The Revenge of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Kuruharan]

"I’ll look next," said Kuruharan.

His intention was balked by the fact that the Salad Bowl was one of these trendy numbers with legs and was sitting on top of its pedestal. He could not conveniently look down into the bowl.

"Hmm," he muttered.

"I’ll help you darling...uh, I mean, dwarf," said Saladriel eagerly. She rushed forward to take hold of Kuruharan and hoist him up. Whether she actually could have, or indeed would even really have tried is a mystery left to the ages because Kuruharan unknowingly forestalled her.

"Oh, never mind," said Kuruharan. "Here’s a nice chair."

"Drattit!" snarled Saladriel under her breath.

Not-King Celery, utterly taken with watching the paint on a nearby wall dry, did not notice any of this exchange.

Kuruharan plopped the chair down on the ground in front of the Salad Bowl. Climbing up onto it he stared down into the depths of herbage for a long moment.

A veeeery long moment.

"Well," said Vogonwë impatiently, "what do you see?"

Another long moment passed.

At last Kuruharan replied.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…"

"Oh for..." said Halfullion.

Saladriel was in the process of casting Halfullion a nasty look when Kuruharan suddenly reeled in the chair and crashed face down into the great and wondrous Salad Bowl of Saladriel breaking it into several pieces.

"Eeekk!" squawked Celery.

"My precious!" cried Saladriel.

"My gracious!" shouted everybody else.

"My nose!" howled an abruptly awakened Kuruharan.

"Look at this, the Salad Bowl is ruined!" shouted an angry Celery. "You’d better be able to pay for this!"

"How dare you speak to my darling, I mean my guest, like that!" bawled Saladriel.

*WHALLOP*

Saladriel’s backhand blow sent Celery flying into the wall he had been so fascinated by earlier. He spent the next several hours lying there like a wet noodle.

"Oh, my poor dwarf," soothed Saladriel. "Let me help you." She sat down beside him, put his head in her lap, and started wiping away all the various oils and leafage that besoiled Kuruharan’s face.

Oblivious to the fact that he was suddenly in a situation that most males of any race would kill their entire families to be in, Kuruharan could only think of a way to get out of this mess without having to pay for repairs to the bowl, or even worse, having to replace it altogether.

"No harm done! No harm done!" cried Kuruharan hurriedly. He sprang up and started gathering the pieces of the once-mighty Salad Bowl of Saladriel.

"I have just the thing to fix it!" So saying, Kuruharan pulled out a fat roll of gray...something. He immediately started pulling strips of this gray stuff off and laying them on the breaks in the bowl.

Wonder of wonders! The Bowl was restored, with a funny new gray pattern along where the breaks had been.

"There you see!" announced Kuruharan triumphantly. "Good as new, and better!" He began scooping the remains of the salad back into the bowl.

"I think that since I made such an improvement in the design we can just call this whole thing square," Kuruharan said hopefully.

"Don’t you need me to fawn over you a little more?" said Saladriel rather forlornly.

"I knew that you would see things my way!" said Kuruharan happily, totally unaware of what had actually been said.

"What is that stuff?" asked Orogarn Two dubiously.

"The making of it is a secret of my folk," announced Kuruharan importantly. "In our tongue we call it ‘Dûct-tape.’ Among the Dalemen it is known as ‘Duck Tape.’ It works wonders on just about anything that is broken. Indeed all the male-dwarves and the Men of Dale use it to repair everything."

"WOW!" said Halfullion and Earnur in unison. Seeing that this was a creation that was truly masculine in every way, they had to have some of it for themselves. "How much?" they asked together.

As this sale went forward Saladriel fumed on the ground. Seeing the state that she was in, Kuruharan thought that he might make her some favorable deal on something, believing as he did that she was upset about the Salad Bowl.

Looking about him hurriedly for something to trade he spotted some of Saladriel’s hares sitting under the trees.

"How would you like to make a bargain on some of your hares?" he asked encouragingly.

Chrysophylax was lying on the ground some distance away with his head in his claws.

"Oh, I can’t watch this," moaned Chrysophylax to himself. "This is pathetic!"

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Rimbaud]

There was a soft whinny, and Tofu trotted (to the surprise of many) into the bower and straight to the Salad Bowl, without even a by-your-leaf. Saladriel arched an arched eyebrow archly as he arrived arrestingly at the arboreal amazement.

