The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Estelyn Telcontar]

As Merisuwyniel and her companions fought for their lives and for the continuation of their story, they were hard-pressed by their many foes. And they did cry out to the Velour for aid, and though the lords and ladies of that land heard their pleas, they did not deign to come to their assistance. Yet their hearts were not wholly hardened, and they sought to enlist help from another source.

And so it came to pass that Elves came to join them in battle; armed they were, carrying wondrous speaking swords made in Gondola of old, yet they sang merrily:

A wop bop a loo bop a whop bam boom.
Be-bop-a-lula, pooh pooh bee doo,
paah-dum paah-dum doo bee dum, pooooo!
paah-deeedle-eedeedle-eedeedle-eedum, poo pooo beee dooo!
Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, shing-a-ling-a-ling, shoo-be-doo-ah.

So they laughed and sang as they marched; and pretty fair nonsense I daresay you think it. Not that we care; we’re in this for cheap laughs, all the more if you tell us so. [Translator’s note: We humbly beg the readers’ pardon for this authorial pigwiggery; however, in the interests of an exact translation, we have adhered to the original document here.]

And though the waters raged with a great roaring, Davossë heard their voices, and his brows furrowed in anger at the inappropriateness of their presence in Valleyum. For they were not entirely consistent with the Legendarium, he deemed, and had no place therein, and therefore he cried out, “Go back to the fairytale from which you came! Yet your swords you may leave here, for they are the genuine stuff!” But they would not be dissuaded, and indeed the FaeryShip was glad of their help and welcomed them. And Laluinen comforted them, saying, “Of course you belong here! He didn’t mean it that way.”

Trolls there were that also came, with strange names, such as Bert, and Tom, and William. Evil they seemed, and prone to join the enemy forces, yet they knew pity and said, “Poor little blighters!” when they saw the valiant Questers beset by their foes. They too were derided by the spirits of the seas, though they neither knew nor cared, and fought against anyone who happened to be in their way – until the dawn came, when they turned to stone.

[The Saucepan Man]

Môgul Bildûr allowed himself a brief sneer of satisfaction. Although it was traditional for one in his Dark and Lordly position to hold an unshakeable belief in the inevitability of his ultimate victory, however many setbacks were encountered on the way, the sheer dogged determination of the Foil-ship to thwart his every move had recently given him some reason for doubt. But now, for once, everything seemed to be going according to plan. The battle continued to rage, blood continued to flow, corpses continued to pile up (and then mysteriously disappear) and deeds both heroic and treacherous continued to be done. And yet there appeared to be no sign of a let up in the fighting. It was as he purposed.

“Well Colin,” he said. “All seems to be in order, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes Lord Môgul - er - Lord Bildûr - er - Sir,” replied Sauerkraut obsequiously. “And thank you very much Sir for freeing me from the Void Sir.”

“Yes, yes. That’s about the twentieth time that you have thanked me. Remember. All you have to do is make sure that the polarity of the neutron flow remains reversed.” Môgul turned to Greedhog. “Your moment has come, my faithful Advocate-General.”

At this, the Senior Loyer brightened considerably. He had yet been sulking over his ignominious defeat at the hands of Sueim and he was also somewhat put out by Sauerkraut’s reappearance and blatant attempts to inveigle his way into his Master's affections. But there now appeared to be an opportunity for him to redeem himself in his Master’s (indeterminate number of) eyes.

“Yesss, Oh Prince of Pernicious and Poisonous Plotsss,” the old Loyer hissed. “What iss it that you command? Do you wisssh me to assail their armies with the absssolute assssurednessss of my authoritative argumentsss? Or sshall I neutralise their knightss with my notable knack of negotiation? Perhaps you would have me decisively destroy them with deadly and deceitful debate. Or would you prefer that I pin them down with the precise persspicacity of my polemic?”

“No. I want you to steal the Entish parts.”

“Dammit, my Lord,” replied Greedhog, momentarily thrown. “I am a Korprat-Loyer, not a burglar!”

“Take a detachment of your most artful Loyers, and some sturdy Trolls for protection,” continued Môgul, ignoring the Loyer’s protestations. “Make your way through the enemy ranks and rendezvous with our operative in the opposing camp. He will know what to do. Taking advantage of the distraction occasioned by the relentless battle, he will lead you to the arborious articles so that you may take possession of them.”

