The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Kuruharan]

“Now,” said Merisuwyniel as they ascended up toward the ceiling, “we have the pieces of the Ent that was Broken…”

Kuruharan smacked himself in the forehead. Orogarn Two rolled his eyes at the stupidity of his companions. “The what…?” inquired Halfemption. “Not again,” groaned Vogonwë and Leninia. “We’ve already done this gag,” muttered Chrysophylax.

“Look!” cried Gateskeeper. “A plot hole!!!”

Sure enough, hanging in mid-air right next to the escalator was the biggest, ugliest, most inexplicable plot hole in the history of literature or moviedom.

“HUZZAH!!” cried the Gallowship, or some of them anyway.

“Plot holes of this nature are incredibly dangerous,” intoned Merisuwyniel. “Who now is able to fathom them? Characters, plot elements, even coherence itself have all vanished in such plot holes as these. Conversely, characters, plot elements, and usually more incoherence have emerged from such plot holes. What…”

“If you don’t shut up it’s going to be two stories below us before we can do anything!” snapped Orogarn Two.

“There’s nothing else for it,” said Kuruharan. “Somebody is going to have to jump into the plot hole and return with the Ent that was Broken.”

Everyone glanced at everyone else uneasily.

“I nominate the Captain,” said Soregum.

“I second,” said Pimpi.

“Now, wait just a minute,” said a suddenly ruffled Neemoi.

“But,” said Cirkdan. “We…SHOULD…do our…bit…for the…QUEST.”

“Blast it Dim,” chirped Macaw, “I’m a doctor, not a go-fer.”

“AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH” screamed Soregum. “GRAB ‘EM!!!”

Quick as thought, a sharp struggle broke out. Cirkdan, Neemoi, and Macaw were tossed over the edge of the escalator and into the waiting maw of the plot hole.

“Don’t forget to toss back the Ent that was Broken!” shouted Orogarn Two after them.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” replied the brave volunteers.

The plot hole emitted a sudden overwhelming cacophony of noises. Great tentacles reached out and seized the three crewmembers and dragged them through the opening. The noises grew louder. The agonized cries of ten thousand souls in torment mingled with a roaring and banging that defied description. Above it all rose a noise that sounded for all the world like the scream of a Thing-wraith.

Grralph stirred uneasily in his slumber.

“What’s taking them so long?” demanded Leninia.

Suddenly, out of the gaping plot hole popped the head of none other than Earnur Etceteron.

“Hullo, there,” he said cheerfully. “I say, one of you wouldn’t happen to have a bit of something to drin….whoops,” and he vanished. “Bonehead pillock!” laughed a metallic voice out of the maw.

The Gallowship stared with their mouths hanging open.

The Balfrog’s head shot out of the hole and took a swipe at Chrysophylax, who bravely tucked his tail between his legs and scrambled out of the way. The Balfrog roared and disappeared.

The plot hole heaved…and belched.

“Eeeeeewwww,” moaned Merisuwyniel and Pimpi together. “How crude!”

Out flew the wagon bearing the Ent that was Broken. It crashed on the escalator a few steps behind them.

The Gallowship breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude, or some of them did anyway.

“Thank you captain, wherever you are,” sighed Merisuwyniel. “And to you my darl…I mean Mr. Neemoi,” she added.

“What?!” bawled Orogarn Two. “They were both pompous a…”

“Watch it!” snapped Merisuwyniel.

“Were here,” said Pimpi.

“Where’s here?” inquired Vogonwë.

That was a question not so easily answered. The Lostship stepped off the escalator (dragging the wagon with them). They could see nothing except white light and a vague outline of the floor beneath them.

Reaperneep sniffed the air and trotted forward. “Are we to be halted here at the completion of our Quest?” he shrilled.

“No,” said Merisuwyniel. “Muddled Mirth is counting on us.”

“The light makes my head hurt,” moaned Chrysophylax.

The Bemused-ship slowly walked forward. They had not gone far before they noticed the Muzak. It was beautiful and strange. It roused a longing that was pain (even worse than lust for Merisuwyniel). Nothing else seemed worthwhile but to listen to that sound forever.

“Come on,” cried Reaperneep, his naturally adventurous nature aroused by his adventurous surroundings. The Brainsnearingthestateofjellyship staggered on.

The music began to call to them. It was a merry bubble and joy, thin, clear, and happy. The call of the music became stronger than the music was sweet. The Brainsreachingthestateofjellyship could not help but move forward now.

They came to a great golden door that was more magnificent than mere words could describe. The liquid of that glad music broke on them like a wave, caught them up, and possessed them utterly. They were conscious that they were nearing The End…whatever that might be.

