The Return of the Entish Beings (RPG) - and perhaps also of a King...

[The Saucepan Man]

The Wight City glimmered pearly white as the sun’s early rays struck its freshly enamelled walls and intricate bridgework. Day was dawning in Minus Teeth and the Signal had been given for the city’s workers to begin their regular morning duties. A small procession wound down from the lower slopes of Mount Mentadhent bearing basins of water gathered from the sacred stream, Aquäfrésh. On reaching the Wight City, the procession passed through the Great Coll Gate and entered the first tier of the city, where the great army of workers was gathered, poised to dip their ceremonial brushes into the foaming basins. Soon, their daily toil was underway, and they were hard at work lathering and scrubbing at the city’s gleaming palisades, ramparts and parapets. Only a few weeks had passed since the siege of Minus Teeth had been broken, but not one imperfection remained, such was the intensity of the daily Ceremony of Bhrûsh-èn-Gärgelh.

On the highest of the city’s eight levels, stood the Wight Tower. Below it, a row of great flags, each bearing the city’s Arm and Hammer Crest, rippled gently in the morning breeze, marking out the Courtyard of Mâk the Clean. There lay the Fountain of Euthìmoll II, its waters sparkling brightly in the sunshine. And beside it, at the centre of the Courtyard, a dull green, withered stump lurked, its twisted and gnarled branches contrasting starkly with the minty fresh flow of the Fountain. Once it had stood proud and vibrant as the Holy Wight Tree Bhró-cholï, but it had long since withered and decayed and, with the passage of time, its name had become corrupted too. Now, it was known to all simply as Y-cholï.

****************************
In the uppermost reaches of the Wight Tower, in a room as dark as the city was light, a denim-clad figure sat hunched over a glowing orb. Ere long, he chuckled grimly to himself and turned away from the Cell-antír.

Denimthor Two, thirty-second Proctor of Grundor, remained an impressive figure, although age and troubled times had taken their toll on his once handsome features. Dark were his eyes in the midst of a harsh, weathered face, and his mane of luxurious dark hair dark was streaked with tinges of white. He was clad in the traditional denim jacket and trousers of Grundor, below which he wore a green t-shirt bearing the words “You don’t have to be mad to work here - but it helps”.

To be fair, it had not been a great year for Denimthor. His only son and heir, Orogarn (Two), had set out on a quest to find his wallet, fallen in with a bad crowd and proceeded to plague him with seemingly endless requests for financial assistance. And, while his son’s untimely death had ended the persitent demands for funding, it had also been something of a disappointment to the Proctor, leaving him as it did heirless (although not hairless). Then there had been that business with the fire, no less disturbing for having been caused by his son and his reckless companions, prompting Denimthor to borrow vast sums, at an unfeasibly high rate of interest, from Môgul Bildûr Enterprises LLC in order to restore the Wight City to full dental glory. Morever, not content with financially crippling the Proctor, the Dread Developer had then rudely added insult to injury by despatching a rather unsavoury and somewhat rancid army to lay siege to the Wight City. And while Môgul’s final defeat had brought some relief, discharging both debt and besieging army, news had recently reached him that a few of his son’s bothersome former companions were seeking to supplant him with some upstart king. It really was too much for an ageing Proctor to bear.

His first instinct, predictably, had been to begin scheming over the many ways in which he could prevent this attempted restoration of the outdated concept of monarchy. After all, Grundor had no king and Grundor needed no king. By Denimthor’s reckoning, a Proctorship was a far more democratically sound and politically correct way of running things, being as it did not rely on the ludicrous concept that the right to rule was determined by the blood that flowed in one’s veins. A Proctor was, in theory at least, an elected official, although voter apathy had led to it becoming a hereditary role some five generations back. But Denimthor was never one to let inconvenient facts spoil the opportunity of a good moan and a spot of diabolical scheming.

