The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[The Saucepan Man]

And so Greedhog once more stepped forth from the vast army of Moredough. And lo! His pin-striped suit was cloaked in a gown of black. No longer did he sport a natty polka-dot tie, but a collar of yellowish-white, and a ludicrous grey wig culled from the hide of an ancient Warg sat atop his bald head. As he stood in silent contemplation, studying in detail the labyrinthine Writ that Sueim had conjured forth, numerous minions, the Clerks of his Châmbers, busied themselves arranging immense stacks of paper and vast dusty tomes around him.

Nearby stood Greedhog’s apprentice, Rûmpöll the Scaly, second only in his advocacy skills to the great Senior Loyer himself. And lurking in the shadows sat the Înstrùktïng Sólícïtôrrs, those whose job it was to feed Greedhog with the facts and figures (suitably loyered) to fuel his presentation of his case. Foremost amongst these were Klïffòrd Shànnse the Global, and Slôrrtern Maï, the Butcher of Burnhill. Each of them had played a decisive role in building up the vast and profitable empire of their dread client, and now they were present to take their part in his fate.

As the two parties sat on their opposing hillsides, each preparing their case, a plethora of dusty and bewigged Elven clerks, appointed by the Velour for just such an occasion, readied the clearing that lay between for the forthcoming trial. Which took somewhat longer than either side would have liked since it had been many Pages since a trial had last been convened in Valleyum, and the officials were rather out of practice.

The Trial-ship eyed the preparations that were underway on the hill opposite, fearful that their chamipon, Sueim the Disbarrèd, would be no match for the legal team that had been assembled on behalf of Môgul. Soregum looked plaintively at the Gateskeeper as he helped Pimpiowyn to tend to the Wizard’s arm (much to Vogonwë‘s annoyance).

“Tell me,” he said. “Is there any hope? For this quest - trial - thing, I mean?”

“There never was much hope,” replied the Gateskeeper. “Just a fool’s hope.”

“And it is a fool indeed that puts his fate in the hands of a Loyer,” snorted Kuriharan disdainfully.

“Aye,” chipped in Orogarn Two. “And ’tis grim for us when the only Loyer that we have to plead our case before the Velour is the one Loyer who was banished from Valleyum.”

“Pish and twaddle,” snapped Merisu irritably. “Grrralph - er - Sueim has proved faithful to the Quest. And I, for one, trust in him to see that justice will prevail.”

At that moment, one of the Elven clerks raised his voice so that all present heard his cry.

“Silence in court!”

“And so it begins,” whispered Merisu to her companions, “The great argument of our time.”

As all stood, the Velour entered the clearing with Mantoes at their head. Solemnly, they took the wooden seats appointed for them to one side of the clearing.

“Like, what’s with the upholstery,” complained Prada. “You’d think that they could have done something plush in leather.”

“Hey, get with it dudes,” intoned Mantoes. “This court is, like, in session, man.”

[Mithadan]

Grrralph... er. Sueim rose and walked to the counsel's table which had appeared before the august panel of Velour. On it, he placed his legal pad and quill. Then he motioned lazily with his left hand and a tall stack of scrolls appeared upon the table. Rising to his full (and considerable) height, he addressed the Court.

"My Lord Mantoes," he intoned. "and distinguished Velour. I am here before you today to plead on behalf of Gravlox Uruk and Merisuwyniel the Fair who have had their deep and loving relationship shattered by Môgul Bildûr, formerly known to all here as Melvin Bluenote, who has wrongfully and without right seized and retained in his possession the aforesaid Gravlox..."

"What about his cousins, bagels, capers and cream cheese?" whispered a nearby Elf before he was seized, roundly beaten and dragged off by several bailiffs.

"As I was saying," continued Sueim. "This is a case about love interrupted by the dark and evil deeds of Môgul Bildûr..."

"Sob!" sobbed Howlie. "That's beautiful. Môgul's guilty! Let me execute his sentence!" He raised his hammer and hurled against the nearby mountain from which the reincarnated Orcs had been issuing. The mountain shattered with a flash of light. Moments later, a dull rumble was heard, even as Howlie's hammer spun back to him.

"Duuude," cried Mantoes. "It's not cool to, like, prejudge someone. Keep an open mind. Roll on, Sueim!"

"A case like this arises rarely," said Sueim. "Once a Page, perhaps do events of such great moment arise. And, sadly, I am but recently arisen from the stupor of my curse and am less than fully prepared, through no fault of my own. Therefore, I respectfully request a continuance so that I may adequately present my case. A short adjournment of, say, a decade?"

Greedhog rose to object, but before he could speak, a great clamor arose. A battalion of Orcs marched by singing Louie, Louie at the top of their lungs. Prada winced and conferred quickly with Mantoes who then spoke. "Dude, I feel your pain, but there is, like, no way that we are going to let all these Orcs and Trolls and whatever wander around here for a decade. We've gotta get this gig done so that we can get back to hanging out. Motion denied."

Greedhog snickered none too quietly, but Sueim was undaunted. "Then, I request just five minutes to speak with Gravlox and would like to designate some of these fine people who I quested with to act as my clerks?"

"Whatever," answered Mantoes. "Pick three of them to help you."

Sueim turned to the Itship and considered each in turn.

