If LotR had been written by someone else!?

[Lostgaeriel]

Oh Lalwendë!

I haven't laughed that hard in an Age!

When considered in a "real" and contemporary context, I'm absolutely amazed that the Council stuck the meeting out to reach any conclusion at all. The way steering committees get run, we should have expected inconclusive meetings going on for months or years - or at least until Sauron arrived to claim the Ring. My respect for Elrond has risen to great heights.

[Mithalwen]

Well, Elrond employed that wise tactic of not feeding them until they had decided (no sandwiches and fruit sent in). A catholic friend tells me they do similar things to the cardinals if they take too long choosing a new pope..

[Rimbaud]

~~~

In the beginning Eru, the Authority, who in the Elvish tongue is named BigNastyBoss, made the Ainur of his thought; and they made a great Music before him. In this Music the World was begun; for the Authority made visible the song of the Ainur, and used it to enslave what he considered the weak-minded fools of the world. And many among them became enamoured of its Dusty beauty, and of its history, which was presented to them through a series of propaganda films. Therefore the Authority gave to their vision the Worship, and set it amid the Void, and the Pomp and Ceremony was sent to burn at the heart of he World; and it was called Church.

~~~

I would say to read this in the Spirit it is intended, but I might be accused of punnery. The shame.

[Lalwendë]

Well, Elrond employed that wise tactic of not feeding them until they had decided (no sandwiches and fruit sent in). A catholic friend tells me they do similar things to the cardinals if they take too long choosing a new pope

I always laugh to myself when I read Bilbo's little plea for a lunch break which falls on stony ground. It reminds me of myself so much. I can imagine him sitting there fuming, drawing doodles on his notepad to alleviate the tedium of another lengthy meeting, waiting for the tray of drinks and 'luxury biscuits' to arrive, and wondering when he can pop out for a smoke...poor hobbit.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Well, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and George Orwell had already been done . . . Wait: I know he’s not a writer, but how about The Lord of the Rings by Peter Jackson?

Oh, brother.

Thought you wouldn’t like that. Oh, well . . .

The Voyage of Eärendil by Tom Clancy

“Talk to me, Randy,” said Eärendil to his sonarman.
“Possible contact bearing one-three-two,” Aerandir said quietly. His mind churned inside his cool demeanour. Who could be chasing them? “It sounds like a giant wave, or some disturbance on the surface of the water . . . ” They continued to look at the waterfall display, where the contact was displayed as a yellow dot slightly larger than the other specks in the black background. The dot grew to a splotch.
“Definite contact.” Aerandir pressed his earphones to his ears. “He just increased speed.”
The captain walked over to the intercom. “Mast room, all ahead full.”
“All ahead full, aye,” answered Erellont as he increased the sail’s surface area. Eärendil felt Vingilot surge as she accelerated to thirty knots.
“Target just increased speed! Range under one thousand yards!” the sonarman shouted.
“S***!” He walked back to the intercom. “Erellont! Increase to flank!”
“All ahead flank, aye.” It is not generally known that a ship sometimes exceeds its known maximum speed, due to unexpected engine efficiency or some other factor. In this case, the sails fully unfurled gave Vingilot an additional five knots of speed.
“Sir, the b****** just kicked full throttle! Estimate speed at forty knots.”
Eärendil rushed to the bridge. “Helsman, right full rudder!”
“Right full rudder, aye. No course given.” Falathar turned the control wheel all the way to the right. “Sir, my rudder is right full.”
“Bridge, sonar. Contact just turned to starboard . . . ” There was silence over the intercom for a few seconds. “New contact! Low frequency rumbling, bearing five degrees on either bow, three-five-five to zero-zero-five. Sounds like rocks crashing against each other.”
“That’s Helcaraxë. Ignore that for now. Tell me about our stalker.”
“Sir, range to target under five hundred yards.”
“Helm, left full rudder. Return to base course three-one-two.” He hoped to confuse their tail.
“Bridge, sonar. Contact matched our turn to port, and his speed increased to fifty knots. Range to target under one hundred yards!”
“Sound collision! Brace for impact!” shouted Eärendil as he left the bridge and rushed to the stern of the boat. He saw a giant wave bearing an illuminated figure. Before he could make out what it was, the wave crashed down on Vingilot, and Eärendil found the figure sitting atop him. It was Elwing, unconscious, with the Silmaril on her breast.

I'll be back with more, possibly an Alexandre Dumas fils.

Whatever. Just something we'd understand.