Then again, now that he thought about it, there was not really much to be said for his continued Proctorship of Grundor. The upkeep of the Wight City, and particularly the Ceremony of Bhrûsh-èn-Gärgelh, was an immense and unwelcome financial drain on his dwindling coffers. And, now that he was heirless (although not hairless), the Proctorship would pass to that idiot nephew of his upon his death. Indeed, the more he pondered the issue, the less attraction the effort and responsibility of his Proctorly duties held for him. Perhaps an early retirement wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Yes, he could just picture himself running a nice little holiday cottage on one of the southern islands, entrusting its upkeep to the care of loyal staff while he spent his days fishing and playing beach volleyball.

And so, with that appealing thought in his mind and a new-found spring in his step, he was just turning to leave the Chamber of the Cell-antír, when a knock came on the door.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Now everyone remember where we parked!” Gravendil had called out on the previous day, when they had left the remains of their ship after its rough landing on the island. Now he, Squire Windsor, Halfemption and Gateskeeper headed for the shore with the confidence possessed by males of every species concerning their ability to find their way around without directions or maps. The reader can hardly imagine their consternation when they arrived at the spot (and they were so very sure this was it!) only to see – nothing.

Mist had arisen to blur their sight, and they began to walk around aimlessly, searching the ground for clues. And lo! there seemed to be runes in the sand, and they hoped to find guidance for their search. “D7,” Gateskeeper read, puzzled. Yet no ship, not even a patrol boat, was to be seen.

“C9,” Halfemption called out.

“See what?” Gravendil asked. “I see nothing; it is as if our ship were sunk or a sub, merged.”

“2B or not 2B,” Windsor murmured.

“What’s the question?” Hal wondered.

“Our cruiser may not be as large as a battleship,” Gravendil said, “but we have searched so many areas that we should have hit upon it by now.”

“Perhap a spell of Tar-Gêt will help,” Gateskeeper suggested. He searched his pockets for a device he called Só-Nar, and a ray of greenish light pierced through the mists. He invoked words that none of them understood (for he knew the wisdom of that time-honoured principle that one should not divulge useful information to others, thereby keeping them dependent on a hot line to the experts), and suddenly Windsor Gummidge, whose eyes were closest to the ground, peered ahead and began running. He stumbled, fell, and lay sprawling amidst – slivers. With a voice strangely unlike his own, he spoke the mysterious words, “You sank my battleship.”

Wow! Gateskeeper thought. With the right device and some colourful images, this could be a fun game to play. When I get back home to my beloved Pea Sea, I will have to ask my buddy Mílt Bradlë what he thinks.

“A little closer inspection is needed,” Gravendil proclaimed, and his Elven eyes discerned the nature of the wooden piecelets: they were indeed of Valleyumian origin, though they looked as if they had been consumed by a starved horde of Mogulian termites. He could find no explanation, though the flattened grass indicated that something considerably weightier than insects had been at the site. But alas! none of them was a ranger who could have reconstructed the events of the past hours by deducting them from the way the grass blades were bent.

“We are not alone,” Halfemption dared to speak what they all thought. “We need to find out who else is here, and whether they are friend or foe.”

“Merisu is walking all by herself!” Gravendil cried out in concern. “I must seek her and protect her.”

And so they scattered, unwisely perhaps, yet driven by the urgency of possible danger.

Windsor struggled to his feet after the others had left. He turned to see what had caused him to stumble (though it frequently happened that he stumbled without a cause), and there at his feet lay a small object, its curved surfaces glinting in the morning sunlight which had conveniently dispelled the mist. Instinctively, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. He had no time to look at it now, but he could examine it later.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

"Alone again, naturally!" Halfemption thought as he walked purposefully yet aimlessly. "What use is a fellowship when everone splits up as soon as adventure comes?" It seemed the story of his life - his older brother had never wanted him to tag along behind him, so he was left to busy himself alone. Books had been his best friends, and yet always there was the gnawing pain of loneliness in his heart.

Now he was part of a group, yet the Elves were preoccupied with each other and their own happiness, the Squire followed them around, trying to be helpful, and the Maya spent many hours watching his various gadgets and pressing their keys tenderly. He felt as useful as a fifith wheel, and though they spoke of achieving a future kingdom for him, he was more than doubtful of that fate. Why, he could just as well joust with windmills!