"He will pick me," thought Merisu. "For I am wise and strong and led this quest for all this time."

"He will pick me," thought Gateskeeper with a grin. "For I am smarter than all the others combined."

"He will pick me," mused Kuruharan. "For I am savvy and a great salesman, and what is a court case if not a sales pitch?"

"I wonder when dinner is?" thought Orogarn.

A ghost of a grin passed over Sueim's face, then he turned back to face the court. "Thank you my Lord Mantoes," he said. "I choose Pimpiowyn, Vogonwë and Leninia."

The audience of Elves that had gathered gasped, then laughed. They pointed and whispered as the three newly designated clerks stepped forward and huddled with the Loyer. After several minutes, including one loud exclamation of "You want me to WHAT?" Sueim nodded and walked towards the hill where Gravlox was bound. Pimpi and Vogonwë accompanied him reluctantly through the ranks of drooling and jeering Orcs. Leninia did not, however, join them. She walked off to the west with a determined look on her face.

Soon, Sueim returned and faced the court. "Where are your clerks?" asked Mantoes.

"They are off doing research, no doubt," answered Sueim.

"Very well," said the chief jurist. "Like, present your case."

"The Orcish Conundrum Concordat clearly and unambiguously provides as follows," said Sueim. "'In order to ease the overcrowding of the Mantoes reclamation facility and to ensure the orderly recirculation of resources, the Velour hereby agree that, upon application by Môgul Bildûr, in writing and upon reasonable advance notice, the Velour will release into his custody all previously slain or otherwise killed, departed, or passed on Orcs from Mantoes, save only that this clause may be invoked only once a Page.' Thus, by the way, Lord Howlie's action in destroying the recirculation portals was quite proper Môgul Bildûr has used his one option for this Page."

He strode over before the panel of Velour and gestured dramatically. "ORCS!" he cried. "This provision applies only to Orcs! Not Trolls, not Dwarves, not wraiths, not wargs, not bunny rabbits, not zerls and, especially NOT Elves! And Gravlox is now an Elf! He is no longer an Orc! He has been redeemed."

Gravlox nodded his head as best he could against his bonds. This was difficult as he remained tied to a stake on the nearby hill. But even as Sueim finished his sentence, a breeze blew, causing Gravlox's golden hair to wave and gleam in the sun. His grey eyes twinkled and shone and his aquiline nose was in stark contrast to the snouts and related bodily accoutrements that his Orcish guards possessed.

"Does an Orc sip tea?" asked Sueim. "With scones, yet? Does an Orc floss his fangs? Does an Orc say please and thank you? My Lord Mantoes, does an Orc use conditioner, pre-shave, post-shave, hair mousse, exfoliating cleansers and astringents? For this ELF does, as this court well knows. But if the court wishes proof, I have the statements, taken by Osanwë, of 100 Orcs from the division Môgul Bildûr assigned Gravlox to, all attesting to these uncontested facts." A large volume of paper appeared suddenly before Mantoes and landed with a THUD upon his table. A number of Elves in the Gallery applauded appreciatively as Sueim swept back dramatically to his table and sat down in his chair.

"He has done it!" thought Merisu with wonder. "He has surely won and Gravlox will be released to me!"

But if so, then why was Greedhog smiling....?

[Kuruharan]

“With the court’s indulgence,” said Greedhog. He walked (not flew, walked) over to the nearby hill where Gravlox was tied up. The Loyer seized the stake and ripped it out of the ground. Then he carried the stake and Gravlox back before the bench…row of stools or whatever it was.

“May it please the court,” Greedhog proclaimed grandly. He thrust the stake into the ground again where everyone in the courtroom…meadow…field…whatever could see Gravlox’s face.

“Open your mouth,” commanded Greedhog.

“Mmm-mmm,” said Gravlox pinching his lips as tightly shut as possible.

“I said open it,” commanded Greedhog.

“Mmm-MMMMM,” said Gravlox turning his head in the other direction.

Greedhog reached forward with his mighty hand…paw…claw…whatever and wrenched Gravlox’s head around. With his other appendage he gripped Gravlox’s jaw and squeezed. Gravlox’s mouth popped open with an unappealing cloud of slobber revealing a hideous mouth of some of the jaggedest most vicious looking orc-fangs you ever saw. (They were, however, immaculately flossed.)

“Redeemed is he,” sneered Greedhog. “Looks to me like somebody skipped out from the program before completion. As the court knows, in order for an elf to be considered redeemed, the spirit must complete the creation of a new Hawaarrrrkk.” Greedhog pointed to Gravlox in some distaste. “This creature clearly has not done so.”

The panel of Velour made vague noises of assent and understanding, or it may have been just them settling down to a more comfortable position to take a nap.

“Your honors,” piped up Kuruharan, “if I may…”

“Shaddup!!” hissed Merisuwyniel.

Kuruharan paid his usual amount of attention to her wishes.

“We have reason to believe that the victim in this case was rippéd untimely from the Halls of Mantoes. Said victim was not given the chance to complete his orals. However, as the court knows, if the spirit is pure, then the flesh can be so too. All it needs is a little help.”

“ZZzzzzZZ…wha…” pontificated Mantoes.

“Exactly,” agreed Kuruharan. “Now, if the court will permit me…” The dwarf strode forward and handed over a card.

