The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[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.

[The Saucepan Man]

A muted pop. A plaintiff cry of "Not again!" And then darkness.

Slowly, Môgul became aware of a comforting glow. In the dim, flickering light he could make out the back of a worn leather armchair. Beyond it, a hearty fire roared in a fireplace. The scene seemed strangely familiar to him. He felt warm and safe and secure. The cares and worries of the Pages past fell away from him and he was as a youth once more. It was a most unpleasant sensation.

"Hello Melvin," said a voice from the armchair, a gentle though slightly reproachful voice which he recognised instantly.

"Hello Father," Melvin replied.

"Come here, my lad so I can see how you have grown."

And Melvin found himself before the armchair. The old man regarded him, his kindly eyes tinged with mild disapproval.

"So, the prodigal son returns. Tsk tsk, what have you been up to, my boy?"

"Er, I have been ..." Melvin paused, not sure at first how to reply. "I have been caring for your creation, Father," he continued.

"Ah, Melvin," the old man sighed. "But you have not been caring for it, have you? You have sought to control it, to master it for your own ends."

"No I haven't. Well. Maybe just a little bit. But it needed someone to take it in hand. To bring some order to the chaos. At least I didn't just ignore it, like Manuel and the others did. They couldn't care less about it"

"Perhaps, Melvin," came the patient reply. "But they have not tried to take dominion of it, as you have. They may have been neglectful, but you're just plain bad."

"I only did what I thought was best, Father."

"Of course you did, Melvin. That is because I gave you free will. You and your breth/sist-ren. And each one of you has chosen his - or her - own path. Yet you shall see, Melvin, that there is nothing that any of you can do that does not have its uttermost source in me. Nor can you hope to alter my design against my will. For he - or she - that attempts this shall prove but my instrument in the creation of things more mirthful, which he - or she - him - or her - self has not imagined."

Melvin thought about this for a moment.

"So it's your fault that I am bad then, Father. You made me this way."

"Eh?" The old man suddenly seemed troubled. "No. It's not like that at all. I did not intend that you should behave in this way."

"But, if you gave us all free will, you must have contemplated the possibility, indeed the likelihood, that some of us would turn out bad."

"But it was your choice..."

"... in which case, the existence of evil is an inherent aspect of your design."

"Er ..."

"You said it yourself. Everything that I have done has its uttermost source in you."

"But ..."

"Which means that there must be a part of you that is bad too."

"No, that's not ..."

"And, what's more, it seems that we don't have free will at all. Because, as you said, whatever we do, we will only be furthering your plan."

"But ..."

"Which must necessarily have required us to be bad in order to further it as you planned."

"No, I ... I .. er ..."

And with this, Emu Ilovetar, for it was He, disappeared in a puff of logic.

The scene dissolved and Môgul once more found himself surrounded by darkness; a thick, black smog which obscured his sight in every direction. Yet he could sense that another was there with him in the inky blackness.

"Colin, is that you?" he called out.

"Yes," said a thin, shrill voice. "I am sorry, Lord Môgul. It was too much for me. The logical improbability of the narrative placed an excessive strain on the time-space continuum. I could'nae hold it."

"So what happened?"

"We were both atomised in the implosion."

"Ah, that explains a lot."

It was now clear to Môgul that he could not penetrate the thick black smoke because he was in fact the thick black smoke.

"Well, don't just float there in a particulate state," he said sternly to Colin. "Pull yourself together, man."

"I can't," wailed Colin. "I flunked materialisation at college."

"Oh. Too bad. Goodbye then, Colin."

"Nooooo! Don't ...!" The thin, incoporeal cry faded out as the little control that Colin, otherwise known as the Wizard Sauerkraut, retained over the remains of his earthly phwoar slipped from his feeble grasp and his phïzz departed Muddled-Mirth for the second and final time.

Môgul, however, was a dab hand at materialisation and though it took some effort, for the implosion of the time-space continuum had dealt him a grievous blow, he soon stood once more on the field of battle. Brushing a thin layer of Sauerkraut from his cloak, he surveyed the scene. And swiftly he came to the conclusion that, while things could have been worse, there was little in it. For it appeared that his entire army had disappeared without trace.