[Lobelia]

Lord of the Rings By Enid Blyton

"Oh, I do love the first day of the holidays!" said Aragorn. "What do you think we should do today, Boromir, old thing?"

Boromir looked thoughtful as the girls spread a blanket for their picnic. They were spending the holidays at Imladris and enjoying the view of the Rivendell Valley.

"We could investigate the Mystery of the Missing Ring," he suggested. "The police seem to think that horrid Sauron is after it."

"All right," agreed Aragorn. "We'll go down to the village after lunch. I say, Arwen, what's for lunch, by the way?"

Arwen opened the basket. "Lembas and boiled eggs," she said, "with tinned peaches from the Shire for dessert. And lashings of miruvor. I made the lembas myself."

"Mm, you'll make a wonderful housewife one day," Aragorn said happily. "Oh, I say, what a super blanket! Did you weave that?" It was black, with a white tree embroidered on it in diamonds. Arwen nodded shyly.

"Woof!" said Bill the pony.

Eowyn blushed. She'd always wanted a dog when she was growing up, but Uncle Theoden said they were too boyish. So she had to make do with a pony, but it was always embarrassing when he barked instead of neighing.

"Do be quiet, Bill!" she said. "I vote we go and save the world. Not today, though, it's going to rain."

"Good idea," said Aragorn. "It'll give me time to get Narsil re-forged. Pass the miruvor, Arwen old thing."

[Aldarion Elf-Friend]

This is a great thread. I'm glad I discovered it.

So, what if Terry Brooks wrote...

Oh, never mind...

[mark12_30]

Originally Posted by Nilpaurion Felagund

The Voyage of Eärendil by Tom Clancy

“Talk to me, Randy,” said Eärendil to his sonarman.

Nilp: Brilliant. Three cheers.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

There have been some really nice things on this thread (also in its very beginnings ). I have been thinking about several like this as well, but this far I've written down just one - because it was the easiest (And I also know that at least some 'Downers around here might appreciate it...)

THE BRIDGE OF KHAZAD-DUM by Masashi Kishimoto

"Gandalf?"
"Huh? Oh..."
"..."
"...What is this feeling?"
This feeling... Could it be...
"Byakugan!
- Ai! Ai!!!"
"What - ?"
"Legolas! What do you see?"
"What an immense chakra..."
"What is that thing?"
"It's a Balrog!"
"Uh, Gandalf... a Bal... what?"
"A Balrog, Pippin. In ages long past, the Valar have destroyed the fortress of Angband in the country of ice far north. Among its denizens, there were demon beasts called Balrogs. One of them had escaped and hid here... he was sealed inside Moria. But the greedy Dwarves released him..."
"Uh... I see, Gandalf..."

"Roarrrrrrrrrrr!"
"Oh no! It's coming!"
"Run! Fly! Over the bridge!!!"
"No! I won't leave you here, Gandalf!"
"No, run, Aragorn!"
"I will not leave my comrades, Gandalf! Not any more! Not this time!"
"No, Aragorn! You must go!!!
...Take care of Frodo."
"... A-all right, Gandalf..."
"Roarrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"
"Gandalf!!!"
"You cannot pass!"
"Roarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!"
I will not last long. He is too powerful.
At this rate...
I have no choice. I have to use THAT...
"KATON: ANOR NO KOUEN!!! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!"

[Kuruharan]

Caesar’s De Bello Hobbito

The Hobbits are a whole divided into three parts, the Stoors, the Harfoots, and the Fallowhides, though we call them all Shorties. All these have practically the same languages, customs and laws. The Stoors dwell primarily in the South and West, the Harfoots and Fallowhides dwell everywhere else. The Hobbits are divided from each other by their innate suspicion of anyone who dwells more than five miles away. The Fallowhides are the leaders of these peoples, being more adventuresome they are also more apt to vanish without warning into the Blue. This last trait is considered most alarming by the Hobbits as it tends to take one more than five miles away from home. Those Hobbits dwelling in the area known as Buckland are braver than the rest of the Hobbits because of the nearness of the Old Forest, into which they will occasionally sally forth to engage in some deforestation.
….
The foremost Hobbit of the Marish, in rank and wealth, was Gorhendad Oldbuck. In the consulship of Marcus Messala and Marcus Piso (more or less) he was induced by the extreme dreariness of his habitat (and an impulse to chop lumber) to move across the Brandwine River and set up his own little kingdom. He changed his name to Brandybuck to confuse the authorities and granted himself the title “Master of Brandy Hall” without the permission of the Senate and Roman People. This was the foundation of Buckland.