"Ah, I take your meaning, Oh Dark and Dreadful Duke of Deceit,” said Greedhog, resuming his customary manner of address. “But what of the Entisssh Bow? Ever it isss within the grasssp of the maiden Merisssuwyniel.”

“Well, if our diminutive double-agent is not able to appropriate it, your Loyers will just have to improvise with some spell of sequestration or injunctive incantation.”

“Underssstood, Oh Masster of Magnificently Mighty and Malignant Malevolence and Murderous and Malicious Maleficence,” nodded Greedhog, surpassing even his own high alliterative standards. “It sshall be done.”

************************************************

As he surveyed the havoc wrought by the Gateskeeper among the Dar-lêks, it suddenly occurred to Soregum that he was not where he should be. He felt a strong but inexplicable urge to return to the Ent-ship’s encampment.

“Come,” he called to his companions. “We must return to the battle and hold true to our Quest.”

Vogonwë, Orogarn (Two) and the Gateskeeper were momentarily taken aback by the Hobbit’s sudden and uncharacteristic turn of valour, but could not deny the truth of his words. And so they headed back towards their camp. Yet as they tracked back along the narrow ravine, the sky above darkened abruptly as if a storm were gathering about them. There was a sudden great roar and, in an instant, they were immersed in flames. Only the Gateskeeper’s quick-thinking and trusty Firewall spell saved them from a swift and deadly immolation. With a great rushing of wind, an immense shadow passed over them.

“Curse that scatterbrained Dragon!” cried Orogarn. “Our troubles are bad enough without having to deal with friendly fire.”

“That wasn’t Chrysophlax,” declared the Gateskeeper solemnly. “There were two of the beasts, one black and gaseous and the other golden with conceited air about him.”

“Ancalorgas the Black and Smug the Complacent!” declared Vogonwë. “But it cannot be! I saw their foul forms scattered across the battlefield with my own (Half) Elf eyes!”

************************************************

Greedhog’s company steadily made its way across the battlefield, cutting a swathe through all who stood in its path. Deadly were the Loyers’ enchantments and fell the insults of the Trolls. It seemed that none could withstand them. Yet there was one who stood alone before them, wielding an axe two-handed: Who-Him, erstwhile Lord of Dûn-Romin and general all-round good guy. His axe smoked in the black blood of the Troll-guard of Greedhog until it withered (for the Loyers had exploited a loophole in its lifetime guarantee), and each time that he slew, Who-Him cried: “Staurë continuata! Plot shall come again!” Seventy times he uttered that cry, but the Loyers grappled him with their craftily worded clauses, which clung to him though he severed their provisos; and ever their options were renewed, until at last he fell buried beneath their fine print and died on a technicality.

Victorious, Greedhog stepped forward and ordered his company onwards, his black gown swirling about his head like two vast wings. And yet he paused, sensing a vague irritation in the general region of his feet. Looking down, he saw that his right foot had been pierced by a small but finely-wrought Elven blade, while an umbrella skewered his left. As he watched, each smoked and smouldered, then writhed and withered and were consumed. So passed Hush, the dagger of Pimpiowyn, and the poodle-headed umbrella of Leninia. And had there been any two blades which could have dealt that foe a bitter wound, they were not these two. For Greedhog just laughed and, as he did so, his wings spread across the field of battle.

“Did you not know,” he said to Pimpi and Leninia as they cowered before his vast form. “That no Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, may hinder me.”

“That’s as maybe,” said a commanding voice behind him. “But it says nothing about Loyers.”

“Wha -!!??” uttered Greedhog, turning to the source of the voice. And as he did so, Sueim (for it was he) swung his mighty blade. Greedhog’s grotesque features acquired a perplexed, and somewhat disappointed, look as his great misshapen head parted contact with his hideous neck.

“But sssurely that’s a breach of professssional etiquette …” it hissed as it span through the air. But then it was silent and the Advocate-General of the Dark Tower Block was no more.

“Nice work ladies,” said Sueim to Pimpi and Leninia, flashing them a winning smile.

************************************************

When they returned to the encampment, Pimpi, Leninia and Sueim found their companions deep in discussion. All save Soregum, who skulked awkwardly by the waggon bearing the Entish parts, greedily eyeing the Entish Bow slung over Merisu’s back.