So busy were his thoughts with those musings that he did not see the vision before him until he almost collided with a sword. Startled, he looked up to see a beautiful flaxen-haired maiden swinging her weapon most skilfully. Instinctively he drew his own sword from its scabbard to parry her blows. Thus they fought for a time before she lowered both brand and head respectfully.

"My lord," she said, "I can see that thou canst teach me a thing or two about swordplay." Her hand reached out to caress the hilt of his sword playfully. "I would not fight against thee, but for thee. Pray permit me to go with thee as companion in arms and heart."

"B-but what is this?" he stammered. "How comes it that a noble maiden goes forth to seek battle instead of waiting at home, wielding her needle, not a weapon?"

"I am Wynwyn, a shieldmaiden of the Goget'im," she answered proudly, lifting her chin, with admirable results for the display of the well-proportioned anatomy below it. "I do not desire to remain in a cage until old age and neglect make me useless. I seek him whom I love, to follow him."

Halfemption looked around. "Where is he?" he asked, puzzled.

"Thou art the man!" she proclaimed. "Whither thou questest, I will quest, and whither thou slayest, I will slay."

A vision of life with this dazzling companion filled Halfemption's mind. He saw himself riding to bold deeds with her at his side, her admiring gaze on him, her sword flashing out together with his, her flaxen tresses and his darker ones flowing mingled in the wind. (The thought that this would be a potentially dangerous maneuver, physically risky if not impossible, did not occur to him.)

Involuntarily he took a step toward her and one hand stretched out to grasp hers. The other hand sheathed his sword and in doing so, brushed against his pocket, feeling an object there. "What have I got in my pockets?" he wondered, and paused to check. He reached in and touched - a coney's foot. Suddenly he remembered: Dulciníniel had given it to him upon their fateful meeting so long ago. "It is mine to give to whom I choose," she had said. "May it bring you luck on your journey and remind you of your promise to returen to me when it ends."

A vision of her, sitting at her window in her chamber, head bowed over the intricate pattern of the traditional double wedding ring quilt, fingers pricked from the many tiny stitches, came to him. The picture seemed so tame, so predictable, so boring. But this maiden before him, clad all in white with silver mail, promised excitement, adventure - and above all, she was here, not in a land Far Far Away.

Once more his mind compared the two images, and suddenly he realized that the quilt that was taking shape under Dulciníniel's hands was king-sized! She believed in him and was willing to share the destiny to which he was born, though he had not realized his fate at that time.

His hand tightened around the coney's foot, his shoulders straightened, and his eyes flashed with righteous resolution. With an authoritative voice he hardly recognized himself, he spoke one decisive word, "No!"

And lo! the maiden disappeared instantaneously. He was alone again, naturally, and yet not lonely. He had passed the test, he would go back to his land, and remain faithful to Dulciníniel.

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper, as has been elsewhere noted, was an accomplished runner. In his former occupation at Dorktank he had become expert in keeping ahead of deadlines, beating around the bush, dancing around issues, jumping to conclusions and outdistancing disgruntled armed customers – all of which kept him in top condition. Thus it was that he was soon out of sight and hearing of the rest, and making good time down the sandy beachfront. Likely he would have quickly discovered the hapless sailors-on-hold (poor old Hap having perished in an unfortunate accident involving an overripe tomato and a blunted knife, but I digress) if it had not been for a sight that brought the reformed raconteur to a dead stop. (Stop’s death was not related to Hap’s in any way.)

There on the edge of the tree line stood a woman whose beauty rivaled that of Merisuwyniel herself. She was in strange garb attired -- though why her fatigues should be thus fatigued was not immediately apparent from her apparel. Unless perhaps it was the warfare being waged against her summertime wear by the stare-sparing pair-without-compare, which was wearing bare the apparel that was despairing of bearing the fair pair without tearing beyond repair -- a true battle of the bulges.

