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

[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.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Gravendil’s light-footed, sure-footed Elven steps led him rapidly further in and further up, following the direction Merisuwyniel had taken earlier. Concern for her welfare filled his mind, perhaps not very logically. After all, she had survived the greatest part of her adventures without him, coming through victorious as well as flawlessly coiffed and attired. Surely this small island could present no danger that would imperil her more than combat with the Dread Developer himself?

Nevertheless he sped up the wooded hillside, dodging tree trunks both vertical and horizontal, until he was almost at the pinnacle. He entered a clearing, pausing (no, not for breath – running is of course effortless for an Elf!) to get his bearings. To his astonishment, a completely unexpected sight met his eyes.

There stood a female, to all appearances Orcish in nature, though her only deformations seemed to be abnormally swollen mammary glands. Strangely enough, those did not rend her unattractive to him.

She was clad – well, at least those body parts that were clad – in a dark material, neither hard as metal nor flowing as fabric, but shining and supple, following every swaying movement of her lithe body. Had he been capable of coherent thought and speech at that moment (he was not), he would have said that it was neither feminine nor practical, though it certainly affirmed her gender and did not hinder her with any superfluous abundance.

One of her hands clasped the slender trunk of a birch tree, apparently needing its support for her slow, rhythmic motions. She sang, and as Gravendil involuntarily drew closer, he heard the words of her song.

The minute you walked in the woods
I could see you were an Elf of distinction,
A real big quester,
Good-looking, really hot –
Say, wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on in my plot?

So let me get right to the point,
I don’t pop my sword for every Elf I see.
Hey, big quester!
Quest a little quest with me.

She stopped, looking at him suggestively, with an indication that he was welcome to join in her – well, call it ‘dance’, for lack of a more appropriate word.

His brows drew together as he pondered her words. She seemed to expect an answer.

“Sorry,” he replied, “but I’m already questing with my wife.”

“Married, eh?” she said. “Aren’t they always! But that doesn’t stop a guy from having fun with me. You know that we bad girls are always more interesting than the good ones at home, with their cheerful songs about the hills being alive with the sound of music, and a few of their favourite things, and the musical alphabet. You know what? If your conscience bothers you for liking me, just remind yourself that I’m only a fictional character, so ‘evil’ is irrelevant.”

“B-but,” Gravendil stammered, “she’s having my baby – what a lovely way of saying how much she loves me.”

“Got herself knocked up, did she?” the dancer grinned. “Then just what do you think she’ll look like soon? Do you really expect her to be able to compete with this?” With one long, blood-red* fingernail she traced a line from the hollow of her throat down to her shapely navel.**

Swallowing hard, Gravendil made one last valiant stand. “She’s the woman I love, and I love what it’s doing to her,” he gasped.

His words were ignored. Her hand moved toward the straps of her upper garment, and though the days of his Orcness were long gone and nearly forgotten, he recalled a chant used by his soldiers in times past:

Take it off, take it off!

He hardly knew whether he had actually spoken the words, but suddenly realizing that he was in danger of losing all that he had achieved in Mantoe’s Educational Halls and the Elven love of his life for whom he had gone through it, he cried out to himself, “You fool!”

The Orc female looked enquiringly, but he no longer cared. Resolutely he turned his back on her and strode onwards purposefully. She shrugged, then called out, “Hey! If you ever want to come back and take me up on my offer, here’s where you’ll find me.” She tossed a small oblong card at him and, startled, he caught it instinctively, thrusting it into his pocket without looking at it. Had he done so, he would have seen the runes inscribed upon it:

Tel-Éporniel Dôtkömm
‘always ready to help you while away lonely hours’



*the colour of human and Elvish blood, of course – for some reason more attractive as a makeup colour than that of Orcish blood

**which, if you think this through to its logical conclusion, provides the answer to speculations about the nature of Orcish reproduction.

[Thenamir]

"So," thought Windsor Gummidge, left standing alone on the beachfront, "my mistress could be in mortal peril, but my master has run off to rescue her. I guess I should thank my luck that neither of them left me any instructions, and I’ve got an unexpected holiday. Well, as me old gaffer used to say, 'when life gives you lemons, don't look that gift horse in the mouth,' and no mistake." Before you could say “knife and fork” the hobbit had used both to consume a second breakfast out of the leftovers from the first, after which he got out his pipe, stuffed it from his pouch of Old Toady, and sat down on a rock overlooking the shoreline camp to smoke it.

He was just working on his third smoke ring when he caught a whiff of a passing smoke ring on the ocean breeze that definitely did not come from his own pipe. It had to be Troll’s-bottom Leaf – Windsor claimed that he could sniff out the brand last smoked by a week-dead orc at a hundred paces – and better than his own smoke by half. Clambering down from his rock (one small step for a man, one giant leap for a smallish hobbit), he prowled up the beach to find out who’d been holding out on him.