“And now the Dar-lêks have reappeared,” resumed Vogonwë once he had made a suitably appreciative fuss of his valiant sweetheart. In the distance, the metallic monsters bobbed and weaved there way back towards the battle, their harsh cries carrying over the tumult.

“Gateskeeper, have you any knowledge of what foul magic is at play here?” enquired Merisu.

“Aye,” replied the Wizard gravely. “’Tis the imbalance in the space time continuum.”

The Blank-ship stood blinking dumbly.

“As log as the polarity of the neutron flow remains reversed, all who die on the field of battle will continue to return. I sense Sauerkraut’s hand in this, but the power that he wields is that of the Dread Developer.”

“You said all who die,” ventured Hal. “Does that not apply to those on our side too?”

“It would appear so,” said Who-Him, appearing in their midst.

“Indeed,” continued the Gateskeeper unruffled. “For as long as Môgul goes unchallenged, this Battle of Evermore will continue with no respite, binding us here until the very end of time itself. And while the Velour languish impassively in their Ivory Tower there are none here with the power to challenge him.”

“Cool!” chirped Reaperneep, to general disapprobation.

[Bêthberry]

Stranger than if the director had yelled "Cut" was the sudden and rude interruption of the Brawlship's melee. What could account for such an unseemly seem in the flow of the narrative but the naughty tanglings and untanglings of the net itself?

In short, the over the loudspeaker came the announcement:

Hark! There is no music that hath not its uttermost source in me. None shall alter the music in my despite, not even the dark discord of domain keepers. Hence, come yee together to rejoice in making a music even more wonderful despite the poor timing and bad melody of the last day.

Show me a vision of your words made wonderful of your own accord. Show me your minstelry Unforbidden. Let the deeds of the squatters of the Barrowfield aside the walls of Edoras be made famous in song.

"What the?" intoned Vogonwë. "Do I sense an intermission in this interminably long game? Are we to interminge with others? Dare we we foresake this interring of orc to intercede in another game, allowing an intercalary intervension in this interesting possibility?"

Whereupon other members of the IntercessorShip interjected words too interlocutory to be printed here.

[Rimbaud]

Polarity of the neutron flow, eh, thought Hal glumly, as he hacked methodically at some regenerating orc pieces. Polarity. Neutron flow.

Nope. Still didn’t mean anything. He tried again. Enemies that come to life again after you have killed them. This was more like it. He could sink his teeth into this, although the problem was not a tasty morsel. And the infinitely regenerating Bad Guys are bent on destroying the Battle-ship, and more pertinently me. The mouthful of problem became somewhat more acidic, and he fancied not swallowing it.

Why are you staying? asked his mind, somewhat unhelpfully. You only joined the Whateveritis-ship for the most tenuous of reasons.

“Um, chaps?” enquired Hal, attempting nonchalance as he stabbed awkwardly down at the top half of an orc that was busy both reattaching itself to a nearby pair of legs that did not seem to be its own, and gnawing on Hal’s thigh. “Chaps?”

“What?” enquired Orogarn, tersely, as he deftly flicked his Daayv L’Roth haircut out of his latest victim.

“I was wondering…you know, just musing on…” said Hal, more uncertainly. “I was thinking perhaps I might, you know, slope off? Find a coffee, that sort of thing?”

Orogarn turned to face him, stony-faced, and Hal sheepishly returned to the slaughter or the not-so-much-lambs-as-evil-dudes. You can’t ask permission to leave heroic battles! sneered his mind, bitterly. You really are a poor excuse for a hero. True enough, mused another voice in his head. You’re doing a pathetic job of living up to your brother’s legacy.

“Who the hell are you?” stammered Hal in some confusion.

“Orogarn,” said he, for it was he, and he it was whom Hal had addressed. “We have been fighting together for several pages.”

“No, not you,” snapped Hal. “The voice inside my head.”

It sounded bad, and Orogarn threw him a suitably exasperated look so Hal tried to explain.

“Not the normal voice in my head,” he said, parrying a pike thrust with his fish-guard, and attempting a triple pike of his own to avoid a sword chop. “There’s a second voice, a different…”

it sounded worse and he tailed off. The battle split him from Orogarn then, and he wasn’t too sorry.