[HerenIstarion]

"There are Rings in Middle-Earth,
Horatio, Man was not meant to wear."

HAMLET


One of the few redeeming facets of tutors, I thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was true when Bilbo taught me to read Elvish, it was true when he tried to teach me to be a poet, and it's true now when I'm learning Ring-handling.

"You haven't been practicing!" Gandalf's harsh admonishment interrupted my musings.

"I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exercise."

As if in response, the Ring I was trying hard not to put on but throw into the hearth began to tremble and wobble in midair.

"You aren't concentrating!" he accused.

"It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons Gandalf had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for cheeky Ring-Bearers.

"The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like this, dolt!"

My mental contact with the object of my concentration was interrupted as the Ring darted suddenly toward the fire. It jarred to a halt as if it had become imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from
the grating, then slowly rotated to a horizontal plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a leaf caught in an eddy.

I risked a glance at Gandalf. He was draped over his chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently devoted to devouring a leg of roast mutton, a mutton I had cooked, I might add. Concentration indeed!

He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too late to look away so I simply looked back at him.

"Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show me how much you've been practicing."

It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then I looked up desperately. The Ring was tumbling floorward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my hand . . . gently . . . don't knock it away....

I caught it a scant two hand-spans from the floor.

I heard Gandalf's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to break my concentration. I hadn't let the Ring touch the floor for three evenings already, and it wasn't going to touch now.

Slowly I raised it to eye level. Wrapping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then turned it. As I led it through the exercise, its movement was not as smooth or sure as when Gandalf set his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its assigned course.

Although I had not been practicing with the Ring, I had been practicing. When Gandalf was not about or preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my time to throwing pieces of metal—old mathoms, to be specific, into the hearth. Each type of throwing had its own inherent problems. Not rounded metal was not hard to work with because it was an inert material. The Ring, having once been part of a living Dark Lord, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To throw metal took effort, to maneuver a Ring required subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I could see a more direct application of that skill in my chosen profession. After all, why not put a Ring on and cast sword or something into the Crack?

"Good enough, lad. Now put it back into your pocket"

I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not because of its potential applications, but because it was fun.

[HerenIstarion]

Following How would it be thread

--------------------

DAVID BRIN

NATULIFE

I know, things taste better fresh, not packaged. Lembas clots your arteries
and hurts the rain forest. We should eat like our stone age ancestors, who dug
roots, got lots of exercise, and always stayed a little hungry. So they say.

Still, I balked when Sam served me termites.

"Come on, Master Frodo. Try one. They're delicious."

Sam already had the hive uncrated and set up by the time I woke up. Putting
down my cloak and walking staff Faramir gave me, I stared at hundreds of the pasty-colored critters scrabbling in grubbed up hive, tending their fat queen,
making themselves right at home again.

Sam offered me a stick to serve as a probe.

"See? You use this stick to fish after nice plump ones, like apes do in the wild!"

"How do you know apes do that? Oh, all right, don't recite any other verses... oliphaunt was enough...

I gaped at the insect habitat, filling the last free space between our
little fire and the sacks to the right.

"But . . . we agreed, we still have dried apples. . . and lembas too..."

"Oh, Master Frodo, I know you'll just love them. Anyway, don't I need protein and
vitamins for helping you to carry It to that land?"

Putting my hand over his swelling belly normally softened any objections he might
have. Only this time my own stomach was in rebellion.

"I thought you already got all that stuff from the nest back there... and the hollow too"

I pointed to the pieces of shell and bits of fur occupying half of Sam's pans, venting nutritious vapors from racks of tissue-grown cutlets.

"That stuff's not natural," Sam complained with a moue. "Come on, try the real thing. It's just like Gollum said, and he knows his staff, living in the Wild and all!"

"I . . . don't think . . . "

"Watch, I'll show you!"

Sam passed the stick-probe through a hole in the left side of the hive to delve after six-legged prey, his tongue popping out as he concentrated, quivering with excitement from his square nose down to his rounded belly.


"Got one!" he cried, drawing a twitching insect out the hatch and to his lips.

"You're not seriously . . . "

My throat stopped as the termite vanished, head first.

Bliss crossed Sam's face. "M-m-m, crunchy!" He smacked, revealing a still-twitching tail.

I found enough manly dignity to raggedly chastise him.

"Don't . . . talk with your mouth full."

Turning away, I added -- "If you need me, I'll be on the other side of that rook there.