A (ahem) form-fitting tunic left her arms and midriff uncovered, which met with Gateskeeper’s approval – as a supporter of the right to bare arms. Very short shorts left as much of her long and shapely legs bare as her arms, except for the black straps encircling her thighs that secured what appeared to be twin scabbards for some kind of black weapons. Long dark hair tied back in a thick braid topped a face of perfect, computer-generated features, with glinting brown eyes and pillowed lips in which an unwary wizard could get very lost indeed.

She beckoned to him with a playful come-on smile, flashing enamel whiter than his own pasty skin. Gateskeeper walked up the beach to the statuesque vision (stumbling only twice). From his mouth came something with the suaveness and intelligence commensurate with every knowledgeable, self-confident man of his stature and capabilities in this situation.

Drool.

Something in the back of his mind kept trying to remind him that something was very much amiss here…that she couldn’t possibly be after him for his looks…that beauty and geeks don’t mix…that this had to be a set-up…that the square of the hypotenuse of an isosceles triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Something in the front of his mind kept ignoring it though -- namely, his eyes. The voluptuous vision held his gaze for a moment, then draped her arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him passionately. Gateskeeper closed his eyes and waited for the touch of her honeyed lips…and a name came back to his benumbed thought processes. Tara Kraft, Catacomb Plunderer.

Long ago, in the days before Gateskeeper had branched out on his own, when he and Nintendo the Blue were still working in the recruitment department for the (late) wizard Sauerkraut in the Networkgaard of Dorktank, many were the geeks hypnotized and lured into the service of the International Brotherhood of Magicians (IBM) by the alluring and ultimately addicting puzzles and quests they designed. And one of the most effective baits that could be dangled before the socially-challenged intelligentsia of the day was the seductive wiles (and the animated, er, anatomy) of Tara Kraft.

With a shudder of realization he ducked and spun away from her just in time to hear a voice of sweet poison begin to intone, “Thank you for using Môgul Bildûr Temptations, Inc…” Scant seconds before the dreaded Music of Holding would have begun, he swung his staff around in-between them (no, not *that* staff!) and thundered the word of power, “Mutebutton!” Instantly the voice was silenced, though the villainous vixen continued mouthing her spiel uncannily, since cans had not yet been invented.

With the danger past, he approached her again, examining the alluring automaton’s fine, er, workmanship. “Magnificent,” he reflected. “Back when Nintendo and I designed her, she was so blocky and angular. They’ve radically improved her, er, visuals since then, but perhaps I can still hack in if my old back-door is still in place.” Walking around to her back (while she continued to act as if he wasn’t there, the way most girls treated him), he pressed two spots on her left shoulder blade with one hand while simultaneously tapping her 5th thoracic vertebra with the other. To Gateskeeper’s relief, the access panel in her neck popped open.

Connecting a hair-fine wire of twisted mithril from the head of his staff to the open panel, he accessed the inter-succubus network within. Gazing into the crystal atop his staff, he directed the network to locate other units on hold. After a few moments he was able to make out (no, not *that* kind of make-out) the images of several frozen sailors via the eyes of the scarlet-clad Watchers of the Bay. Quickly he ascertained the location of the sailors via O-GPS (similar to O-mail).

A short time later, back in the company of Meanderin, the motionless mariners were about to descend into complete catatonia. Suddenly, several loud reports echoed down the beach, and the monstrous Music of Holding was silenced as the Bay Watchers crumpled to the ground. Almost as one the dazed deck-hands fell to their knees and shook their heads as if to cast off a nightmare with a disturbing soundtrack. When they could look up again, there on the crest of the dunes was the Gateskeeper and Tara, with her black weapons still trailing a thin smoke. Gateskeeper had designed her to be deadly accurate. “Well done, my dear!” said the gleeful genius, noting with satisfaction that she still had the coy smile he’d loved way back in the day. He marched with Tara in tow down to meet captain and crew.

[The Saucepan Man]

Something was stirring. Deep within the earth. Or possibly in the outer reaches of Eëugh. Or yet still on another plane of existence. It doesn’t really matter where, as such. Suffice it to say that it was somewhere far far away and utterly mysterious. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. Something was stirring. Something dreadful, immensely powerful and terrible to behold.