Without any warning, Tofu slurped his long tongue straight down into the salad bowl and apparently swiped a few croutons and what looked like (to the experienced lettuce-ologist) a fine red coral Bellisimo leaf, before falling into what appeared a deep reverie. Being far more highly erudite than any other present, Tofu quite naturally received his message in Latin.

The first of the missives, swimming lazily upon the shimmering surface of the psychic vinaigrette seemed to refer to Merisuwyniel’s mare, which had cast more than one horsey eye upon his normally equable equine equanimity, thoroughly discomforting him.

Falafel formosa est multis. mihi candida, longa,
recta est: haec ego sic singula confiteor.
totum illud formosa nego: nam nulla venustas,
nulla in tam magno est corpore mica salis.

…said the Salad Bowl, and Tofu nodded emphatically in agreement. The thoroughly learned steed knew his Catullus from his catalytic converter. The Salad Bowl held one further message for Tofu, referring to Merisuwyniel, and it thoroughly scared him. Est vemens dea: laedere hanc caveto said the Bowel of Saladriel. Tofu whinnied in dismay. The warning stated, in the common tongue, “She is a violent goddess: You will beware of offending her.” Tofu whinnied in anxiety and backed quickly away from the Salad Bowel, lettuce still protruding pathetically from his equine maw.

Halfullion stepped up, seemingly oblivious to Tofu’s discomfort, and stared deeply into the leafy shadows of the future. The Bowel was confused by the abrupt changeover in minds focused upon it. Letters floated up to Halfullion, pretentiously fonted and horrendous in their apparent faux-erudition. Si qui forte mearum ineptiarum lectores eritis manusque vestras non horrebitis admovere nobis.

To this Halfullion exclaimed nobly, “Yegadzookerzoids! I appear to have lost the facility for speech and understanding!” Many of those gathered nodded sagely, apart from Vogonwe, whose nod was more reminiscent of parsley than sage.

The Bowl spake to Halfullion’s mind, a veritable cornucopia of saladorious delights, a veritable radishment of ravishmental ramblings. Halfullion became a bit confused but listened intently. Sorry, about that, young Fellah! said the Bowl, unexpectedly cheerily. Mixed you up there with that grand old minded horse you have there. Allow me to show you your future in pretty pictures with nice bright colours.

Halfullion frowned, suspecting he was being mocked, but given that he was being addressed telepathically by a giant bowl of salad, let it pass.

“Just one thing,” he said. “Please translate what you said to me. Please, just one good movement, oh great Bowel!”

The Bowl sighed and bowed its head (suspension of disbelief required here – it’s a mythology and not any kind of allegory, phew…)and answered Halfullion gravely.

“I said to you ‘...If you who are brave will be readers of my foolishness,
Then your hands will not tremble as they reach towards my poems...’ and I meant it.”

“Oh,” said Halfullion a bit blankly. “That kind of humour’s all a bit, well, post-modern, don’t you think?”

“Rhetorically speaking,” said the Bowl somewhat sharply, unused to being addressed so. “I would argue though that the jesting was not truly of, relating to, or being any of several movements (as in art, architecture, or literature) that were reactions against the philosophy and practices of ‘modern’ movements neither was it ‘typically’ marked by a revival of traditional elements and techniques – due to the somewhat anachronistic nature of this entire conversation.”

“Hmm,” said Halfie thoughtfully. “That’s a very specific answer when the original question held an inherently wider view. It is not simply that the postmodernism does not believe in "truth" so much that it understands truth and meaning as historically constructed and thus seeks to expose the mechanisms by which this production is hidden and "naturalized. I would argue that contrary to the very roots of the word, it can refer to any discipline of any Age."

“Then it is redundant,” retorted the Bowl sharply. “I don’t know what kind of poor deconstructionist literature you’ve been dribbling your meager mental resources upon, but I assure you, you have no knowledge of the concepts of which you speak.” The wise Salad paused for proverbial breath. “Anyway you are missing the point. Here is your future.”

And the Lord Gormlessar saw fabulous haircut after beautiful bouffant while ever in his mind loomed a great pair of scissors and a rotating black leather chair.

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Curiouser and curioser, Merisuwyniel thought. Whence had this strange creature come, with its incredibly tasteless colour combination and its cheap perfume? And what was the meaning of this piece of substance probably known as paper? She picked it up gingerly, wiping off the unappetizing moisture that covered it, then unfolded it and read:

A SeKREt AdMIeROR WaNTZ 2 SPEeK 2 U

MeAT MEe AT Da SHArINg HAMmOCK AT SuNSEt

Her mind reeled – secret admirer? Who could that be? How could someone have fallen for her without her being aware of it? And most of all, why did the person have such incredibly awful spelling?

