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

[Thenamir]

In the immediate aftermath of the giant wave’s passing, several of the less experienced crewpersons were standing at the rail performing their best impressions of the Puking Men, also known as the Woozies. Once everyone had settled down a bit and returned to their duties, Meanderin called Merisu aside.

"What was the name of the once-grand vessel which carried you to that ex-island?" asked Meanderin, continuing, "upon finding your wreckage with none aboard we made shift to repair our ship, the mighty Hyperbolic, from the remains."

Merisuwyniel thought back for a moment to their departure, remembering with a smile how Windsor had tried to slurp the suds off the hull after the ceremonial magnum of Glen Miruvor was smashed upon the stern. She replied, "We set sail from Valleyum in a ship provided for us by the Green Goddess Yawanna herself, may her lettuce never wilt. We re-christened it the Sensitive Swan, thinking that the original name,'Sethamir’s Stable Boats and Shipping Services,' was far too long and inelegant a name for such a glorious conveyance."

"Ah," quoth Meanderin, "therefore, since our present vessel represents the combining not only of our respective boats but also of our crews and our fortunes, this vessel shall henceforth be known as the Hypersensitive! Starstruc! We need our painter, D'avinn-chii, to emblazon our new nom-de-mer on our prow. Has Asperin been able to cure him of his mysterious ailment?"

Starstruc looked over from his position at the rudder and replied, "Nay, captain, neither Asperin nor any of the crew have seen anything like the D'avinn-Chii cold -- it remains as baffling and incomprehensible as ever. The symptoms seem to vary with the political leanings of the surgeon."

"No matter," said Meanderin cheerily, "find our new navigator, Gateskeeper, and set course for Muddled-Mirth. With these newcomers aboard I feel the winds of change in our fortunes!"

While the workings of Emu are as inscrutible as the reason why toast always falls buttered-side-down when dropped on expensive and delicate carpeting, the presence of Merisu and Company did seem to bring about a rather immediate change in their fortunes which was connected with winds only in the total lack thereof. In other words, Gateskeeper's directions were for naught -- the good ship Hypersensitive had unbecomingly become becalmed.

After a bit of programming by Gateskeeper, Tara Craft was able to supplement the ships victuals by leaping into the waters and punching sharks to be hauled aboard for fresh meat. Even so, after a fortnight fresh water and low-salt food supplies began to run dangerously low. The meals were rationed, and the water guarded. Gateskeeper spent every waking moment (and a few nightmares) trying to conjure up winds to fill their sails, from appeals to the mercy of the Velour to an abortive attempt to summon up a seventh-age political speechmaker, but in the end all was for naught. The experienced sailors began muttering in low and imprecatory tones of "Jonahs" and poor scriptwriting.

Gateskeeper, having run out of the coconut-shell explosives, had tied a line to one end of his staff and was attempting a bit of fly fishing from the bow. Tara stood at his side while the other male crew observed their interactions in envy and wonder at why the beautiful girl chose to fall for the skinny, pasty-skinned n'erd.. She was observing his activity with interest, asking in the native language of the Geeks, "Action query: purpose and parameters?" (Translated into normal speech, this meant, "What are you doing, why are you doing it, and how is it done?") Gateskeeper began to explain in some detail the male ritual known as fishing while Tara raptly absorbed the information.

"Would you care to try?" Gateskeeper asked, offering her the staff and line. Tara looked for a moment at the makeshift apparatus, then tersely replied, "Inefficiency -- optimization and upgrade required." ("I can do this better than you.") She strode forward before Gateskeeper could stop her and snapped off the bowsprit with one hand, then tied one end of a coiled hawser to it. Seizing a bronze pikestaff from one of the guards, she bent it bare-handed into a hook shape, impaled a small goat upon it, and affixed it to the other end of the mooring rope. While Gateskeeper and the crew watched in amazement she cast the massive rope assembly over the side, which landed with a splash some 100 meters off the port bow. She took up her oversized fishing rod and to all appearances settled in to wait patiently for a bite.

There were several moments of dumbstruck silence before Meanderin came rushing forward to Gateskeeper, spluttering and fuming, "Here now! She can't just go breaking parts off my ship..."

"Our ship," Gravendil and Merisu corrected him in unison.

"Right, our ship," acknowledged Meanderin, "but even so, Gateskeeper, if you can't control that vixen I'll have to..."