Mantoes examined the card and read aloud what it said. “Kuruharan the Longbeard, D.D.S., D.V.M., B.B.C., C.B.S., A.B.C., N.B.C., M.S.N.B.C., F.O.X., C.N.N., N.K.V.D., G.P.U., C.I.A., M.I.5, F.B.I., K.G.B., A.S.A.P., R.S.V.P, D.M.Z., I.I.R.C., L.O.L., I.M.H.O., and B.Y.O.B.”

“Duuuude…” said Manuël.

“I offer my services to the court to test the hypothesis,” said Kuruharan.

“Wha…” said Mantoes.

“Objection!!!” roared Greedhog. “He’s not offered his certification!!”

Kuruharan pulled a rolled scroll out of his sleeve and handed it over.

“The ink’s still wet,” said Mantoes.

“A miracle!” said Kuruharan. “May I begin?”

“Ob…” began Greedhog again when an antennae wrapped itself around his neck and choked him off.

“Council,” hissed the voice of his master, “I think this might be fun to watch.”

And so, Kuruharan was allowed to proceed.

“Nurse,” he called. Chrysophylax thumped down next to Gravlox and set down the most awful lookin’ gas-powered dentist’s drill you never wanted to clap eyes on.

Kuruharan pulled on some rubber gloves with a snap. “Anesthetic!”

Chrysophylax turned around and whalloped Gravlox with his tail. Gravlox slumped over like a boned fish.

*RUM-pa-pa-pa-pa* *RUM-pa-pa-pa-pa* *RUM-pa-pa-pa-pa* went the drill as Kuruharan enthusiastically yanked on the cord trying to start the contraption.

*RUM-RUM-WHIRRRRRRRRRR* went the drill as it spun to life.

“Hold his mouth open,” commanded Kuruharan as he gripped the drill and pulled it toward Gravlox’s mouth.

Who now will save Gravlox from a Dentistry worse than Death?

Mithadan's Post

Sueim stood up so quickly that his chair fell over behind him with a loud crash. The sudden noise fortunately distracted Kuruharan, who was about to begin an excavation of Gravlox's upper frontal... err, fang. Members of the audience alternately sighed with relief or groaned with disappointment depending upon their respective world views. "Before we begin tampering with evidence," interjected Sueim. "May I suggest an more appropriate solution to this issue?"

He adjusted his vest, smoothed his tie and stepped forward. "Counsel's argument presumes that the condition of Gravlox's teeth, other than his tendency toward oral hygeine, is relevant here. I would respectfully contend that it is not. Could we excuse the witness, Lord Mantoes?"

Mantoes, who had been observing the proceedings with a combination of disgust and boredom, nodded. A contingent of Orcs carried Gravlox back to the nearby hill and lashed him to the pole once again. Kuruharan hastily wrote out an invoice for services almost rendered and handed it to the Bailiff before retreating.

"I call to the stand..." cried Sueim dramatically. "SOREGUM!"

Soregum straightened as if a Troll had begun an in-depth exploration of his innards with a knife, then trotted nervously up to the witness stand. Sueim approached the witness with a sly smile.

"Soregum, you are of what race?" he asked.

"I'm a Hobbit, sir," mumbled Soregum.

"A Hobbit?" repeated Sueim. "Are you sure?"

"Uh, yes?" answered the witness.

"You have just seen Greedhog suggest that the nature of Gravlox's teeth may tend to show that he is an Orc," said the Loyer. "What did you think?"

"Pretty nasty, I guess," mumbled Soregum.

"Nasty," repeated Sueim. "Does the nastiness of his teeth establish him to be an Orc?"

"I dunno," answered Soregum nervously, with a quick glance towards Merisu.

"Open your mouth!" instructed Sueim.

Now Soregum looked over to Kuruharan, who had paused in his efforts to repack his dentistry equipment and was now observing the questioning with keen interest, with open terror. But Mantoes leaned forward and nudged the witness. "Come on, little dude," he ordered. "Let's see your choppers."

Soregum reluctantly opened his mouth and displayed his teeth in all their glory... all six of them... the green ones... the brown ones... the black one and the spotted one. A nearby Orc screamed with horror and loped away. Prada lifted a dainty kerchief to her mouth and averted her eyes. Even Greedhog appeared uncomfortable.

"Oh, man," cried Mantoes. "Like, gross. Totally!"

Sueim smiled at Greedhog happily. Then he spoke. "I believe my point is made. The witness is excused."

[Diamond18]

Suddenly, without warning, a burning rock came screaming from the sky and exploded into a million pieces, each one slamming into the ground with collasal force! Death! Destruction! The whole world was engulfed in flames and molten space rock -- people's large and small intestines fried like sausage and their bones disentegrated like tissue paper that's been held over a votive candle too long. Men, orcs, elves and Velour alike, dead, all dead! All dead! O, the carnage! Death to all Hatchlings of Emu Ilovetar!

Dear Gentle Reader,

Wait a gosh darn moment. This is all too final. Some other dues ex machina must be used.

If you find courtroom scenes boring, no matter how farcical the characters or outrageous the events, I apologize, for it is only going to get worse. For let us now turn our attention back to the true events of that fateful day in Valleyum, which cannot be rescued by great balls of fire or blood and destruction.