“We must go in,” whispered Merisuwyniel.

“…just…five more minutes, Mommy,” muttered the Gateskeeper, with his eyes closed.

Kuruharan slowly swayed from side to side. “If I could only make a recording of this stuff and sell it! I’d make a fortune!!!”

Slowly, trembling with doubt and hesitation, Merisuwyniel reached to push open the door.

“Oh, let me do it!” cried Reaperneep, who was beside himself in eagerness and impatience.

He opened the door.

They were filled with the feeling that they were exactly where they were meant to be at that moment in time.

As they passed over the threshold, the music was overwhelmed by a Great Theme of Muzak. It was greater and more wonderful than any yet revealed. The Motleyship were overcome by its glory and splendor. They bowed down inside the door.

The Muzak stopped. They waited.

…and waited.

Finally, Reaperneep dared to look up. He beheld great shining thrones upon a dais on the far side of a pillared hall. He stood and trotted forward.

“Look,” he cried. “I found something.”

The Puzzledship gathered around him.

He had found A Sign. And upon that Sign in glorious letters of fire and ice was writ…

“Next Throne Room Please -->”

They turned and beheld another door, even more magnificent than before. The Muzak swelled again. The Deepship was drawn forward again. The sound of harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion yet another Theme, like unto the first, only more stirring.

Without haste, they opened the great doors before them and beheld a Great Light. They fell to their faces.

The Great Muzak swelled with great profundity and became triumphant. It achieved a poignancy unutterable in these poor houses of Time.

It ceased and a great silence fell as if the Muzak had never been. And the Upthecreekwithoutapaddleship waited.

…and waited.

Finally, Reaperneep dared to look up. He beheld greater shining thrones upon a greater dais on the far side of a greater pillared hall. He stood and trotted forward. He continued on and on until he vanished in the light.

And lo! Long seemed the time until his return. But, return he did.

He strode up to where the Expectantship lay huddled on the floor.

“I have found a Token upon one of the Thrones,” he announced grandly. He handed something to Merisuwyniel.

Merisuwyniel took it up and looked at it. “It seems to be a sheet of…notebook…paper…”

She opened the sheet and read those words that echo loud through the ages.

“Out to Lunch.”

“WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!!!” screamed Leninia.

[Diamond18]

Somewhere, out there, in an unidentifiable hall in an unidentifiable palace in Valleyum (that I can identify, thank goodness) someone was having lunch.

That someone was Prada, known by the Elves of Muddled-Mirth as El Beer Breath the Fair Enough, and known to the Hobbits of the Mire as Snow White Applebottom the Plump and Fair Enough. By the Dwarves of Muddled-Mirth she was known and Snow White the Lazyassed. Some also call her Fanny, or She of the Ten Thousand Shoes. She was, at that moment in time, dining on rice and codfish, with a goblet of fine imported Mire beer and a side of lamb liver. This she would follow up with a fine imported chocolate cake with strawberry pie filling on the side.

As she sat on her fanny with her niftily clad feet propped upon a pillow, she called out to her husband, “Manny, stop making that racket and come to lunch, your codfish is getting cold and your ’ard liquor is getting soft.”

Her husband, Manuël Sàntana, Lord of the Breath of ’Ard Liquor, did not cease in his racket, for he knew that ’ard liquor could not get soft. And he preferred his codfish cold. “Coming,” he said insincerely, as he played upon his guitar, known as TícTàc the Magnificently In Tune. TícTàc was renowned throughout Valleyum, and many Elven musicians far away on the shores of Muddled-Mirth swore by the Ever Lovin’ Guitar Strap of Manuël Sàntana and dreamed of one day collaborating with the Master of Muzak. Even in the deepest woods of Workmud, poets dreamed of one day setting their lyrics to the ever lovin’ strummin’ of Manuël Sàntana. Also there was the chance of getting drunk on ’ard liquor, a drink so strong it puts ’Mudwater to shame.

Manuël and Prada were alone in the unidentifiable hall save for the Seven Dwarves, Prada’s special guests from Muddled-Mirth. It was not widely known in Muddled-Mirth that there were actually Dwarves living in Velour, but Manuël had granted them a special status due to some kind of bond they had formed with Prada once upon a time. No one really like to talk about that incident, as how Prada had ended up in Muddled-Mirth, hiding from a wicked witch, and getting kissed by a handsome Elven Prince, was a delicate issue in the Sàntana household. Or rather, Unidentifiable Hallhold.

The Dwarves were dancing and shaking their posteriors to the ever lovin’ racket Manuël made upon his guitar. But I will not elaborate further on that, since no one wants a detailed description of dancing dwarves.