Not that anyone could see it. Being that it was in a place so far far away and utterly mysterious. But, if anyone could have seen it, they would have noticed right there and then that, in terms of being beheld, it was most definately of the highest order of terribleness. In an awe-inspiring way, that is. Not in a badly conceived way. Actually, terrifying is probably a better word.

So, dreadful, immensely powerful and terrifying to behold.

And beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.

Not that any mortals ever got anything like sufficiently acquainted with it to even begin to attempt to comprehend it …*

…

Something was stirring. In a place beyond all understanding. Something dreadful and immensely powerful was waking from its long, deep slumber. Terrifying to behold, it was. Neither inherently evil, nor yet wholly good. It simply was. And as it awoke, its vast mind stretched out to apprehend the affairs of Muddled-Mirth and its countless hands stirred into action, beginning their unceasing work once more.

The Liquidator it was. Collector of debts, redeemer of equity, divester of assets and distributor of dividends. Terrible was the fury wrought upon those who crossed it, yet bounteous its mercy towards those who were able to show a valid claim, properly evidenced, in the estate under its dominion.

The Eldest it was, save only for Emu Ilovetar Himself. For, with creation came matter. And with matter came ownership. And following hard upon the heels of ownership came solvency. And, folks being what they are, it was only a matter of time before solvency was to become insolvency.

No sooner had Mögul Bildûr been consigned to the Void than the Liquidation of Mögul Enterpises LLC had begun. The Liquidator had a job to do. And, to this end, it sent forth its minions to walk upon Muddled-Mirth and do its bidding.
_________________________________________

* Research suggests that the original scribe of this passage, Cérkuitus the Long-Winded, mysteriously disappeared at this point, and the text was taken up by Gràvittus the Sufficently-Serious.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Released from the saccharine Music of Holding, Mëanderin and his crew looked about in a slightly more dazed and confused fashion than usual. They looked at one another, then at the dead Watchers, and finally at Tara and Gateskeeper before losing their places and going back to the beginning. It was Redwine who voiced their common thoughts; he whose previous nautical experience had also consisted of getting lost in exotic places.

‘?’

‘!’ replied his captain, also dispensing with an actual sentence.

‘Too late,’ lamented Gateskeeper. ‘Already their minds are lost.’

‘Command not found, Player 1’ replied Tara, whose vocabulary was intended for simpler situations.

‘Who are you?’

Mëanderin’s confused tones were soon drowned out by the cry of his heroes. The first to shout his defiance was Noplan the Destroyer, who still held Trollbeer in one meaty fist.

‘You killed the girls!’

‘Yeah,’ added Harald Nicehair. ‘And the blonde was giving me the eye!’

‘What are you going to do now?’ wondered Orphultrus the Bard. ‘Spill all the wine? Break my lyre? Steal our playing cards?’

‘Hang on,’ Exlax interjected. ‘He’s brought another girl with him, and she’s not wearing much either.’

‘Yeah, but she’s also just killed all the others. What if there are more free women on this island and she kills them all?’

The crew began to edge menacingly towards Gateskeeper and Tara. Some of them still hefted large pieces of wood, but this time there was a distinct threat to their flexing.

‘Wait!’ cried Starstruc. ‘I remember something else: we were…’

At the cry of ‘wait’ the rest of the crew immediately and abruptly ignored him and carried on with what they were doing. In a crisis, volume trumps competence every time. Mëanderin leaped to his subordinate’s aid by tripping over his cloak and falling headlong onto the sand. His helmet fell off and rolled into a patch of seaweed.