Well, great balls of fire, anyway.

We are now zooming back down to submerse ourselves in the ofttimes hard to suspend disbelief -- wow, that’s mixing metaphors, is it not, Gentle Reader? It doesn’t even make any sense. However, it is what we are doing. Zooming back down we see where Vogonwë Brownbark and his young love Pimpi are preparing to carry out a mission entrusted to them by the Loyer Formerly Known as Grrralph. But heck, we’re still going to call him Grrralph, Gentle Reader, because we’re just that way.

Hark, action is taking place....

“I don't believe what I'm hearing... Meri-Sue was right. You've changed!”

“I don't want to hear any more about Meri-Sue. The Velour turned against me. Don't you turn against me.”

“I don't know you anymore. Vogonwë, you're breaking my heart. I'll never stop loving you, but you are going down a path I can't follow.”

“Because of Meri-Sue?”

“Because of what you've done... what you plan to do. Stop, stop now. Come back! I love you!”

“Liar!”

Oops, heh heh, sorry, Gentle Reader -- wrong parody. Let me adjust the controls on my Parody-O-Matic here -- indispensable machine but it can be terribly glitchy -- and see if we cannot find the proper tone, this time. Ah yes, here we go:

“I’m hungry.”

“Not now, Pimpi, I’m composing,” Vogonwë replied with a hint of irritation. In fact, he was quite nervous, more nervous than he had been since that incident with the Giant Mutant Neanderthalic Black Skwerlz of Workmud when in the midst of battle he had run out of arrows and been reduced to throwing hair pins. His anxiety put him on edge and thus Pimpi’s tummy rumblings were not a welcome distraction from the task at hand.

Pimpi should have been more nervous than she was, considering what Grrralph had asked of her, but at the moment her task seemed a long time away and the hollowness inside was much more pressing. She looked over Vogonwë’s shoulder with half interest, reading the words he wrote upon paper and thinking that the Diabolical Workmudian Sleep-Well Spell he was crafting didn’t seem all that much different from one of his sonnets.

“You’d better hurry up,” she said languidly, “we have to do this before the trial is over.”

Vogonwë took a breath before replying, “I am hurrying -- and unless you can remember what the fourth line of the third stanza is supposed to be, it would be most helpful if you would refrain from speaking to me.”

“Oooookay,” Pimpi backed away. “Excuse me, your Poet-Laureatness.”

Vogonwë went on muttering snatches of poetry under his breath, scratching out the words on the paper and replacing them countless times, till the paper was a mess of unreadable scratches and half-baked rhymes. “Oh it’s no use, I can’t remember the Spell,” he moaned. “I should have paid more attention in school....”

“All hope is not lost,” Pimpi said bravely, swatting him on the shoulder. “I have faith in you, Vogy -- if you can’t remember the spell thingy, just improvise.”

“Improvise?” he looked at her cross-eyed.

“Yes! Ad lib! Write your own Diabolical Brownbarkian Sleep-Well Spell.”

“But I am a poet, not a spell weaver.”

“Whatever,” Pimpi fluttered one hand dismissively. “Same diff.”

“I protest, there is much--”

“Listen, I’m getting seriously bored out of my mind here, okay?” Pimpi snatched the paper and pen away from him. “Time is of the essence, now get over there and recite something.”

Vogonwë grumbled, and turned reluctantly to where Gravlox was chained to a pole, heavily guarded by minions of the Dark Lord -- who were, at the moment, eyeing Kuruharan intensely, but were sure to come down hard on anyone else who attempted to remove Gravlox from his spot. He cleared his throat and coughed nervously, then stood up and walked hesitantly over to where the Orc/Elf was awaiting his fate.

“Excuse me, tally ho,” Vogonwë said, waving at Orc guards. They snapped their attention away from the trial and menaced their weapons towards him, growling and snarling and saying “get lost” among other, less publishable things.

Vogonwë held his hands up innocently, “I’m so sorry to disturb you gents. But if you have a moment to lend me your incredibly large, misshapen, hairy ears, I have a favor to ask.”

The guards burst out into laughter at the idea of doing a favor, and told Vogonwë again to get lost or feel the wrath of their swords, clubs, and assorted switchblades.

“Okay,” Vogonwë broke out into a sweat -- very unbecoming in even a half-elf -- and tried to smile. He did a quick head count of the Orcs and ruled out the possibility of taking them out with his arrows -- his proximity to them and their number meant that he could hope to skewer only about half a dozen of them before the other dozen made him feel the wrath of their assorted switchblades. And no doubt the clamor would attract the attention of more unsavory types, not to mention the in session court down the hill. No, he had no choice but to go at this in the manner Grrralph had requested.

He took a deep breath. “Section 108 paragraph 5 line 9 in the Valleyum Unsavory Visitors Act states quite clearly that all prisoners being held on the shores of Valleyum by any and all Unsavory Visitors, such as yourselves, are entitled to three things --

1. The presence of an officiary of the religion of his or her choice
2. A root beer flavored lollypop
3. The recitation of a poem by a professional, licensed Poet.”

The Orcs looked at him blankly, wondering if the strange Elf before them was really All There.

