The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[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.)

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel listened closely, her brow slightly (yet fetchingly, of course) furrowed. “Hark!” she called out, and her companions harked obediently. “I hear…” she continued, interrupted by the voices of the others.

“Trumpets, trumpets, trumpets!” shouted Orogarn, who well knew the sounds of Gondor’s favourite instrument.

“Piccolos, piccolos, piccolos,” Pimpiowyn piped up shrilly.

“Tubas, tubas, tubas,” Kuruharan boomed.

“Stop!” Merisu commanded, “You sound like you’re filling out triplicate forms for some bürô-krát! You’re all right, of course – it is all those instruments and more.”

Suddenly a voice was heard, louder than the music, louder than the din of battle, yet its source was invisible to their eyes. All fighting ceased in confusion as the participants attempted to make sense of the words.


“Well, folks, it’s half-time, and here’s your host Pete Ship-ôlé to comment on the big show. Actually, I think we’re running a bit late – I certainly hope the battle won’t take as long after this as it did until now! I’d like to welcome my co-host Bill Furknee, who is joining me to comment this evening.”

“Thanks, Pete! It’s been a great battle so far, but it’s time to lighten up a bit, and here to entertain you is the Minus Teeth Royal Marching Band. If you’re wondering why there are so many players, it’s because they too have been revived – deceased band members from many long years. As they say, sometimes the baton is mightier than the sword!”

“Indeed it is, Bill. Let’s take a look at the action now. First you see that there are seventy-six trombones leading the big parade, and what’s that behind them?”

“I may be wrong, Pete, but it looks like an estimated one hundred and ten cornets! They’re followed by rows and rows of the finest virtuosos – the cream of Gondor’s famous band!”

“Just look at the next players, will you, folks? More than a thousand reeds springing up like weeds! And you heard them right at the start of the show – horns, horns, horns, of every shape and kind.”

“Yes, and now we can see the next rows – there are copper bottom tympani in horse platoons, thundering, thundering all along the way! I can hardly hear my own voice! And it’s getting better all the time – now the double bell euphoniums and big bassoons are having their say.”

“Well, Bill, this is very impressive, very impressive indeed. Who’d have thought that they would get such a line-up together. But what’s that? It’s getting even louder now!”

“Yes, Pete, there are fifty mounted cannon in the battery, and they’re thundering, thundering louder than before. This is almost deafening! The crowd is cheering them on, but it can hardly be heard.”

“And it’s not all just noise, folks – these guys can really play! Just listen to those clarinets of every size…”

“Yes, and their trumpeters can improvise a full octave higher than the score!”

“Well, Bill, they’re on their way out of the stadium, and I must say, this was another great show! I’m afraid they trampled on some of those miniature warriors out there, but there seem to be enough of them that they won’t be missed much. This is Pete Ship-ôlé…”

“…And this is Bill Furknee, signing off for tonight. We hope you enjoy the rest of the battle – we’ll be back next week for more. Stay tuned for these important messages.”


Silence reigned on the battle field – yet not for long...

[The Saucepan Man]

Greedhog stood facing the Questors of the West, absent mindedly batting his unfeasibly large mace against the side of his unfeasibly regenerated leg. The Questors stood facing Greedhog, fully expecting to experience the uniquely fatal thwack of the forbidding mace at any moment.

“What’s he waiting for?” whispered Merisuwyniel to the Gateskeeper.

“Beats me,” replied the Wizard as he carefully gathered up the splinters of his staff and, holding them together, vainly attempted a re-boot.

“I fear that that is precisely what he intends to do,” pointed out Hal, their parlous state causing his formidable wit to desert him, leaving him with nothing but the obvious gag to fall back on.

But Greedhog did not attack. He merely stood there with the impatient but anticipatory air that he normally reserved for clients whose tardiness erred on the unfashionable side of late.

Soregum was situated some fifty yards behind the scene of the confrontation, ostensibly guarding the wagon containing the majority of the Entish Artefacts. But, as he cowered beneath it, his attention was caught by a sudden movement in a scorched copse some distance to his right. Turning his head, he spied a small con* of Loyers gathered among the blackened trees. They were all that remained of the cadre that had set out with Greedhog on his initial foray into the battle. And, for some strange reason that Soregum could not quite fathom, they seemed frantically to be waving at him. At that moment, he became vaguely aware that there was something that he had to do. He looked first one way and then the other and, seeing that all eyes were fixed on the confrontation with Greedhog, he beckoned them over.

Taking care not to be seen, the Loyers crept stealthily towards Soregum, their black cowled gowns providing the perfect camouflage against the blackened earth. When they reached the wagon, one of their number immediately slapped an official-looking scroll on it. Another, who went by the name of Dictum the Officious, turned to speak to Soregum.