Then, something rather unexpected and horrible happened to Hal at the back of his head, and he fell to the ground as insensible as a weasel in a pickling barrel of brandy.

[Mithadan]

The battle raged and ebbed, swaying back and forth, now favoring one side, then favoring another, back and forth, to and fro, until the oddsmakers, who had been observing quietly from a nearby hillside, became dizzy and sick and dropped their books, and many other things besides including their lunches, to the ground. Thus was a valuable record of these days lost, but not all suffered from this sad event, for some, such as Kuruharan and Orogarn II, had the presence of mind to snatch up as many receipts as they could from the ground (and the hands and pockets of the slain) so that, in after times, they cashed in to their great profit and in later days... but that is another tale.

The battle... yes! The battle... it raged on. But though the Itship and their allies had fought valiently, they slowly grew weary and their arms heavy and Pimpiowyn experienced a hunger such as she had never before known, having not ever skipped so many meals. Thus, the forces of Môgul pressed their advantage and the armies of the light, or at least a lighter shade of grey, were hard put to hold their ground. It looked dark indeed, unless you were Môgul to whom things seemed bright, proving at last that good and evil are but differences only in perception and the winner writes the history and the loser goes quietly into the night never to be heard from again until revisionist historians take up the tale and, through careful analysis of the notes, letters, books and records of the time learn, or think they learn, that all was not truly as was told or written and indeed things were different and not the same and all is only shades of grey... or blue, blue is a very nice color, don't you think?

Anyway, the battle raged on and things didn't look good for the Lightershadeofblueship, most can agree upon that. Then, suddenly, horns, horns, horns, echoing through the bright (or dark) air. The Velour had come at last! And all turned, elf, man, dwarf, orc, troll, loyer, vampire, werewolf and a small group of leprechauns who had wandered into the wrong tale, to look at a nearby ridge to see a line of figures dressed in white robes (or surfer jams, whatever...). And to the surprise of the Itship, each of the figures turned and drew up their robes, or drew down their jams and bent over, waving their, ummm you know, for all to see.

"Oh my EMU!" cried Pimpiowyn. "What are they doing?"

But Merisu stared in awe. "It is an ancient ritual challenge, named Dissil after the great light that rides the skies in the evening. I have never seen it done, but it is the ultimate display of disdain. The Velour are Dissing Môgul's troops!"

Indeed a great howl arose from the masses of Orcs and Trolls and other assorted nasties, and they gnashed their teeth and clashed their swords on their shields and some screamed, "We've been Dissed!"

"Yes!" cried Prada as she waved her... ummm, posterior before the might of Môgul. "You've been Dissed by the best! Waht are you going to do about it?"

"Yeah!" yelled Manuel. "You want a piece of this?"

The Velour began dancing and prancing with their robes held high and their jams held low, and the armies of Môgul could not be restrained. With screams of anger and cries of rage they poured across the plain and up the ridge and the Velour fled before them. Nigh unto half of Môgul's forces charged over the ridge and disappeared from sight as they pursued the Velour...and they were never seen again.

It is said, and after a few drinks you can't stop Mantoes from talking about it, that the Velour led the army of darkness on a merry chase across the lands of Valleyum, over hill and under hill, across streams and plains and forests and swamps and bogs and fens and across a golf course and many other places besides until they came into the Uttermost West and reached the Edges of the World. Here, Manuel called up the winds and clouds and TM Ulmo called up the waters until all was covered in fog and the armies of Môgul, aided by an occaisional well-aimed kick or shove, poured like lemmings over the edge... Perhaps someday we'll all hear a THUD and we'll smile and raise a glass, knowing what happened... until the revisionists research it, of course (there is a rumour that the Orcs, etc. were led to a giant nightclub with an open bar and are there even yet, and will stay there until the well runs dry, but that's also another tale... damned revisionists).

[Rimbaud]

“Blargh,” said Hal, swinging his sword-arm, which fortunately for any prospective opponent was sans sword. “Bleurgh.”

The battle had taken its toll on Hal, and the back of his head was aflame with all the fires of a late night Chinese restaurant (Spring Garden Street, Philly, you know who you are) and on regaining consciousness, Hal had sadly not recovered his sight.

“Have at you,” he mumbled, his enervated fist finally contacting with something.

“Ooof,” replied Kuruharan casually, and flattened him with a well-judged trip.