“Now,” Vogonwë continued, “I see none of these things, though I do see a prisoner, and this is Valleyum, and you are all unsavory. Therefore you are in serious, er... well you’re all in a lot of trouble because this represents an unlawful something or other. However, this is also your lucky day because it just so happens that I am a licensed Poet and a Priest of the Order of White Rabbits, which is the religion of this Elf/Orc’s choice. Also I have in my possession one root beer lollypop, slightly sticky with a coating of pocket lint.”

The Orcs exchanged befuddled glances. Then one took a menacing step forward. “Look, chump--”

“The name is Brownbark. Vogonwë Brownbark.”

“Whatever, Chump. We don’t want any of your pansy Elf poetry around here, you got me?”

Vogonwë nodded understandingly, then said, “I thrill at the trilling hill of daffodils.”

The Orcs recoiled, expressions of pain contorting their already contorted features.

“Hey, I said none of that now!”

“Little Mincy-Mee of Shmee danced the Tootlefree in the land of Hannalee.”

“Argh!” The Orcs tried to charge Vogonwë, but were brought to their knees by --

“I went to the fair
I went to the fair,
I went to the fair
To see a bear,
And the bear was there,
At the fair.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” gasped one Orc.

Vogonwë smiled with a hint of sadistic pleasure and replied,

“The drooping fronds of pond leaves left scars
Day is night and night is day
Morning shadows drift down the wet dog nose of love
Rolling in the sand is a pinecone.
Of desire.”

No reply came from the Orcs this time -- they had all fallen face down and were lying motionless on the hill.

Pimpi came creeping up behind Vogonwë and asked, “Are they sleeping? Why have you stopped reciting?”

“I think they’re dead,” Vogonwë said, nudging one prostrate Orc with his foot. “I was experimenting to see what would happen if you mixed two napping spells with a traditional drinking song of Chippendale. And that last one was just something I was working on for social occasions. The effect has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations, the guards are out of commission permanently, which makes your task much easier.”

“I’m going to go untie him.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t mention it. No really, it was nothing...” Vogonwë said dryly, but his complaint was completely lost on Pimpi, who advanced upon the tethered Elf/Orc, and said, “Gravlox? Hello? D’you remember me?”

Gravlox mumbled something around his gag, and Pimpi reached to remove it.

“Be careful, he might bite,” said Vogonwë, hanging back.

Once the gag was free, Gravlox said irritably, “I do not bite and yes, I remember the both of you, to my regret. What have you come to do to me now? Is it not enough that you killed me, you must now come to gloat over me in my hour of subjugation?”

“No, we’ve come to rescue you!” Pimpi said earnestly, tearing away at the knots securing the ropes around his nicely manicured hands. “We’re going to take you away and hide you! Come along now, before anyone notices!”

Gravlox looked between Pimpi and Vogonwë suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trap?”

“Yes,” Vogonwë replied, “we’re going to chop you up and eat you with a side of lembas, that’s why we’ve gone to all this trouble to rescue you from certain death at the hands of Mogul.”

“You’ve become very sarcastic since I last knew you,” Gravlox observed.

“We don’t have time for this, come!” Pimpi urged, and the three of them hastened away, darting glances over their shoulders at the trial which proceeded merrily along, oblivious to the absence of its subject.

[The Saucepan Man]

Greedhog had watched the oral examinations of Gravlox and Soregum with the patronising and supercilious expression that only a truly seasoned Loyer could affect. When they were finally over, and Sueim had sat down, he rose once more and addressed Mantoes.

“My Lord, may I continue?” he asked.

“Whatever, dude,” came the mighty judge’s reply.

“My learned friend,” Greedhog intoned, spitting the words out contemptuously as if they were flies that had somehow become ensnared within his pallid jowls, but nevertheless bound by the code of courtroom etiquette to use them, “has put in contention the issue of whether the subject of this trial, one Gravlox Uruk, is or is not at the present time an Orc. I might point to his very name as evidence of his Orcentricity, under the doctrine of res ipsa loquitur. But I would submit that this question is wholly irrelevant, and therefore one which need not trouble your Lordship.”

“Sweet,” said Mantoes, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. As far as he was concerned, the less he had to decide, and the quicker this tedious trial was over with, the better.

“For it is undeniably the case,” Greedhog continued, “that, while he may be seeking redemption, the aforementioned Gravlox is most certainly not yet fully redeemed. And thus it was when Lord Mögul exercised his option under the Orcish Conundrum Concordat in respect of, inter alia, the said Gravlox. Indeed, at that time the subject was undoubtedly more Orcish than Elvish. I can testify to that myself, having - er - questioned him at length.”

“And your point is…?” asked the judge.

“My point is, My Lord, that the whole purpose of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat, its raison d’être if you like, was to avoid a situation whereby you would be required to admit a former Orc into your hallowed Halls by reason of such Orc having sought, and successfully obtained, redemption. My Lord, I am sure that you of all people need no reminding of this, but, should proof of this proposition be required, then I would refer the court to page 3, post #119 of the trial papers prepared by my Înstrùktïng Sólícïtôrrs.”

Klïffòrd Shànnse and Slôrrtern Maï glowered in smug satisfaction and the mention of their handiwork, while Mantoes eyed the enormous stack of papers before him with some reluctance.