“You are the one known as Halitosis?” he enquired.

“Er - yes,” replied Soregum, wincing at the code-name assigned to him by Môgul.

“We are here under the authority of the Dread Developer, Lord of Moredough, to seize possession of the fragments of rent Ent,” declared the Loyer. “We are given to understand that said fragments are contained within this vehicle. Is that correct?”

Soregum nodded.

“Pursuant to Article 38.2, clause 56, sub-clause mcxii of the Muddled-Mirth Civil Code, the parking of vehicles of any kind (including, without prejudice to the generality of the foregoing, carts, wagons, carriages, drays, buggies, curricles, tumbrels, rickshaws, wheelbarrows and the like, but excluding chariots) within two hundred yards of a confrontation between two opposing forces on the field of battle is expressly forbidden, save for the purpose of loading or unloading weaponry, armour, siege paraphernalia and the like. Sub-clause mcxiii further provides that, should either party in said battle be in contravention of sub-clause mcxii, the other party (being the party which did not previously have ownership, possession or control of said vehicle) shall be entitled to take possession of said vehicle and all items contained within it.” All this, Dictum recited seemingly without drawing breath. “In accordance with said law, we have therefore impounded this wagon and all that lies within it.”

“I see,” said Soregum. “But you should know that there is one more piece to the Ent.”

“The Entish Bow,” replied Dictum. “Yes, we are aware of said item.”

The Loyer turned towards where the Oblivious-ship stood before his Lord High Advocate and stretched out his arm. In the distance, Soregum was just able to discern a small notice fluttering through the air and attaching itself to the Entish Bow.

“I have imposed an ASBO** on the Bow,” Dictum explained. “It will now be unable to alert its mistress. Your job is to retrieve it.”

Soregum felt that he should protest but, to his great surprise, he dropped to the ground and began to crawl stealthily towards his erstwhile companions. Gradually he inched closer and closer to them, his rheumy eyes firmly fixed on the Bow-which-had-been-struck-dumb. But, when he was not ten yards from his objective, a sudden commotion broke out.

“U IZ AL LAMERZ!!!! LOL!!!!! WOT U STANDIN THER FOR???!!! GET A LIFF, SADDOS …”

Trolls are not known for their great patience (nor, indeed, their discipline) and a company of Greedhog’s Troll-Guard had eventually (and laboriously) come to the conclusion that all this standing about exchanging wary glances with the opposition was not really their cup of tea. What they really ought to be doing, they unanimously agreed, was playing a few rounds of conkers with their enemies’ heads. And, before anyone realised what was happening, they broke suddenly upon the opposing line like a storm, beating upon helms and heads, and arms and shields, as smiths hewing hot bending iron, with howls of derision, hammers of invective and tongs of flame.

In horror, Soregum saw that Pimpiowyn, having become separated from the group, had been stunned and overborne. Merisu and the others, being fully occupied fending off the Trolls’ abusive assault, had not seen her fall, and even Vogonwë was oblivious to her fate. The great Troll-Chief that smote her bent down over her, reaching a contumelious claw. At that moment, it seemed to Soregum that time slowed to a halt - rather conveniently as it happened, as it permitted him to pay full attention to the vision that now appeared before him. There, sitting on an old, worn leather armchair and puffing away on a ridiculously long pipe, was a grey-haired, wizened old Hobbit.

“Duffer Gummidge …!” exclaimed Soregum. “But how …?”

The insanely aged Hobbit’s face creased benignly and broke (almost literally) into a paternal smile, revealing a mouth virtually devoid of teeth.

“If you remember only one thing in your life, Windsor, my son,” the Duffer slobbered gummily. “It is always to look out for number one.”

And with that, he vanished. But fortunate it was that he had appeared at that moment, for Soregum’s contempt for his father’s advice knew no bounds and the Duffer’s words had the immediate effect of breaking Môgul Bildûr’s hold over him.

“Silly old coot!” thought Soregum to himself, as he sprang forward and sped towards where Pimpi lay under the shadow of the great Troll-Chief, reaching as he went for the blade which hung by his side. Happily, time had not quite got back into the swing of things, for Soregum’s dagger had rusted over through years of disuse and stubbornly refused to emerge from its scabbard. By the time that he reached Pimpi, however, he had somehow managed to wrench it free and, flinging himself on top of her prone body, he stabbed upwards. Then did the rusty blade of Moredough pierce through the thick-skin of the Troll and plunge deep into his vituperative vitals, and his icky black blood came gushing out. As Soregum heaved Pimpiowyn to one side with his free hand, the Troll toppled forward and came blundering down like a dropped clanger. Blackness and stench came upon Soregum and, although these were circumstances which would normally be reassuringly familiar to him, they were unfortunately accompanied by a crushing pain, and his mind fell away into a great darkness.