Just at that moment Tara interrupted with, "Target aquisition. Brace for acceleration, boys, this is where the fun begins." Now that she was back in her adventurous element, she no longer needed to resort to diagnostic geekspeak. Half a moment later the hawser went taut, Tara braced herself against the rail, and the ship lurched forward -- whatever fish, whale or kraken had taken the bait was towing the ship along at considerable speed in a direction almost perpendicular from the way to Muddled Mirth. "Well," said Meanderin, "at least we're not becalmed anymore, and anywhere is likely to be better than here. Reef sails, mates, let the beast have his lead."

For the next two hours the ship was dragged in a Muddled Mirth version of a Nantucket Sleigh Ride, but the beast, whatever it was, never veered from a straight course. Tara was attempting to haul the creature in, but it required all her preternatural strength just to hold against the strain. One poor sailor who happened to fall off the stern holding a secured line invented the sport of barefoot skiing.

Just then, the lookout in the crow's nest shouted "Land ho! Small island dead ahead!" Yet the ship continued inexorably on course until the crew began to fear running aground. Gateskeeper stepped forward to try to explain to Tara that sometimes the fish "gets away", when the line in her hands unexpectedly went slack and the ship slowed and stopped within rowing distance of the new shore. The crew immediately sent up a mighty cheer for Tara, and crowded around her to congratulate her on the mighty struggle that had probably saved their lives. Tara did not rebuff their adulation, but once the crew had begun preparing to disembark, she slumped to the deck, saying only, "mission failure...battery low."

The pair of crewmen who hauled in and wound up the great rope which had been used noted that the end had no remains of the pikestaff or the bait, and appeared to have been bitten off cleanly by two monsterous incisors. They were glad not to have seen the creature, whatever it was.

-----------

Back in Valleyum, Tî-Kulmí Ulmo was picking bits of rope out of his monsterous white incisors. "Ptooee! That stuff tastes awful!", said he in his squeaking voice, "Next time Emu wants a boat towed, he can get Mantoes to do it."

[The Saucepan Man]

~SAVE~

Time to send in the Bailiffs.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The ship’s gentle landing on the island lulled its crew and passengers into the misconception that it was a place of peace and quietness, and so did it seem at first glance. But when the roaring waves had ceased their rhythmic pounding, and the deck no longer swayed, so that they could see clearly, they perceived glimpses of gaily coloured banners amongst the greenery and heard the strains of lively music. The sailors pulled the ship onto the beach, securing it with the remains of the rope. And lo! an expansive figure appeared there, spreading his arms wide in a universally recognizable welcoming gesture.

His head was wreathed with ivy vines, and grapes hung about his otherwise sparsely clothed limbs. He held cups filled with rich liquid in both hands. “Welcome to Bâcchanalië!” he called out, and the sailors responded with enthusiastic cheers. They did not wait for their captain’s permission to leave ship, and indeed it was not necessary – Mëanderin was the first to follow their host* for the purpose of moistening a parched throat.

Halfemption, Squire Windsor, and the Gateskeeper hurried to catch up with them, eager to partake of the promised refreshments as well. Gravendil turned to his spouse apologetically: “I should go after them to make sure there is no danger,” he said. “Will you two, ummm - ladies be alright here?”

“Certainly,” Merisuwyniel answered, just a touch too brightly. “Don’t you worry about us; all those strong, armed men may need you more. I’m sure no one would even think of approaching an abandoned ship – we’ll be quite safe.”

Soon he arrived at tents under which stood long tables, laden with plates, glasses, tankards, and other auspicious articles. Numerous females, the Maenadwens, bustled about with pads of paper in hand, intent upon collecting the wishes of their customers.

“Hi there, my name is Tiffanë, and I’ll be your serving wench for this orgy. What would you like to order?” said one young maiden, whose skirt had apparently suffered shrinkage in the laundry, to a group of sailors.

Another, dressed in a very low cut, laced bodice and a long, wide skirt, with footwear akin to that of the herders of kine, bent over the table and purred, “What’ll it be, boys? Name your poison!”

Still another buxom woman, whose ample girth was exceeded only by the strength of her arms, carried a load of foam-topped tankards and retorted, “Here you are, chentelmen. Ziss is a beergarten, you vere eggspecting maybe côk-täls?!”

Quite obviously this was a land according to the men’s liking. They settled down for a long bout of toasting each others’ health, their journey, their ship, their host, the serving wenches – well, suffice it to say that the evening lasted far into the night...


(*Who was, of course, the fabled Bâcchwë, son of Wrongwë, son of Onewë, master of those children of Yawanna which bore fruits that fermented to become the liquids used for merry-making all over Muddled-Mirth.)