“No need, dude,” he declared. “I know the score. No way we wanted those gross Orcish dudes messing up the place and bringing everyone down, redemption or no redemption. Seriously bad vibes, man.”

“Ergo, My Lord, it follows that the aforesaid Concordat could only validly be invoked in circumstances where the Orc in question was seeking redemption, yet was not fully redeemed. Which is precisely the state that Gravlox Uruk was in when he was offered to, and accepted by, my client, Lord Mögul, under the terms of said Concordat.”

“Er, right,” said Mantoes.

“It follows that the subject has validly come into my client‘s possession by the proper operation of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat. Moreover, as I am sure that all present are aware, section XXXIX, clause 658, sub-clause 658.12, paragraph 3, sub-paragraph (d), sub-sub-paragraph (ixx) of the Valleyum civil code states that possession is nine tenths of the law. Accordingly, given that the said Gravlox is currently within my client’s possession and validly so, my client is legally and indisputably entitled to retain ownership of precisely nine tenths of him."

Greedhog paused for effect, an evil grin spreading across his grotesque features, before continuing.

"As to the remaining one tenth, my client is of course perfectly willing to deliver this up to my learned friend, should he so wish”

His submissions over, Greedhog sat down with a flourish and glared smugly at Sueim.

“He’s good,” whispered Kuruharan, clearly impressed. “Darn good. I wonder how much he charges for this sort of thing?”

“Aye. Ever had I heard that the dread loyers of Moredough were well practised in their dark arts,” added the Gateskeeper. “And now the evidence of mine own eyes testifies that the legends did not speak falsely.”

And so, as Merisuwyniel fought to hold back the rising tide of despair that threatened to engulf her, all eyes turned back to Sueim, upon whom the hopes of the Court-ship, and the success of their Quest, now depended.

[Lush]

"You know, the West is just another ideological construct used to perpetuate stereotypes and dictate the nature of diplomatic relationships," a tiny voice sang sweetly to Leninia as she walked down a long, dark corridor toward her destination.

"Uh huh." Leninia brushed it off. She was concentrating on her task so hard that she didn't even resort to telling the voice to shut up. "Wait a minute, who is this?"

"The voice in your head, of course," the voice replied.

Leninia remembered the vulture from her previous dream, vision, quest...thing. and decided that she'd had enough weirdness for today.

"Could you go away, please?" She implored the voice in an uncharacteristically polite and only slightly irritated tone.

"Sure. Please don't think that my entire existence revolves around you. Yet before you throw me out so rudely, perhaps you should know that I have something say about the task that lies ahead of you."

"You do?"

"Yes."

A long silence followed, interrupted only by the sound of Leninia's high heels clicking on the polished marble floor.

"What was that again?"

"I said, yes. Oh, and almost forgot, FREE POLITICAL PRISONERS IN THE NAME OF DEMYSTIFICATION OF ALL SOCIAL CONSTRUCTS AND REPRESSIVE MEASURES THAT PERPETUATE THEM!"

The voice did not come back.

"Hello?" Leninia ventured. "Hey. Loser. Moron. Weirdo. Emotionally constipated freakoid who still lives in his mother's basement and wears the same socks for a week at a time! Ok. It really is gone. Great."

And at this, Leninia reached the door at the end of the hall. It was rather unremarkable and shabby, bearing graffitti along the lines of "Abandon all dope at the door, plz." Leninia prepared herself, tossed her hair about for extra confidence, and knocked.

Another long silence followed. Then a toilet flushed. Then a dull and disinterested voice yelled "it's open!" and Leninia stepped through into what appeared to be a particularly low-end office, with garish lighting from cheap novelty floor-lamps shaped like trees and stacks of dusty folders rising like towers and getting lost somewhere in the great heights of the ceiling.

A young man sat at a shabby desk and quietly yet deliberately thumped his head on it. Another young man, in suspenders and a not-so-crisp shirt, was eyeing Leninia suspiciously.

"The hair salon is down the hall in the opposite direction," he finally said.

"You think my hair needs a sa..." Leninia bristled, then quickly regained her composure. "I mean, I wasn't looking for the hair salon, I was looking...well. For you."

"For me?" Young Man #2 raised an eyebrow. Young Man #1 meanwhile continued thumping.

"Excuse me," Leninia smiled a glittering, toothy smile. "But is there anything wrong with your, um, colleague over there? Does he need help? Maybe we could give him a pillow?"

"Oh, no, that's qute alright, actually," Young Man #2 grinned. "He can't concentrate on his job otherwise."

"Must be a pretty tough job."

"Tell me about it," Young Man #2 groaned. "We keep getting our budget cut in half. It's supposed to be one of the most important jobs in this entire sorry establishment, assisting Our Beloved Foorer Mantoes himself. But guess what? This place has its priorities so screwed up that I'm beginning to think of transferring, before I go insane and get pushed into early retirement. All they care about is their defense fund!"

"Maybe I can help?" Leninia fluttered her eyelashes so much it seemed for a moment as if she might take off and sail straight up and away. "I'm sure we could get the budget improved drastically for the coming fiscal year. I have connections."

"What's the catch?" Young Man #2 eyed her cautiously and hungrily at the same time, like a bird eyeing a particularly bright-colored spider on The Yearning Channel documentary.

"Oh just a little bit of fine print, dear."

"Very fine?"