“Greedhog …?” he called, only to spot his former Advocate-General’s great boots set upright where the Senior Loyer himself had stood only moments before, empty but for a pair of fine sunflowers sprouting from each. Nearby lay the remnants of Greedhog's Troll-Guard, now reduced to scattered boulders, cracked and split by tendrils of ivy and shrouded in a patchwork quilt of moss and lichen. And a bed of bluebells lay around the Wagon of the Entish Parts where formerly his cadre of elite Loyers had skulked.

Finally, Môgul’s eyes settled on the green (and rather fetching) figure of Yawanna, standing proudly amidst the swiftly flourishing field. Selecting his most swoon-inducing form, he sauntered nonchanlantly over to her, producing as he went an bouquet of twelve red roses. Then, upon further consideration, he substituted the bouquet with a luxury box of chocolate-covered lembas. Which he then exchanged for a fine emerald necklace and matching earrings. Then, just for good measure, he produced all of them at once.

“Darling,” he said contritely, proffering the roses, chocolates and jewellery. “I can explain.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Don’t you ‘Darling’ me,” said Yawanna in a voice that could have frozen a whole army, had there been one left, “and keep your cheap gifts for those who are easier to dupe. You’ve explained quite enough already. I’ll do the explaining now.”

The Victorious-At-Last-Ship stood in breathless silence, hardly daring to believe that they had finally reached the goal of their long and arduous quest. Merisuwyniel’s eyes shone with green reflections in their violet depths as she watched her heroine’s triumphant appearance. Gravlox held her right hand in his firm and now shapely grasp, while her left hand lay on Pimpiowyn’s shoulder (yes, she too was revived now) companiably. Vogonwë, next to her, had stopped reciting his epic poem, thankful for once that he had lost the greater part of his audience. Kuruharan was leaning ever so slightly on Chrysophylax, for even the Dwarf had tired of fighting. The Dragon was content to lie on the ground, digesting the remnants of barbequed battle. The Gateskeeper had forgotten all of his technical paraphernalia, his hands hanging in unwonted restful pose at his side. Since the other females of the group were otherwise claimed, Hal and Orogarn (still Two, of course) had taken Leninia between them protectively – or was it possessively? Soregum was missing, though none of them actually noticed his absence.

Grasses and wild flowers gently caressed their ankles, and if some of the more daring plants found their way under the females’ skirts, who was to blame them? The Bow, freed from its antisEntient state, hummed with excitement once again, and the conglomeration of wooden artefacts on the cart that made up its entirety emitted a low harmonious buzzing. Obviously, Something was about to happen.

“Melvin,” Yawanna began, “from the very beginning you attempted to spoil everything that the rest of us sub-created. When we built lands, you destroyed them. When we delved valleys, you raised them up. When we carved mountains, you threw them down. And when we hollowed seas, you spilled them. But the very worst of all is, when we tried to give this History of Muddled-Mirth some kind of coherency, cohesion and continuity, you ruined it all with chaos and confusion! Well, that’s over – you’re not going to mess with us anymore!”

“But Honeypie, I’ll reform,” Mogûl answered. “You can save me, you’ll be the redeeming influence that makes a good Velour of me yet -”

“ENOUGH!” her voice resounded over the plains. “You had your chance. Maybe you haven’t learned from your experience, but I have. Your heart is as black as your gothic raiment, and as hard, cold, and unyielding as your metal crown. Muddled-Mirth will have no peace nor beauty while you remain unfettered. Maybe my breth/sistren and I do not have the power to end your miserable existence, but at least we can prevent you from doing any further harm to our beloved world and its inhabitants. You will be bound and banished to the Pink Floyd, behind The Wall. You won’t heed no education; we don’t need your thought control; no dark chasm in creation: Mogûl, leave our world alone! All in all you’ll just be – talking to a brick wall!”

Suddenly Mogûl found his legs wrapped tightly with vines, growing at an alarming rate. Yet his arm was still long, longer than Yawanna or any of the Relaxed-Ship had realized. Quickly it reached out to Merisuwyniel and tore her from her beloved’s grasp, bringing both the Elven maiden and the Entish Bow into his power.

“Now we’ll see who laughs last!” he shouted triumphantly. “I have the most important piece of that pesky tree-cowboy in my hands, and as long as the Ent is rent, you have no might over me! Now hand over the rest of that firewood, or the She-Elf has seen her last Quest!”


(to be continued...)