“It’s not fair! It can’t end like this,” his thought wailed, even as it was wrenched away, and it began to sob uncontrollably within him as he desperately fought to hang onto the doubts, cares and fears which, for all their bother, at least signified life. And then even as it was dragged struggling into oblivion it heard voices, and they seemed to be crying in some forgotten world far above.

“Yawanna is coming! Yawanna is coming!”
_____________________________________________

* Con n. The collective term for Loyers. One theory has it that it is an abbreviation of conference, but most hold that it is not short for anything and that it should simply be given its common meaning.

** ASBO abbr. Anti-Sentient Bow Order

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Just as all seemed darkest on the battlefield, with clouds hiding even the faint light that the night had to offer, the sun rose, tinting the entire world (at least that part of it which was visible to the proponents of our story) the appropriately-named rose colour. This was fortunate for Vogonwë, who had been muttering, “The list of our synonyms grows thin!” as he frantically paged through his well-worn thesaurus in search of poetic equivalents to use for “black”. His epic poem was filled to redundancy with a multitude of “sable, coal, raven, ebony, jet, pitch, inky, sooty, burnt,” etc…

Alas, every time he stopped reciting new verses of his imaginative account of the battle, the foes drew nigh again, only to recede when his renewed effort drove them backwards, retching. The fresh colours that now flooded the fields of fighting inspired him, and his fanciful descriptions including but not limited to words like “cherry, orange, peachy, apricot, lemon…” would have made his beloved Pimpiowyn drool, had she been within earshot.

Merisuwyniel paused, resting her sword-arm (strong and muscular yet feminine and attractive) for a moment. Suddenly she recalled words she had heard long ago. A melodious voice chanted, “Look for me at the rising of the sun on the umpteenth morn.” A vision of green loveliness arose to her memory and she was aware of the voices of the Velour, crying out from wherever it was that they now were, “Yawanna is coming!”

And behold, the battlefield now glowed with a hue of emerald that no sunrise has ever produced. Vogonwë’s fruit basket lyrics had now reached “lime” and were rapidly proceeding toward “cucumber”. And lo! she came in her great majesty, clad all in dark green leather, polished to a gleaming sheen and laced to emphasize her breathtaking voluptuousness, and in stiletto boots of the same colour. Her emerald eyes flashed in their regal wrath, and her locks flowed behind her like unto green grasses waving in the wind. Unnumbered verdant vassals surrounded her, pausing by her side, at her feet, and behind her as she surveyed the charred and blackened battlefield. No living thing grew there; her lovely lips tightened wrathfully, then opened in song. And as she sang, she strode forward in time with the rhythm, slashing a whip of ivy to punctuate every word:


Al-ways look on the green side of life!
Al-ways look on the clean side of life!

Some guys in life are bad,
They can really make you mad;
Other dudes just make you swear and curse.
When you're stepping on life's thistle
Don't cry “Ouch!”, just give a whistle,
And I will help things turn out for the best.

And...always look on the green side of life,
Always look on the clean side of life.

If love seems jolly rotten
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to plant and water, prune and weed.
When you're feeling awfully low
Come and watch the garden grow;
It’s amazing what becomes of one small seed.

And...always look on the green side of life,
Always look on the clean side of life.

For romance is quite absurd
And death's the final word;
You must always face your lover with a bow.
I won’t forget your sin, no matter how you grin;
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.

So always look on the green side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath.

You’re a piece of sh**
When I look at it;
Love's a laugh and you're a joke, it's true.
You thought it was all show,
Kept on laughing – now you go;
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And... al-ways look on the green side of life!
Al-ways look on the Queen's side of life!


And lo! vines of ivy and grape-leaves reached out to fetter the orcs and trolls, and roots grew up to make balrogs and wargs stumble and falter. And so they were immobilized yet not killed, the most effective way of bringing their assault to a stillstand.

And even as Yawanna sang, the time-space continuum wavered, debating with itself like unto a computer on the brink of self-destruction when posed with its own illogical reasoning.
“Green – a political philosophy of ecological awareness, arising late in the 7th Age – too far in the future to be known at this time.
Song melody – composed during the 20th century AD – does not belong to this Age.
Clothing and mannerisms of Yawannatrix – do not compute with canonical source materials.”

Smoke began to emerge from the chinks of the continuum, glowing eerily green and covering the battlefield like some ghostly army. With a huge explosion, it vanished completely. Vines now strangled their victims; tree roots pulled others underground, burying them alive; and grains filled the air with pollen dust, choking those who were still breathing. Tendrils reached out to grasp stacks of legal papers and tear them to shreds.


And so it came that Mogûl, robbed of all of his vassals, slaves, and legal consultants, finally stood alone on the now lushly verdant battlefield, facing Yawanna and the Valiant-Ship.