Luckily for Hal, the impact of hitting the ground-cum-mound-of-indescribable-orcish-pieces was sufficient to restore him to full visual capacity, whereby this newly brilliant ocular talent informed him of the riotously good turn the battle had taken.

To whit: three-knock-kneed orcish companies stood before the ColourfulShip, with their knees predictably knocking. The ‘Ship stared back, somewhat startled by the rapid turn of events. The story really had been flying along. This situation remained in limbo for a few seconds (Pimpi won on account of her height advantage, but lithe Merisuwyniel won many plaudits) until the orcs realised that several hundred of them against a few knackered Heroes still suggested a good shot at victory.

They charged.

“Damn,” managed Hal, faintly. He was caught by a bevy of ‘Shipites, and restored to his footing just before the orcs swarmed over them. Which was why, luckily for readers reading his point-of-view, he was able to spot the giant Day Ussex Makkinna spiralling their way.

“The Eagles!” he gasped. “The Eagles are coming!”

And they were, green-jerseyed and white-helmeted, like a tidal wave of overweight humanity they stormed the field like an anachronistic half-time special, sweeping the comparatively underfed orcs from their feet and unceremoniously drop-kicking them into touch (over a small hedge nearby, whereby these particular orcs played little further part), thereby excusing Hal the extreme embarrassment of admitting he had no idea where his sword was, and that he had been flailing at imaginary opponents with his hand.

Dear Rim,
Eh?
Best regards
Whit.

[Thenamir]

Unfortunately, the Eagles managed to take out only eleven of the still-overwhelming numbers of orcs before they trotted off the field doing odd dances in the manner of the Sorethighhim. Gateskeeper's nifty new white outfit was now so splattered with the black blood of his foes that he now resembled a bipedal dalmation, but he had no time to look up a good dry-cleaner between staff parries and sword thrusts. Slicing through a Geordian knot of massive orcs in metal VISORs, he attempted to survey the battlefield of never-say-die foes, but everything he saw was merely depressing to the point of desperation: unending seas of unending enemies who themselves were unending. The only hopeful spot was where Vogonwe and Pimpi stood alone in the center of a large roughly circular area which no enemy could penetrate, for verily all who came within the invisible boundary ventured within earshot of Vogonwe's shrill extemporaneous on-the-spot poetic account of the battle in progress. Pimpi wore earplugs and waved Hush at any who ventured too close. Vogonwe threw arrows aimed to maim rather than kill, so as to prevent them from dying and coming back at full strength.

"So many," Gatesy muttered to himself while trying to catch his breath, which had once more inconveniently scampered off into a nearby ravine. "So many...if only there was some way to cut the enemy numbers...reduce...compress...compress??...Compression!! Of course! Why didn't I think of it sooner!" he cliched. The weary wizard put on a grim smirk (which his grandmother had knitted for him many years prior) and turned to face a new set combatants. Thundering towards him were the three remaining waves of orcs upon which several Loyers were surfing, for indeed were they of the dread faction of the Kahli'phorr'nyah Loyers. Dressed in their gaudily-colored tropic-print shorts, they smelt of rancid coconut oil and bellowed their dread battle cry of "COWABUNGA, DUDE!!"

Gateskeeper responded to the improbable spectacle from atop his fashionable steed Fad-O-Slacks by swinging his staff in a wide arc over his head before bringing it crashing to the ground with a shout of "ZIPFILE.EXE!!" The effect was astounding: absolutely nothing happened. Well, not exactly nothing -- Gateskeeper got a nagware o-mail about not having completed the registration form for the use of the magical command. Whipping the staff up from the ground he quickly entered the required information and obtained a 30-day temporary trial period just in time to repeat the action before being pincushioned in the all-too-near barrage of poorly-forged-but-really-sharp-pointy-objects.

This time the effect was even more astounding: a brilliant bolt arced from the staff head and hopscotched lightning-like thru the nearest of the companies of warriors who were suddenly reduced in size to mere ripples -- the heavily armed, six-foot-three members of the You-Rock-High batallions loosed to deal with the spotted sorcerer and his companions were abruptly transformed into cockroach-sized stomping material...2-inch hors d'oeuvres for Chrysophylax...loyers were brought low...dragons were diminutized.** Peals of laughter arose from the momentarily-relieved Good Guys, for there is nothing more hilarious than hearing the battle cry of a Loyer in the voice of a chipmunk.

