The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Translator's Note

Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings in the human mart?
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

John Keats was, of course, a great enthusiast of Entish literature, and took an active part in the four-year project to translate this section of the text. This project ended in disaster with the insanity of the Reverend Dr. Ernest Thrippshaw, head of the project, and the sudden descent into opium abuse of all thirteen of his colleagues. This was attributed to the influence of Keats himself until Professor Olaf Gundvarsson of the University of Oslo reported his team's findings that one sentence, which requires almost a full day to recite, is in fact an obscure tense of the verb to be. The translation into English via Norwegian is reportedly "I might be in the season when ancient roots course once more with youthful sap and leaves sprout forth, but shall not be in the cold, cold season in which leaves fall and frost bites the bough. Of late the ivy drinks too deep and axes are heard, yet nonetheless the acorn of hope puts out its tender shoots, and I am thankful for your interest." As one may readily observe, this sentence is a great deal more concise and memorable in modern English, albeit that the newer language would be considered obscenely hasty by Entish standards. The final word, I think, should go to Dr. Thrippshaw himself, whose tireless work on the following section has gone so woefully unrewarded, even among his fellow philologists: "Do not speak to me of Entish bows! I am at my wits' end with them, and had not the great Emperor Charlemagne lately appointed me Elector Palatine I should stand before you now a babbling lunatic! Begone from me, thou foul reptiles, for thou art tainted with the juice of the radish; and such are anathema to all who follow the Vole of Truth!" (Impromptu valedictory address to the University of Oxford, August 18th, 1819)
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Mithadan's Post:

Grrralph stepped up onto the stage and cleared his throat. Then he drew his sword. A grrrowl arose from the audience, but the wraith waved them away and began a dance, using his sword in place of a cane. Then he began to sing.

"What good is sitting
alone on your throne?
In your old robes, starched and pressed?
Life is an endless quest, old chum.
Come on and join our quest..."

Grrralph tapped and spun his way across the stage, then stopped directly before the King. With a deliberate motion, he raised a glove and yanked down his hood. In the dim light, it appeared that a shadow occupied the space between his cloak and a black steel helmet that rested upon his...shadow. Then, moving in time with the beat of a drum, the hood crept back into place, bit by bit, resembling a black slug crawling upon a rock.

The King laughed and clapped delightedly as Grrralph resumed his song and dance. The wraith began a bump and grind, then did the splits as he sang.

"Put down your knitting,
your sceptre, your crown.
Come have a holiday!
Life is an endless quest, old chum.
Come join our quest today!"

Grrralph again halted before the throne. This time he raised his sword and swung it like a baton. In its final twirl, it cut off his hood (Grrralph had ducked his head down into his cloak, turtle-fashion). The cloth fell to the ground and disappeared in a puff of smoke. But from his shoulders, threads crept up like a nest of snakes and, writhing in time with the music, wove themselves together into a new hood.

"Oh, he's good!" cried the King. "He's good! How do you do that, huh? C'mon, tell me how you do that!"

Grrralph bowed, then spoke in a deep and mournful voice. "I will tell you as much as I know, or at least, what I can recall," answered the wraith. "It's kind of a riddle, I think."

His eyes shone bright red as he continued:

"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."

Then, with another bow, Grralph backed away and ceded the stage to the next entertainer.

******
Squatter's Continued Post:

There comes a time in the career of every great hero when he is compelled to hold conversation with inanimate objects. Perhaps this is in some way due to the action of the heroic metabolism, which enables them to hear and see that which is hidden from lesser men. Perhaps it is a property of the weapons they carry that they should possess the gift of speech. Then again, perhaps it is a sign that most heroes are stark raving bonkers and not to be trusted with any task more complicated than mucking out the stables. Whatever the reasons, Earnur was currently conversing with the dread blade Bystandr[1] that men now call Griper.

"Look, I don't see what's so difficult to grasp about this: you're a sword. Your entire purpose in existing at all is to maim and kill, to have oaths sworn on your blade and to look impressive for passing damosels. What's the point in being a sword if you hate fighting?"

I didn't ask to be a sword, you know: back when I was just an ingot I wanted to be a ploughshare. It was just my bad luck that I happened to fall into the hands of Dwarves just as they got a big order from the king of Dor Sumyewinion. I was a victim of society.

"That's what they all say," replied the implacable knight. "But no sword of mine is going to be a conscie. You'd better buck up and do a good job or I'll have you made into a shovel and give you Jethro the stable boy! Now be quiet: I have to think."

On the other side of the moth-eaten velvet curtain that separated them from the main hall, all was silence as Grrralph made his way to the stage. The unisex-ship dithered heroically, asking pointless questions about the king's connection to the net whilst hedging around the real issue of who was actually going to sever that link. It was now clear to all of them that as ill-luck would have it the great Thighs that appeared to hold up the roof of the Goldlamé Hall were parts of the Ent That Was Broken, and therefore fair game for theft. It was also clear that pinching them would be a lot more difficult in front of a hall full of people. Perhaps, then, it was just as well that at that moment, on the other side of the curtain, Grrralph removed his hood and launched into his act. As he spun and gyrated to the end of his eerie performance, all eyes other than those of the fuddled King were fixed on the dark figure in horror. Several people unfortunate enough to believe the evidence of their eyes sidled towards the exits and Grimy made as though to flee the stage. At that moment, as the success of their unrehearsed and rather shaky gambit hung in the balance, Kuruharan opened his hand, in which lay a small black box. From it, tinny yet perfectly audible, came the sound of fair Elven singing, and it slowly swelled to fill the entire hall.

*******

[1]In Quixotic, this name can mean either to be present or not to be present at a great event. Why this somewhat odd pun should be given as a name to a sword was a compete mystery before the translation of The Re-Unification of the Entish Bow, which has shed new light on this as on a number of other aspects of life in Muddled Mirth.

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]