In upon this happy homey scene, burst a messenger. “My Lord, my Lady,” he said, hastily bowing. “There is a bizarre and dangerous looking ragtag bunch of malcontents requesting a conference with you. One of them says he’s a big fan of your muzak, my lord. Will you see them or shall I throw them out on their posteriors?”

“In good time, in good time,” said Manuël. “A fan, eh? Well, we can at least hear what they have to say before we throw them out. Tell them we shall see them after lunch.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

And so it came to pass that the ceremonial gong was sounded to summon the Kings and Queens of the Velour to a Great Conference. (Yes, though multiple kings and queens of a land are a reason for war in this world, boys and girls, in fantasy stories it works! And amazingly well with brethren and sistern, even… ) And the sound of it was heard throughout Valleyum, and the resounding echo of grumbling, irritation at the interruption of other pleasures, or curious gossip was heard in answer.

And lo! they came from the beaches and bars and there was much stashing away of serf-flets and much tying of diaphanous scarves over itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikinis to meet the minimal dress-code and much donning of fishnet muscle shirts likewise. At the entrance of the Great Conference Hall they paused to adorn their feet with the ceremonial flíp-flets, in accordance with the warning runes that were writ above the doorway. (Translator’s note: The ruins of these runes were found in the ruins of Valleyum in recent times; they have been reconstructed and their contents can now be repeated. In the Common Tongue they read: “No shirt, no shoes, no service” )

They took their places at the circular table that signified their equality, though they were fully aware of the fact that some of them were more equal than others. The most equal of them came last – Manuël and Prada ascended the ceremonial staircase at one end of the Hall. While waiting for them, some of the Velour whose physical attributes proclaimed them to be male or a reasonable facsimile thereof began to sing a playful chorus of “We’re Kings of the Round Table”. Interestingly, it blended in perfect counterpoint with the three-part harmony rendering of “Good Vibrations” (the national anthem of Valleyum) from the female side of the table – well, it is to be assumed that it was sung by the females, since no self-respecting, fully-functional male could sing that high.

Manuël winced almost imperceptibly, but his benign expression showed that he could tolerate the musical taste of the lower – um, equal on a different level – colleagues. He stood majestically and patiently, waiting for them to arise for his ceremonial introductory speech. His patience was needed, but after much clearing of throats and some clinking of spoons against glasses, they were finally inclined to give him their only minimally divided attention.

“My brethren and sistern,” he began pompously, “we are assembled here this day to…”

“Aw, come on, Manny,” T-M Ulmo protested. “Speak normally and get down to business. The waves won’t wait all day, you know.”

There were assenting nods all around the table, and much shuffling of feet to indicate the wish to continue proceedings in a sitting position.

“Oh, all right,” he capitulated. Much relieved, they sank into their comfortable lounging chairs and sipped their favourite refreshing Cok-tailz. “Well, like, it’s like this,” he continued. “A bunch of weirdos from Muddled-Mirth has, like, sailed over here, and it looks like they, like, want something from us. I know we have a non-interference policy required of us by the Prime Directive, but we can at least listen to them before, like, sending them back, right?”

“Sounds cool,” “OK with me,” “Yeah,” and some assenting murmurings answered his, like, question. After all, even serf-fletting got boring once in awhile, and new kidz on the block were not an everyday occurrence.

Two lovely young Maya twins, Pollí-Esther and Pollí-Unsaturated, opened the doors and ushered in the Flotsam’nJetsamShip. The Questers hardly dared to look up, fully expecting to be blinded by so much royal brilliance, and when they did, their jaws dropped, for before them was assembled a wealth of suntans and blond-streaked hair and lean-muscled bodies such as had never been seen in eastern lands, yet no shining light surrounded them, though the dark-shaded glasses they wore seemed to have been made for that purpose.

Merisuwyniel stepped forward almost shyly, not quite knowing how to address this awe-inspiring group; yet drawing upon the wisdom and diplomatic skill of generations of Elves, she began. “Four-score and seven years ago- ” Flustered, she stopped. Wrong generation, she admonished her inner Elves. “My Lords and Ladies,” she began anew, fervently hoping that it did not matter to Valleyum etiquette if the males or females were addressed first. “We have come on a quest of great importance to Muddled-Mirth. We wish to remedy an unprecedented cruelty – the hewing and sundering of an Ent! We have done our best to reassemble all the parts that were separated, yet is the reunification beyond our skills, yea, beyond the skills of any who reside in Muddled-Mirth. Nevertheless I had messages from these shores, telling me to ask for aid here.”

She looked around at the ladies, searching for the familiar green face of her visions, but she could not find it. Expectantly, she waited for an answer, and her companions waited, speechless for once, with her.