------------

(to think dear Mr. Brin writes articles about Tolkien )

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Hope this is allowed.

What if The Slmarillion was a Werewolves game?
(Or What if The Silmarillion was written by a Werewolves mod?)

Ainulindalë: The Saga of the Village of Ardaland.

Eru: Hey, everyone! I’ve found a new game, and it’s called ‘Werewolves.’ Wanna play it?

Ainur: Ooh, we want to join!

Ulmo: Maybe we should have jobs in the village so we’ll have more fun. I’ll be the plumber.

Melkor: I’ll be the king* of the village.

Manwë: No, you can’t! Eru made me king!

Varda: I’ll play a lamp-maker.

Aulë: I wanna be the blacksmith!

Melkor: I’ll be king, Manwë, so just cry home to momma!

Yavanna: I wanna be a gardener!

Mandos: I shall be a judge.

Manwë: If you want to play, Melkor, then you’ll have to play by the rules. Since Eru made me king already you can’t be king.

Nessa: I’m a dancer!

Lórien: I’ll be selling sleeping pills.

Melkor: Rules, schmules! I’m the most powerful, so I’ll be king!

Vairë: I shall be a weaver.

Oromë: I’ll be a furrier.

Manwë: Stop it, Melkor, or I’ll tell on you!

Nienna: I’m the village psychiatrist.

Melkor: You can’t be a psychiatrist! You can’t have other jobs! You’re all my slaves!

Ainur: SHUT UP!

Melkor: Why you . . .

Tulkas: I wanna be a wrestler!

Eru: OK, let’s start the game now. Eä!

Illuin and Ormal: Sorry, we’re late! Can we still join?

Valar: Sure!

NIGHT 1

Melkor: ++Illuin and Ormal Because they’re too bright for their own good.

Illuin and Ormal were killed.

DAY 1

Aulë: Melkor did it, I tell you!

Flames from Illuin and Ormal: Due to a random formula, we have decided to lynch ++Almaren

Almaren was lynched.

NIGHT 2

Balrogs (mythomaniac): Hey, Melkor. Can we join you?

Melkor: Yeah. Sure.

DAY 2

Yavanna: What do we do? We need known innocents!

Laurelin and Telperion: We are the Shiriffs!

Aulë: Maybe we need new players.

Dwarves: Can we join?

Eru: Sorry, you’ll have to wait for the next game.

Oromë: Hey, other players want to join the next game!

Tulkas: Then let’s end this game already! Lynch Melkor!

Valar: ++Utumno

Utumno was lynched. VILLAGERS WIN!

Mandos: Eru said I’ll be mod for the new game.

Eldar: Yay! We can join now!

Mandos: So it is doomed.

DAY 1

Melkor (to Noldor): Look, I’m telling you. The Valar are the werewolves. They want this game to end so they can let the newbies join. And those newbies are easy to manipulate.

Noldor: Murmurmurmur.

Fëanor: We need to start another game! No Valar, Elves only!

Mandos: That is not allowed.

Tulkas: Grrr, that Melkor! He tricked us into thinking he’s an innocent villager! Lynch him!

NIGHT 1

Melkor (to Ungoliant): So, you’re the Beorning, huh? We should help each other.

Ungoliant: Deal, but let’s kill the Shiriffs first.

Laurelin, Telperion and Finwë were killed.

DAY 2

Fëanor: I told you something bad would happen! New game, I say! No Valar!

Noldor: YEAH!

Olwë: The Valar can help you, let them join!

Noldor: NO!

Fëanor: Traitors! ++Teleri

The Teleri were lynched. They were innocent.

NIGHT 2

Mandos: Because you have lynched innocent blood, you shall fear the Cobbler role.

Fëanor: We don’t care! We’ll still lynch Morgoth!

Finarfin: That’s it, I quit this game!

DAY 3

Fëanor: Haha! Look at me! I’ll finally lynch Morgoth!

Gothmog: No, you won’t. ++Fëanor

Fëanor: Farewell, fellow villagers! Lynch Morgoth! I won’t be joining another game for a very long time!

Fëanor is lynched.

To be continued?

__________________
* The role of ‘mayor’ has been changed into ‘king’ to avoid turning this into an allegory.

(For an explanation of roles, see here and here.)
__________________

I tried turning the entire Silm into a Werewolves game, but I got stuck at Of Túrin Turambar.

[Anguirel]

I certainly hope so...this is brilliant. I wish I'd thought of it...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Back up for your reading pleasure - and hopefully for new contributions!