Gateskeeper’s greeting died on his lips as he realised how the situation had been misinterpreted. Fellow masters of arcana would have recognised his companion sooner, and failing that he could simply begin the mantra of greeting known as Dédparôt Sceč, which his order were obliged to recite in full as soon as one word of it was spoken. These men, however, knew nothing of the sacred lore of Monteé Pi-thon, and men of their stamp might be enraged by gratuitous quotation. Thinking fast, Gateskeeper invoked the most powerful spell of diversion known to his craft. Drawing himself up to his full height, he raised his staff above his head and in a voice of doom declaimed the dread words of the Charm of Distracted Purpose:

‘Maenswëpr hârts Sol-Itár! Bëdë-fôr um’*

The Hyperbolists stopped dead in their tracks. Some began to argue loudly about arcane matters, such as the origin of seagulls and how many days it had taken to arrive from the previous island. Others simply gazed into space, occasionally moving their hands in an apparently random combination of actions. None retained any of their violent interest in Gateskeeper or his lethal companion except Mëanderin himself, whose attempts to retrieve his lost helmet from beneath his crew’s feet had distracted him from Gateskeeper’s words. He stood up, grasping his headgear triumphantly.

‘Got it!’ announced the captain, turning to face his men. ‘Now, as I was about to say… um… lads?’

Gradually it dawned on Mëanderin that his men might not have their minds so set on diplomacy as might have been the case.

‘Well, that’s hardly polite,’ he remonstrated. ‘You haven’t even greeted these strangers yet.’

Some of the crew called out vague words of welcome, without once focusing on the newcomers.

‘Welcome to our camp, strangers,’ announced their leader, hamming slightly in the style of someone teaching manners to a toddler. ‘I am Mëanderin, captain of the Uncounted Surplus Ship Hyperbolic; and these are my crew of gallant heroes, who seek to aid in the great war of Frân-čaes.’

Gateskeeper had got rather drunk at the victory celebrations several years before, but he didn’t have the heart to mention it to this bedraggled specimen; especially since he saw an opportunity for free transportation.

‘I am Gateskeeper, creator of Soft Wares and Guardian of the Coded Source. Whither art thou bound, warrior of Rǿdidendrun?’

Gateskeeper was under the mistaken impression that all heroes respond well to archaism, particularly those deficient in directional competence. After his previous experience in the Fellowship of the Things, one can scarcely blame him.

‘Well, since the war’s at Illiúmë I thought we might go there next, not that it’s any of your business,’ responded the captain, mildly annoyed at being mistaken for a tourist.

‘I only ask,’ explained Gateskeeper mildly, ‘because if you are indeed Mëanderin, lord of Mithicà, you’re about six-hundred miles off course. I thought you might be going somewhere else first.’

‘Ah. I was wondering when you’d spot that,’ rejoined Mëanderin. ‘Well done. We are, in fact, in search of an oracle to guide us in our quest.’

‘I know oracles,’ announced Gateskeeper. If you know how to phrase your queries properly they can tell you anything you want to know, but none may be invoked in this environment. You must call on them using methods that are known to me’.

‘Will you guide us in our search for data? We had thought many things lost to us since we crashed the ship.’

‘I will help you on two conditions,’ replied Gateskeeper portentously. ‘Firstly, you shall stop all of these anachronistic I.T. related puns; and secondly, you will agree to transport me and my companions for the duration of our quest, which shall remain nameless for the present.’

‘So you want us to provide you with a vehicle to achieve your ends, which will remain secret from us until you’ve reached them; in return for which you will help us to do something complicated in such a way that we don’t learn anything about it and therefore can’t do it again without your help?’

‘Yes. Such a pact is known among my order as –he searched his mind for the meaning of the words- a boilerplate end-user licence agreement, but what I said about anachronisms counts double for making me do it.’

It is now, gentle reader, that you will come to know those bargaining skills that had earned Mëanderin such a reputation throughout the seaways of Muddled Mirth. Examining Gateskeeper’s offer with great care and deliberation, taking into account the unspecified duration and requirements of their agreement and the vagueness of the proffered support, he looked his new acquaintance squarely in the eye and announced the only decision that had even occurred to him.

‘O wise one, you have my solemn pledge on it. Now, what's the chance of getting a few moments alone with your companion?’

--

* Quixotic: ‘You shall forget what you were doing and proceed no further.’

[The Saucepan Man]

On opening the door that led from the Chamber of the Cell-antír, Denimthor was somewhat surprised to find no one there.

“Curious …” he thought to himself.