"Excrutiatingly fine, darling."

"Extremely fine?"

"Gloriously, divinely fine, pumpkin."

"As fine as you are?"

"Hmm. Why not?" And all the while Leninia's eyes continued to blink and glitter and radiate like miniature nuclear power plants. Young Man #2 began swaying from side to side, drooling, smiling, and muttering utter nonsense:

"And then we're going to have a...yes, barbeques on the back porch...the first one we can name, hmmm, something fashionable, like Arden...Maybe the second one will be Dior...Pink pram...Of course, you can keep your job...Cocktails in the den...Summer holiday at St. Tropessea...Pretty trinkets on your birthday...Yes, the lace one.." And so on.

This was enough to rouse even Young Man #1 from his head-banging stupor.

"What have you done?" He roared at Leninia. "We get off at five and we still have work to do? You want to get us fired?"

"No, sugar," Leninia smiled sweetly. "I want to help you."

"Listen lady, your tricks ain't gonna work on me..." Young Man #1 began.

"I know," Leninia interruped gently, remembering the voice's advice. "That's why I had to get your colleague here out of the way. Now listen to me very carefully: Rule number one, you do not talk about what happened here today. Rule number two, you do not talk about what happened here today. Rule number three, this so-called office decor really has to go. Rule number four, helpmefreeyourpoliticalprisonersandallyourfinancia lproblemsaregoingtodisappear."

"Whoa, lady, that's a whole lot of fine print."

"Well, put your glasses on," Leninia snapped.

"...And then we can install a pool...My mother can babysit the kids...You in your nightgown, brushing your long gorgeous hair...And the pink ribbons...Yes, of course, we can...A sale at the Gap of Rohan, you can get anything you want..." Young Man #2 was still going strong.

"And why should we listen to you?" Young Man #1 persisted.

"Because I know how this whole business was. I used to be slightly evil, you see, Leninia Tiny and Terrible, you may have heard of me. But then I met some people, entered a 12-step program..." Leninia trailed off, smiling, for Young Man #2 had come out of his stupor and was staring at her like a rabbit at a cobra on The Yearning Channel.

"Come, gentle revised budget, come, loving, green-coloured revised budget,
Give me my sanity; and, when I shall retire,
Take my stock options and cut them out in huge financial benefits,
So that all the world will be oyster, and pay no worship to my garish looks.
Oh, I will buy a mansion..." He whispered.

"Shut up!" Young Man #1 yelled. "Tell me instead if there are any political prisoners in our jurisdiction whose case may be up for review."

"We only have one. One lousy one." Young Man #2 ruffled a paper-stack, then another. On his twelth paper stack, as Leninia yawned, he finally came upon what he was looking for.

'Last name LaBamba. First name....eh...what is this? Too-thin? Since when can somebody be too thin? Or too r..."

"Ok, I get it man, you're obsessed with your retirement fund, I get it!" Young Man #1 roared.

"So, can we do something about this LaBamba gentleman?" Leninia coughed charmingly and politely.

"Wait, hold on, there is also something here about an...Hmm. An army dispatched here by Mogul? All classified under, er, enemy 'combustants'? Held without trial? Tortured with watching mid-level sitcoms and uh, other stuff...Hmmm. Seems like a huge violation of basic hu...I mean *cough wheeze* Maybe they were all mis-filed? An entire army mis-filed?"

'I'm telling you, we can turn this organization around," Leninia said. "Make it stand for something glorious again. Let it never mis-file another being, human or otherwise, ever again. Mis-filing. That word should have new meaning for us today. We can't be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will not go quietly to early retirement or otherwise! We will not vanish without a fight! We're going to move on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our...eh...What date is it today?"

"No clue."

"Ok, fine, whatever, do whatever needs to be done."

"And..." Young Man #2 looked at Leninia like a prairie dog popping out of its hole and staring with astonishment at whatever it is there is to be stared at (all this Leninia of course learned from The Yearning Channel, copyright 200...eh, whatever year it is right now).

"And what?" Coy Leninia asked.

"And all of that before this? I mean...You probably think that I'm an uncool materialistic..."

"Emotionally constpitaed frekoid?" Leninia finished sweetly.

"Yeah...I mean no...I think...The things you said to me before? Are they...? Are they?"

Leninia remembered the voice in her head.

"Yes." She said. "Yes."

"Hold me closer, tiny and terrible Leninia."

[Mithadan]

As with any activity conducted in a public forum, so too are there fans of the legal profession; those who would rather perish than miss a trial of any great moment. Those who hang upon every last word spoken by a loyer and every last nuance of the law. From the corners of Valleyum, these had descended upon the plain before the Hill of Fish to witness Sueim strive against Greedhog. There they stood in the gallery. All two of them. At this moment, they were attempting to do the wave but were rather looking like Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum bobbing up and down from Through the Looking Glass. But that is, of course, a different story...

Hal sidled over to Merisu and patted her on the shoulder. "Have heart fair maiden," he cried. "It is always darkest before the storm. Every cloud has a silver lining. What goes up must come down. Our distinguished counsel will muster his wiles and deliver a brilliant repartee! Justice will prevail! E pluribus unum! Ad hoc, ad loc and quid pro quo!"

"Ipsi dixit?" mumbled Kuruharan.