With merry hearts they began a dance of death that would surely have done St. Vitus proud. The newly minute minions, finding themselves facing seemingly oversized opponents turned and fled, but those who escaped the boots of the Forces of Good made it away only to be crunched under the iron footwear of the next battery of battling belligerents. Kuruharan, as was his usual modus operandi, quickly sold out of his supply of golf clubs which the Questians then used to "release the prisoners" -- that is, they rained down miniature heads upon the stunned full-sized troops further back in the column. The headless ham-handed hirelings were, of course, regenerated, but being still short-of-height they were only repeatedly lost (and crushed again) in the following flow of fierce full-sized fighters.

The merriment in the camp of the How-do-you-get-orc-blood-off-your-shoes-ship, though, was short-lived. The next horde of evil minions quickly overcame its apprehension and surged forward heedless of the Lilliputian casualties. But even as Gateskeeper prepared to downsize them a shadow fell over the confident conjurer, missing him by scant inches as it thudded into the blood-dampened earth. The air about the combatants suddenly began to whip up the dust surrounding them, and the advancing orcs stopped and staggered back as a custom black aerophaunt with a convertable top landed in the space before the thunderstruck thaumaturge. Its rider wore a robe so hideous in its utter blackness that it seemed to pull all light into itself, drawing every eye to its evil weave and leaving those who beheld it despairing of ever regaining hope of light and life again, much like the campaign platforms of the major modern political parties. A tense silence fell upon the battlefield, hitting the ground near the shadow which fell a few moments earlier and squashing a couple of mini-orcs in the process.

From atop the sporty late-model aerophaunt (which sported a rump-er sticker that proclaimed "Don't laugh, it's paid for.") the rider threw back his cowl, and lo, there came the unmistakable hiss and the impeccable white wig of none other than the Chief Counsel of Mogul and master of the Great Cloud of Litig-ai-shon, Greedhog (surely you didn't think he'd escaped the regenerative fiesta, did you?) Desperately trying to think of something threatening to say, Gateskeeper stood alone between the Dark Loyer and the rest of the Geez-We-Thought-Maybe-We-Were-Going-To-Finally-Win-Ship, but only for a moment. First Merisuwyniel, then Gravlox, then the entire Fellow-gallo-insert-gender-and-or-race-here-ship stood forward at Gateskeeper's side -- mostly his backside. Heartened by the support of his long-time comrades, he brandished his staff menacingly at the Lead Loyer and shouted "Go back to the abyss!"

Greedhog laughed, a sound as merry as the joyous wailing of the eternally damned. "Old fool," he wheezed from his perch. He drew from his briefcase a tall, thin stack of subpoenas, writs, petitions, restraining orders, and other papers upon which were inscribed many foul and cunning devices. Holding it high over his head, a sheath of flame ran dramatically from its base to its summit, shining with a vile and depressing light yet not comsuming them. He gestured with his free hand and Gateskeeper's staff burst asunder in his hands. "Wow," mused the Gateskeeper, "I thought my virus scanner was impregnable."

"Old fool," Greedhog repeated, advancing his aerophaunt slowly towards the cluster of heroes and heroines, "this is my hour! And besides, The Abyss was a crummy movie." The massive dark form moved within striking distance of the small knot of brave and/or foolhardy Questians, ignoring Vogonwe as he verbally composed the requiem that he thought no one would live to hear. Such was the discomposure engendered by Greedhog's fearsome presence that none thought to raise hand or sword in defense, but merely tried to maintain enough dignity so as not to soil their breeches before the end. But even as the loathsome loyer prepared to hurl his lethal load of lawsuits and end the quest for good and all, he hesitated but a moment. For in that moment a thin ray of sunshine shone across the gap between them, and as from very far away a sound of hope reached their ears, like unto a symphony of a thousand herald trumpets no two of which were tuned to the same pitch, like the lower Bronx at rush hour. Merisuwyniel cried out, "Horns!" And the rest of the Yet-Another-Improbable-Rescue-Ship took up the cry, "Horns, horns, horns!"

( ** Editor's note: a lone mini-dragon on the edge of the battle managed to escape the melee, and lives on to this day doing television commercials for an American car insurance company.)