Suddenly a dazzling array of bright, shining teeth appeared in the darkness.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he mused as he shielded his eyes.

“Visitor for you, sire,” said the teeth in a familiar voice.

Bergassol, the Captain of the Tower Guard, stepped out from the shadows which had masked his tanned features. Countless days spent on guard duty in the bright Grundorian sun, reflected mercilessly off the pearly white walls of Minus Teeth, had turned his face a burnished bronze, which contrasted sharply with his sparkling teeth, a hallmark of all residents of the Wight City.

“Visitor for you, sire,” repeated Bergassol. “He is rather insistent, sire, only …”

“Yes?” prompted Denimthor as he followed the Captain down the staircase that wound round and round, around the bound of the Tower of renown, down to the ground.

“Well, he’s a little chap, sire. Only so high,” replied Bergassol, somewhat dizzy from the circular descent and excessive narrative rhyming, and gesturing to his waist. “He is as like a child to my eyes, only with the voice of a man.”

“Hmm, I wonder what brings one of the Teiniewyniedhil to these parts,” mused Denimthor, adopting the (rather offensive, if the truth be told) Grundorian term. “Perhaps he is looking for an opportunity to trade with our people. Could do wonders for the local hospitality industry. Show him in. I will meet him in the Throne Room.”

********************************************

Denimthor sat regally on the grand Throne of the King, studiously ignoring the smaller and significantly less impressive Proctor’s Seat which stood below it. It was not long before Bergassol entered with a Hobbit in tow.

“Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor?” enquired the Halfling. He was a particularly rotund specimen, middle-aged and finely garbed in an expensive pin-striped three piece suit. Unusually for a Hobbit, he wore an expensive pair of spotless patent leather brogues, and sported pince-nez spectacles on his nose. He peered over them expectantly at the Proctor.

“Yes. I am he,” replied Denimthor, imperiously.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the Hobbit, proffering a small white card.

Denimthor took the card and studied it.

Billingsworth A. Fastbuck, Esq.
~Attorney-at-Law~

Charger, Fastbuck & Bankitt
13, Pennyfarthing Lane
Big Buckland
The Mire

“A loyer!” he exclaimed.

“A respectable profession, I am sure you will agree, Proctor. I specialise in the recovery of debt.”

“Ah well, I have no need of your services. Rest assured that I have adequate provision of my own in that regard.”

“No, you quite misunderstand me. I am here in connection with a certain sum loaned by Mögul Bildûr Enterprises LLC in connection with restoration work on the Wight City.”

“But you must be mistaken,” exclaimed Denimthor, as a slight facial tic manifested itself on his drawn features. “The Dread Developer is no more. That debt is discharged.”

“I fear that it is you who are mistaken, Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor,” replied the Halfling loyer. “I have been engaged on behalf of the Liquidator in connection with the winding-up of Mögul Bildûr Enterprises LLC.”

Denimthor blanched at the name of the relentless Receiver.

“And I am duly authorised to seek repossession of Minus Teeth, the Wight City, upon which the debt was secured.”

“Ah,” ventured Denimthor, recovering slightly and surreptitiously slipping into the Proctor‘s Seat. “But, you see, neither Grundor nor the Wight City are actually mine. I am merely the Proctor. A shepherd, if you like, tending to the flock of Grundor until the King returns. And I hear tell that the rightful King is on his way back as we speak. You’ll have to take this matter up with him.”

“I am aware of the returning King’s claim,” replied Fastbuck. “And, if his claim is established, I accept that the encumbrance over the Wight City will stand discharged ...”

“Well there you are,” said Denimthor, relaxing. “Now, if you have no further business …”

“… only, there is the small matter of the personal guarantee.”

“The wha …?” spluttered Denimthor, his face tic-ing faster than the Halfling's pocket watch.

“You personally guaranteed the debt in the event that the charge over the Wight City was insufficient to disharge it. I am therefore also duly authorised to seek repayment from you personally of the full amount of the debt, namely, let me see …” Fastbuck unfurled and studied a parchment which he had removed from his inside pocket, before continuing, “… the sum of 10,500,000 guineas ...”