Ah, she thought, it is a ruse! That must be it – a prank to put me on the wrong track! Surreptitiously, she looked around, but the others were all mixing at the Salad Bowl. Quietly she slipped away, going back to the pentflet to check if her hair and makeup were alright. Reassured that her appearance could satisfy even the most fastidious admirer, she sought out one of the ever-present handbunnies to ask the way.

“Sharing Hammock, Miss?” she giggled. “Why, that’s up Lover’s Lane; you can’t miss it when you go up the hill outside the city.”

Merisuwyniel sighed and wished that Falafel had not insisted on staying at the Salad Bowl with the other horses. Oh well, she would have to walk fast. She pulled out her pocket-watch and thought, Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!

She entered the first circle of trees just as the sun disappeared behind the hill. Ahead of her loomed a second circle of huge trees. She could barely distinguish a hammock that swung between the two largest; therein sat a figure, visible only as a black silhouette to her.

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sat in Sharing Hammock, waiting tensely. She will not come. Surely she has many a suitor. Or she will send instead warriors. I am a fool. He drew his dagger and tested its edge nervously as he looked about, seeking some sight of Merisu.

Then he saw, in the distance, a maiden walking in a shimmering pool of light and his heart leaped. He swallowed it back down and tried unsuccessfully to compose himself. Unbidden, thoughts cam into his mind: It is the east, and Merisu is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

She came yet closer and brought up a hand to her face as she tried to pierce the darkness with her eyes. "What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night So stumblest on my counsel?"

She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air. But he remained silent as she stepped slowly closer.

Finally, he spoke. "I have come to see you my lady, and having seen you, that is enough: I should go."

"Stay," she cried, squinting into the night. "And give me your name."

And Gravlox said, "By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word."

Her breath hissed in a gasp as at last she saw his face. He cringed but made no move to rise. "I saw you from afar," he said. "And could not stay away. Though I know my kind is repugnant to you. And yet, know that among my kind it is sometimes said that we were once as you are before the Dark One came and sat upon us."

Almost, she ran, and yet she was facinated by this Orc who sat so quietly and yet so boldly before her. "How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here."

"So be it!" he cried. "I am weary of my life. And if I cannot have more, then die I shall, but happily now that I have seen you from so close a distance." He stood slowly and walked to her. She stood quietly and did not run, but marvelled at the apparition which had appeared before her. "You find me attractive?" she said shyly.

"Yes!" he cried. He hurriedly wiped some spittle from his snout then continued. "More fair than any I have seen before. But this is foolishness. This will never work."

"No, never," she replied taking a small step closer.

"Impossible," he insisted, letting the dagger fall from his hand.

"What would people say?" she laughed, taking a deep breath.

"Unnatural," he answered stepping even closer. "Insane."

"Yes," she whispered, having slipped so close that the hilts of his sword nearly touched her. "Kind of sad, isn't it?"

He fell silent, shivering at her closeness, and bowed his head. At last he answered. "Very sad indeed." A tear fell down his cheek.

"What a mighty blade you wear," she commented. "Does it have a name?"

He laughed bitterly. "It is called the ZigZag sword and is said to be enchanted. What manner of enchantment it bears I do not know, for it will not come free from its sheath."

"Really," she said, licking her lips. "I love a challenge. Can I try?" She placed her hands on the hilts and pulled. Then he placed his hands on hers and they pulled again. The blade slid from its sheath with a whisper of steel. He looked at it in surprise. A light seemed to shine on the two from above.

"There now," she said. "That wasn't so difficult. Now where where we? Oh yes. So sad, I could cry that because of the families we were born into we could not ever be together."

"Never," he whispered. "Ridiculous." He reached a hand up to her face to console her.

"Absurd," she replied, looking into his eyes and caressing his muscular shoulders to console him.

"Laughable," he murmured, as he ran his hands along the soft material of her dress to console her.

She stepped back suddenly. "Do you compose poetry?" she asked.

"No," came the crestfallen answer. She smiled and they consoled one another vigourously throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two strode forward and violently shook the curious Salad Bowl, scattering leafy greens in a maelstrom of fluttering roughage and sending a shower of bacon bits over the overpriced footwear of the maidens gathered about it. Without apology or warning, he vaulted high into the air and dove head first over the wooden rim of the vegetation-filled saucer, where he convulsed face-deep in the elvish guacamole.