He rounded a bend where the beach turned to the left, and hey presto! sitting there on the sand, blowing smoke rings as pretty as you please, was a hobbit lass as pretty as Windsor pleased and more. A fair and wonderous hobbitess the like of which Windsor had never seen -- the pearl-white teeth, the protruding bosom, and oh, the beautiful fur that curled aound her dainty toes! But all that was beside the point -- she was smoking a pipe of Troll's-bottom! Could it be that he had found someone that shared his favorite pastime? Such a woman he would give his all for! (At least, all but his favorite pipe!) So startled was he that he nearly fell face forward into her lap, which he really didn't want to prevent. Recovering slightly, he put on his best smile and blurted out “Good morning!”

The Hobbit lass looked at him from under long delicate eyelashes that stuck out further than the whiskers of a shady cat. "What do you mean?" she said. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

"All of them at once," said Windsor, warming to the conversation -- at least, he tried to tell himself it was just the conversation. "And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain.” Then Windsor sat down on the sand by the lass, crossed his legs, and tried to blow out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated away over the dunes, but all he could manage was a short, roughly cylindrical column of smoke which hung in the air before them.

"Very nice," commented she sarcastically, then with a wink and a sly grin she blew a ring of smoke which drifted over to encircle Windsor's, moving slowly up and down the column which inexplicably doubled in length. "But," the winsome hobbitess continued in a sultry voice that curled the hair on Windsor's toes, "I really have no time to blow smoke-rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an...adventure...that I am arranging, and as you can imagine it's very difficult to find anyone here on this nearly deserted island, you big strong hunk of hobbit, you!" At this the petite femme fatale looked longingly at Windsor with her big blue eyes, fluttering those eyelashes like some kind of organic chaff flails. She took another draw off her pipe and blew the aphrodisiac vapors gently into his face as she dreamily intoned, "is that a ring in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Windsor was now almost completely under her spell. Since leaving Pimpiowyn in Valleyum he'd had a difficult time trying to forget her, but now all thought of the half-halfling was banished. Now there was just...her...and her pipeweed...but then he began to feel something in what passed for his brain. When he tried to recall it later for his friends he could only say, "If you want to know, I felt as if I hadn't got nothing on, and I didn't like it...well, I might have liked it but that's beside the point. She seemed to be looking inside me and asking me what I would do if she gave me the chance of flying back home to the Mire to a nice little hole* with a bit of garden of my own."

Windsor remembered his pledge to Merisu and Gravendil to be their servant and gardener, and then the face of Merisu came before his mind. And it seemed to him in his reverie that Merisu spoke to him, saying "No oath or bond do I lay on you to go further than you will, but if you want my advice, get up off that sand and get away from that floozie!!"

From where he lay on the beach, with the tiny temptress nearly atop him, he threw her off of him, jumped up, and fairly ran for his life back towards the camp.

----------

* -- the translators were unclear as to whether the word here was "hole" or "ho'", but the coin flip went for the gentler word.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Gravendil was relieved to see Merisuwyniel standing at the top of the hill, apparently unharmed. (He was also relieved to see that her gaze was toward the sea, not toward the woods whence he had come, though he would not have liked to admit the reason for that relief even to himself.) She turned to smile at him tranquilly, yet he recalled the possible danger lurking on the island and grasped her hands, pulling her into his arms urgently.

“What is amiss?” she asked.

“There are signs that we are not alone on this island, and we know not whether there be friend or foe awaiting us. Let us hasten to rejoin the others, for in numbers there is strength,” he replied hurriedly.

Hand in hand they ran down to the shore, arriving almost simultaneously with Halfemption and Windsor. They stopped short when they saw Gateskeeper surrounded by strange men and an even stranger woman, apparently heavily armed. In an instant their weapons were drawn.

The captain reacted promptly. Since he was not sure that ‘fight’ was the best option, he decided on the alternative. “To oars, to oars!” he cried out. Unfortunately, in the din a number of his men understood his words imperfectly.* They turned away from the shore with cries of “Girls, girls, girls!” Complete confusion reigned for several minutes, with jostling and shouting and a general lack of efficiency hindering any kind of purposeful action.

“Pause!” a voice called. Noise and activity ceased, and Gateskeeper was finally able to make himself understood. “Peace, my hasty friends!” he called out with a broad smile. “Let me introduce you to Captain Meanderin and his crew. They have, um – appropriated parts of our ship for repair work and are willing to carry us onward to Muddled-Mirth.”

The Questers looked at the motley crew dubiously, but quickly realized the advantage of accepting the offer of a bird in the hand instead of holding out for more elusive possibilities.

And so it came that Merisuwyniel, Gravendil, Squire Windsor Gummidge, Halfemption Gormlessar, and the Gateskeeper (plus his newly-found female companion, of whom no one took notice in the general hullabaloo) again boarded a ship, again hoping that this one would take them safely to their homelands.


*The document does not name the word which was substituted for “oars” by the misunderstanding men, so the translators could only conjecture that it must have sounded similar, perhaps rhyming with the original word, and that it must have denoted something familiar to sailors on shore leave.