“But …”

“… plus interest, compounded daily at a rate of 22.5%, amounting to 2,385,999 guineas, making 12,885,999 guineas in total as at today‘s date …”

“How …?”

“… plus all legal costs and disbursements incurred in the recovery of said debt.”

Denimthor was by now a quivering wreck, having calculated that, with the current strength of the guinea to the Grundorian kabob, he was short to the tune of approximately 25 million kabobs. He was not, however, a Proctor to be fleeced lightly. Composing himself, he glared defiantly at the diminutive loyer and countered with a speech of great eloquence.

“Yeah, you and who’s army?”

“Ahem,” answered the Hobbit. “Since you ask ….”

With this, he began to mutter beneath his breath. Denimthor’s hand moved to his great sword, Äurrel’Bei, but before he could unsheathe it, the spell of summoning was complete and two terrifying figures materialised in the chamber.

The first was a mountain of a man, as like a half-troll, only with less charm. Shaven was his head, and pot-bellied his physique. He wore a black short-sleeved-shirt and tracking-suit bottoms, and his feet were shod with the large black boots favoured by the physicians of Mahrten. His rough skin was wrought with colourful designs, some declaring his love for his mother, others depicting tigers and anchors. And in one great hand, adorned with a sovreign ring, he bore a thick chain, at the end of which languished an enormous black hound, flat of face and toothy of maw, and sporting a sharply studded collar of great girth.

The other was smaller, but no less fearsome. Swarthy of complexion, lean of frame and muscular in build, he wore a bandanna on his head bearing a grinning skull and crossbones. A dangerously mad glint was in his eyes and his mouth leered maniacally as he puffed on a weedstick, revealing two shining gold teeth. He wore a black vest, black leather trousers and boots as like those of his companion. His skin, too, was decorated, but in a more stylised fashion, with swirling, jagged patterns. Thrust in his belt were two evil-looking light crossbows, cocked and ready to fire.

“Permit me to introduce my … ah … associates,” said Fastbuck. “Myhrrdôk and Ess’Tevèz.”

To Denimthor, who had studied well the ancient texts, the two interlopers required no further introduction. The Baîllíffs were they, the Reaperwraiths, the Liquidator's most terrible servants. Destitution went with them, and they rejoiced in the collection of debt.

Bergassol stepped forth, his spear at the ready, determined to to protect his lord from these dreadful foes and to enforce the Wight Tower‘s strict no smoking policy. But as he did so, Myhrrdôk’s fearsome hound growled menacingly and Ess’Tevèz let out an ear-splitting whoop.

“Come not between a Baîllíff and his claim!” warned Fastbuck. “Or he will not rough thee up where thee stand. He will bear thee away to the courts of administration, beyond all beaurocracy, where thy assets shall be stripped, and thy bankrupt estate be left naked to the Grasping Hand.”

“Yeah punk, and you most definitely do not want that to occur,” added Ess’Tevèz.

Bergassol faltered, and Denimthor, ashen faced, waved him back.

“I cannot pay this debt,” he said. “My coffers will not avail me now.”

“Then I would advise that you take precautions to ensure that this King, rightful or not, does not return,” replied Fastbuck. “For then, the debt may be redeemed through repossession of the Wight City. You have two weeks. In the meantime, I have taken the precaution of invoking an Ynch’ankh-Shön enchantment over your assets. They shall remain encased in ice until further notice, although you may have a weekly allowance of 5 guineas for personal expenses. Good day.”

And with that, Billingsworth Fastbuck turned and walked briskly from the chamber, flanked by the Baîllíffs, leaving the Proctor utterly shaken and languishing in the depths of despair, where he remained for the rest of the day.

The next morning, however, he had brightened somewhat. After a sleepless night turning over in his mind the seemingly hopeless situation in which he found himself, an idea had occurred to him in the early hours as to how he might raise the necessary funds. For this Proctor liked to gamble. And so, anonymously hooded and cloaked, he set off on foot (his horse having been clamped) for the Wight Mountains.