Embedded in the mysterious melange, Orogarn Two soon lost adequate oxygen flow to his brain and slipped into unconciousness. Darkness wrapped itself about him as he slipped away, but after a while, the blackness lessened a bit and he found himself surrounded by a host of dim sparkling lights, each inexplicably shaped in the glowing likeness of his loquacious step-mother, Iodeth. The multiple specters of his father’s fourth spouse floated before him in an eerie dance, and a ghostly voice that he recognized as his own began to speak to itself.

Orogarn Two: “Lost. The wallet is lost.”

Orogarn Too: “Stolen. Stolen by the nasty trees.”

Two: “No, not the trees. The trees are our friends.”

Too: “You don’t have any friends. Nobody likes you.”

Two: “Not listening. The wallet is lost”

Too: “Stolen! And you are listening!”

Two: “Am not.”

Too: “Nobody likes you, you know.”

Two: “Merisuwyniel likes me.”

Too: “Tricksy half-elf. She’s a friend of the trees and can’t be trusted.”

Two: “Pimpiowyn is nice to me.”

Too: “Little quarterling thinks you have food.”

Two: “Kuruharan?”

Too: “You’re just an easy mark.”

Two: “Earnur? Halfullion?

Too: “I told you! You don’t have any friends.”

Two: “Yes, I think you are right. The trees betrayed us, and the half-elf carries the lving tree.”

Too: “I told you they was false. They is all false.”

Two: “Yes. They are false and betrayed us.”

Too: “Yes! We must punish them.”

Two: “No. No. It’s too risky.”

Too: “We could let him do it.”

Two: “Yes, he could do it.”

Orogarn Two

Orogarn Two, come back to us.

The Lord of Grundor’s body shook again with a tremor so great that the gathered companions jumped back in dismay. His long figure twisted savagely and ejected itself so forcefully from the Salad Bowl that he landed many feet from it in tumbled a heap.

“What did you see?” asked Vogonwë, rushing forward to help him up.

“Nothing,” answered Orogarn Two. “The Salad is wilted.”

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë strode up to the Salad Bowl and struck a pose before it. He gazed in at the now tossed salad and his reflection reflecting up at him from the dressing. He saw himself, naturally, and adjusted his hairbow. “Yes…well…quite…” he said.

Then the bowl went dark, as if the salad was rotting before his very eyes, and the green leaves blackened and moldered and began to stink, the odor rising toward him in wisps of yellowish air. Then the bowl cleared, and he saw his father, frolicking under the verdant bows of the Forest Formerly Known As Greenwood the Untreated Lumber Yard. This was odd enough, as his father normally did not frolic, but what was even more remarkable was that Geppettuil was frolicking with what appeared to be a mortal woman. “She is not an Elf, anyway,” he thought, “for we are wondrous fair to look upon.”

“Meaning I’m not, I take you?” the woman stopped frolicking and spoke to him. “Thank you kindly! And when you’ve finished ogling me, perhaps you’ll say who you are, and why you can’t let the shadows of the past rest?”

But as he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that a woman in a salad was frolicking with his father and speaking to him, the scene changed to a very ugly baby crying in a bassinet. In its tiny wisps of hair was a fixed a bow far too large for the little head. A woman picked the baby up and said, “There, there, little Vogonwë, your head will get bigger in time.”

The bowl went dark yet again, and suddenly a face took up the whole circular area, the face of that same dratted woman! Only her face was now green, and she had the mysterious runes, “Ghost Prince of Cardolan” stamped across her forehead.

“Who are you?” Vogonwë asked.

“Ask me not who I am, but rather, who I was,” the woman replied.

“Yeah, yeah. Who were you, then?”

“In life, I was called Darthana of Chippendale, and I was a woman of the Lake-men of Chippendale, naturally.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

She sighed. “Geppettuil never told you what happened to your mother, Vogonwë.”

“He told me that you killed her!”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Do proceed.”

“I am your mother, Vogonwë.”

“Yeah, and I’m a Dwarf,” Vogonwë snorted.

“No, really.”

Vogonwë grew serious. “But…but my father told me that I was transformed from a carved doll (which was carved from a rotting log inhabited by potato bugs) by the magick markers of the Blue Faerie.”

“And you believed that load of horse swill?” said the green lady.

“Well…I was only 20-years-old!” Vogonwë said.

She rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. My son is an idiot.”

“I am not!”

