and were at that very moment swimming to shore. One man committed hara-kiri right on the deck and made an awful mess which detained enough of the compulsive obsessive neat freaks to stay aboard and clean it up. Vogonwë, oblivious to the chaos, settled down to breathe in the salty ocean air and watch the shores of Muddled-Mirth shrink.

Merisu and the rest of the remaining Itship, such as they were, came up onto the deck after a time and joined him at the rail to wave a fond goodbye to their homeland.

“I say…” Soregum said presently, looking around, “we seem to be missing someone. Don’t tell me the young hobbit lass decided to stay home?”

“What?” Vogonwë said stupidly.

“What?” Soregum echoed. “Surely you, her… um… intended,” he forced the word out, “know her whereabouts?”

“Last I saw she was boarding the ship with me,” Vogonwë said. “Just as I got onboard, I looked about and she had disappeared.”

“And you didn’t think to look for her?” Soregum stared at him in disbelief.

Vogonwë frowned. “She often disappears when I am about to recite a poem.”

“But think,” Soregum peered between the spindles in the rail, down at the water, “what if she slipped off the gangplank and fell into the water and drowned? What if she thought she forgot something on shore and ran back to get it and the ship launched before she returned? What if a suspicious seafaring type kidnapped her attractive young personage with intent to ravish? Hmmmmm? With a clueless boyfriend such as yourself standing by spouting poetry any number of things could have happened!”

Vogonwë had listened to this tirade with increasing alarm. At first he was inclined to tell the hobbit where he could shove it, but as the possibilities of Pimpish doom rolled off the smoke-stained tongue he fell into agitated pacing and finally, when Soregum was spent and panting against the spindles, the half-elf snapped.

“Oh my Eru,” he cried, tearing at his long silky brown hair, “what have I done? I must go back and find her!”

Merisu, who had observed the testosterone charged dramatics with typical unruffled patience, was about to speak a calming word when Vogonwë abandoned all reason and took a flying leap over the railing. So ruffled was he that he didn’t bother to add any airborn gymnastics to his dive, and indeed was so frazzled that instead of slicing into the water he bellyflopped with a sickening smack. Yet he doggedly paddled on toward shore, not hearing Merisu’s cries of, “But I saw her in the mess hall!” through the water in his ears.

“Well this isn’t good,” Merisu said, watching his flailing body tossed about by the waves.

Orogarn Two looked at her curiously, “Why?”

“Pimpi will be very upset when she finds out Vogonwë swam back to shore.”

“I would be more than willing to comfort her,” Soregum volunteered.

“Can I have his hair kit?” inquired Leninia.

“Perhaps there is a rowboat the young lass can row back to shore,” the Gateskeeper suggested. “If the loss of Vogonwë really troubles her that much….”

Merisu made a quick decision, as was her wont. “Someone must go get Pimpi and let her decide what she wishes to do about this.”

Just as Soregum volunteered to go fetch Pimpiowyn, they were interrupted by shouts and screams from the crew. They turned and looked where the sailors pointed, seeing a massive beast flying above the waters.

“What are they screaming about? It’s only Chrysophylax,” Leninia yawned.

“Oh!” Merisu looked stricken for a moment. “Kuruharan and Chrysi! We left them behind!” For a moment she teetered on the ruffled edge of decomposure, but heroically drew herself back at the last minute and said, “Well it is a good Chrysi is here. He can fetch Vogonwë back for us.”

Even as she spoke the dwarf and his dragon were zeroing in on their target, and in a moment Chrysophylax plucked from the waters a very wet and angry half-elf. The dragon flew on toward the ship and landed gracefully on the deck, ignoring the panicked cries and runnings to and fro of the ship’s crew. Vogonwë, deposited in a dripping heap on a coil of ropes, sputtered, “But I must find Pimpi!”

“Calm down,” Merisu said with the merest tinge of impatience. “She is aboard the ship, as I tried to tell you before. I saw her not a few moments ago, becoming acquainted with the cook.”

“What?!?” Vogonwë shook his head, sending driplets every which way. “You said she was lost!” he pointed an accusatory finger at Soregum.

Soregum shrugged, looking more than a little disappointed. “I was merely speculating….”

“This is all fascinating,” Kuruharan commented, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “What I want to know, is why when I arrived at the docks, surprise! No ship! Now if I didn’t know better, I’d say—”

“I am so sorry,” Merisu said with genuine penitence, as she was never anything but genuine. “But what with preparations and all, I did not have time to take a head count. If I had noticed you were gone, I would have made the captain wait, I assure you.”

Chrysophylax muttered something about overlooking the absence of a dwarf being one thing, and forgetting about a dragon being quite another, but it was difficult—nay, impossible—to stay miffed with Merisu for long, and so she soon had them eating out of her hand. But, since all she had had in her pockets were a couple biscuits and that was hardly enough to satisfy a dwarf and dragon, they all decided that it was high time they joined Pimpi in chumming it up with the ship’s cook. And so the Itship made their way down to the mess hall.

That is, save for Grrralph, who, as we all know, is most certainly not going to wake up before reaching Valleyum.