"Et tu?" snarled Orogarn with a glare at the dwarf.

Then Sueim smiled and rose gracefully from the counsel's table. He paused to straighten his tie, then advanced to stand before Mantoes. The shining loyer cleared his throat and then spoke in sonorous tones, words of great moment and significance. "I rest my case," he said.

"WHAT!" cried Merisu. "That's it?"

Sueim looked off towards the hill upon which the stake stood with a prisoner bound to it with leather thongs and duct tape. He nodded. "That is most assuredly it," he replied. "Hal would you escort Merisu to the rear of the Itship please?"

Hal gave Sueim a poisonous look, however, with the Velour looking on he had little choice but to comply. With bowed head, Merisu walked away until she was hidden from view behind Chrysophylax who, for the past few minutes, had been issuing a cloud of steam that even Prada's bright eyes could not pierce.

Mantoes hemmed and hawed for a few minutes with the other Velour, then returned to the bench. "Like, having reviewed the Orcish Conundrum Concordat and the records of Gravlox Uruk, we think that he was well on the way to redemption even before that idiot Elf or half Elf shot him full of arrows..."

From behind the Mists of Chrysophylax there came a voice. "What! Hey! I object! OW! Pimpi, why did you hit me..." Quite rightfully, the voice was dutifully ignored by all present.

"...Even after his untimely demise," continued Mantoes. "He worked hard at his lessons and training, even his dental hygiene though to little avail, and learned the ways and manners of the Elves. We find that he is sufficiently reformed to not qualify as an Orc for the purposes of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat."

"Oh my Emu!" came a distinctly and properly feminine yet strong and admirable cry from behind the Smokes of the Dragon. This cry was likewise ignored.

Greedhog ground his teeth in irritation and his clerks began discussing how to appeal from a ruling of the highest court on Muddled Mirth. Then Mantoes spoke again. "But like, however, the fact is that he is in the possession of Môgul Bildûr, formerly known to all here as Melvin Bluenote, and like, it is so totally true that possession is nine-tenths of the law. So I guess we kind of, like, have to rule in favor of Môgul Bildûr."

From behind the Mists of the Wyrm, there came another cry. One would have expected it to be the sound of anguish and grief of a distraught lover who had lost her one and only forever. But it sounded suspiciously like, "Yes! Yes!"

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum gasped, as did a few of the other, less interested, observers. At Greedhog's counsel table there were high fives all around and not a few "Woo hoos" and cries of "Who's your daddy?" But Sueim rose and, to the surprise of all present, he did not look displeased. Indeed, he was smiling broadly. "My Lord Mantoes," he began. "Some clarification, please. As I understand, your ruling is that Gravlox Uruk is redeemed, but that whoever is in possession of him is entitled to his...errr... possession. Is that correct?"

Mantoes nodded. "Sorry, dude."


"No problemo," said Sueim. He motioned towards the sky, and a wind arose which blew aside the Mists of Chrysophylax. The dragon, who appeared almost to be a bit teary, stepped aside. There was revealed for all to see, the sight of Merisuwyniel and Gravlox Ex-Uruk embracing one another tightly. Next to them were Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë, Gravlox's rescuers. They waved happily at Sueim, who waved back. Then the Loyer turned to face Môgul's counsel.

"Possession is nine tenths of the law, Greedhog," cried Sueim. "In your face!"

The forces of Môgul Bildûr quailed at the blow that had been dealt to their master and a wail arose from the great mass of Orcs, Trolls, Wraiths, half-Orcs, half-Trolls and other assorted incestuous combinations that comprised the army. But suddenly a rain of legal papers fell from the sky and there, free from the bonds of Sueim's writs and injuctions was Môgul Bildûr, flying on Heffalump. "Who cares about a traitorous Orc or Elf or whatever he is," he cried. "The court has ruled and I am now free to act as I see fit. I think I'll take up right where I left off before this ridiculous sideshow began. Let's see... Where was I? Oh yes!" Mogûl swept down over the Itship and his Aerophaunt, Heffalump, trumpeted loudly. He raised a hand and shouted, "Kill them! Kill them all and bring me the fragments of the Ent! Bwah ha ha!"

But at that second, a new voice rang out and it was nearly as loud as Mogûl's. "Wait a minute Bildur!"

Mogûl closed his eyes in annoyance. "Deja vu, all over again. I hate deja vu." He opened his eyes and looked about to find the owner of the voice. And lo! There stood Leninia, and next to her stood a man in a rumpled suit who looked altogether too much like a bureaucrat. But the voice belonged to neither of them. Rather, it belonged to a very tall and skinny man, dressed all in black, who stood holding a long sword. And behind him was arrayed a vast shadowy army of the spirits of Men and Elves from the Halls of Mantoes. Yes, there was Feeblenor who long ago had wrought the Lava Lamps and his seven sons, Maypo, Maalox, Celebimbo, Curuthin, Ramrod, Ramfast and Carrera. And there were Thingy and his household, and Pinhead who had dwelt in the caves of Imablonde and many others of the Noodlar and the Doolalliquendi besides. And there were the great Mannish heroes such as Moron the Old and Who-Him and their hosts as well. But Mogûl's eyes were glued upon the tall thin man who had spoken. "Too-Thin Labamba," he whispered...