She cast an appraising eye over him and arched her brows. “Look at you…slouching… Is that how I raised you? To slouch?”

“Duh! I have to lean over the bowl to see you, Mother!” Vogonwë replied with annoyance, but then clapped his hand over his mouth.

“Aha! See? The long dormant embers of your memory are stirred! You were only a little elfling when I died, but a son never forgets his mother,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Don’t you remember the nursery rhymes that I used to sing you to sleep with?”

Vogonwë paused, then to his own surprise, recited,

“Hush little elf-child, don’t you cry,
And don’t be afraid of the Lidless Eye,
But if you’re naughty then, you see,
Daddy’s gonna sing you some poetry.
And if that poetry doth stink,
Mommy’s gonna drown in the kitchen sink.”

“Good, good!” Darthana cried. “You do remember. Now, listen up, my time with you grows short. Already the others are grumbling amongst themselves about what a bowl hog you are. So I’m not going to chew my cabbage twice, do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. I have a message for you:

Vogonwë Brownbark, long under spell,
Go now to your father and give him hell.
And then you must choose a fate for yourself,
To Die as a man, or Fade as an Elf.”

Vogonwë found this little poem so moving that he whimpered, “Mommy,” and began to cry great tears that splashed into the bowl in giant drops. The surface of the salad went black, and he stumbled back from the bowl, wiping his face and blowing his nose on his sleeve.

He looked around at the puzzled group, and said, “Well, that’s an eye-opener and no mistake!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vogonwë would not say what he had seen, so it was with slight trepidation that Pimpiowyn advanced upon the Salad Bowl. But, at the same time, Pimpi felt curiously attracted to the Bowl. She crept up onto Kuruharan’s chair and peered over. A chill air seemed to strike her face, rising from invisible depths below the lettuce. Moved be a sudden impulse she grouped for a loose carrot, and put it in her mouth. She felt her heart beat many times before there was any sound. Then came a crunch, magnified and repeated in the hollow space of her mouth as she chewed.

At first there was nothing to do but purloin a couple more carrots and an odd chunk of yellow pepper here and there, but then she too saw a curious sight appear in the dressing.

She saw a picnic laid out on a grassy knoll. Heaps and heaps of food were piled atop a red checkered blanket. It all looked much tastier than the dry and well-tossed salad fixings she was crunching on, and she licked her lips hungrily. But the scene changed and she saw a multitude of Orcs rushing about, growling and roaring and shaking various sharp and unpleasant looking implements of war. They trampled over the picnic and Pimpiowyn saw that they were chasing a man, a hobbit, and a toddler. What she saw next cannot be described in detail, due to the PG-13 rating of these documents.

Horror filled her very being as she re-witnessed the band of marauding Orcs marauding her parents. The Salad Bowl became very bloody. Rivers of blood, pools of blood, cascading waterfalls of blood, gurgling drinking fountains of blood, filled the image before her, and yet through the terrifying red sheen she saw one hideous face over and over again. Slaying her father, killing her mother, lopping the head off of her father’s horse, chasing her with murder in his bloodshot eyes, was one Orc that stood out from all the rest.

Oh, she knew that face well. Years she had seen it in her darkest dreams, and even the really light ones, too. As the blood swirled and twirled and pirouetted before her, his ugly mug leered at her through the murk. She saw again the moment when all seemed lost, and he loomed above her, crying, “I’m gonna put a maggot hole in your belly!” Then an Elf came up from behind, wielding a shovel, ready to strike. He tripped on his shoes and came down upon the Orc’s foot. Foot and Orc separated, and then the image went bloody and dark, as that had been the moment when little Pimpi fainted.

Pimpiowyn wondered why she was being shown this horrific scene again, and also thought obliquely that she didn’t remember it being that bloody. Perhaps it was the Salad Bowl’s idea of a good special effect, but it seemed rather cheesy and B-movie horror schticky to her.

All the same, she couldn’t help but shed a tear as she viewed the remains of her mother, the fairest flower of the Shire, who never hurt anybody or wanted to hurt anybody or anything. Gentle, loving, jolly little Pipsissewa Took. Sweet, caring, delightful little hobbit lass. Pretty little, sweet little, cute little halfling. What kind of debased, depraved, perverted, dissolute, immoral, iniquitous, sinful, vicious, wicked, vile, nefarious, pernicious, damnable, execrable, offensive, atrocious, foul, hideous, loathsome, obscene, repugnant, repulsive, revolting, distasteful, repellent, fetid, putrid, stinking, malicious, malevolent, rancorous, spiteful, vicious, wicked, disagreeable, ugly, wrathful, hurtful, injurious, destructive and generally vapid creature would ever take it in his mind to harm such a beautiful and innocent hobbit? But there the vision loomed before Pimpi’s eyes: Pipsissewa, lying upon the picnic blanket, bleeding into the potato salad and baked beans.

It is a little known fact that it was Dead Mothers Month, which explains why Pimpi heard her mother’s voice speaking to her mind, and it said, “Pimpi! The time is near! Sooner or later you will finally be faced with your mortal enemy, and then you will either succeed or fail in your Quest for revenge.”

“Is there a third option?” Pimpi asked in puzzlement.

“No! Whatever happens, know that you father and I are looking down on you, up here in the Eternal Mushroom Patch. Do not let the blood of your parents be spilt in vain!”

“But even if I revenge you, that won’t make your deaths worthwhile,” Pimpi reasoned, her practicality challenged.

“Just do it!”

With a swoosh, the vision of the picnic faded, and Pimpi again found herself staring at a simple salad. She shrugged and plucked a tomato from the roughage. Then, all of a sudden, she heard the sound of whinnying.

“Drat,” she muttered, hopping down from the chair, “Lopitoff is at it again.”

“Come again?” Saladriel asked in a low and melodious voice.

“My pendent has an annoying habit of whinnying from time to time,” Pimpi explained. “The sound fills my mind until I think that I should go crazy.”

“Try to ignore it, darling,” Vogonwë advised.

“That’s easy for you to say, I’m the only one who can hear it,” said Pimpi. “I do so hate it when he malfunctions! It’s only supposed to do that when Orcs are near.”

“There are no Orcs in Topfloorien,” Celery said gravely from where he lay in an undignified lump on the ground.

“Right,” Pimpi lifted the chain from around her neck and held the pendant away from herself. “Try telling Lopitoff that.”

Celery, missing the sarcasm, faced the dangling horse head and intoned, “Listen to me, little shrunken gold horse-head thingy, there are no Orcs in Topfloorien, and that's final.”

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Entish Bow stood propped up next to the Sharing Hammock. It was accustomed to being laid aside when swords were unsheathed, since it was useless in close combat. Suddenly the sound of a voice nearby woke it from its dozing.

“Well, Mr. Gravlox,” it said, “this is a nice pickle we’ve landed ourselves in!”

Startled, the Bow shook itself awake, thinking that it had been dreaming. Strangely, Merisuwyniel was no longer seated next to it, but the unknown male who, though he was an enemy, apparently meant her no harm. The voice seemed to come from his lower appendage.

“Who speaks?” the Bow asked. “Your voice seems familiar, yet I recognize it not.”

“And I feel that I should know yours also,” the answer came, slightly muffled. “I am the unfortunate wooden substitute for the lost foot of this brave captain.”

The Bow gasped. Could it be? Was this wood of his wood and branch of his branch? It trembled so strongly that it fell over, touching the wooden ankle which was revealed between ill-fitting boots and too-short trousers. In blissful reunion, the Entish relics communicated silently with one another, which is just as well, since their conversation was much too lengthy and boring to be related here.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Merisuwyniel stirred, sensing more than seeing the approaching of faint light on the eastern horizon and hearing the sounds of birds awaking. How could so much time have passed since she had come here? She touched Gravlox’ hand shyly and said, “Oh say, can you see? It is dawn’s early light!”

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day,” he protested.

“It was the lark, and not the nightingale that pierced the fearful hollow of mine ear,” she replied.

“Nay, that raucous sound comes from crebain of Dunland,” he corrected. “Hide!”

She threw the folds of her Elven cloak over the Hammock, concealing them perfectly from all intruding eyes. After a longer time than was strictly necessary to be certain of safety, she reluctantly drew it back again.

“You must be gone and live, or stay and die,” she admonished.

“When shall we two meet again?” he asked, gazing longingly at her face.

“O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?” she breathed.

“I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come,” he replied fervently.

“A thousand times good day!” she said yearningly, slowly letting go of his hand.

“’Twill be a thousand nights to be away!” He tore his eyes from her lovely features and turned, disappearing from her sight between the trees.

Sighing, she picked up the Bow, wondering fleetingly that it was lying on the ground next to the place where her Orcish beloved had been seated. With light, graceful and swift steps, she ran back to Careless Gardenhon.

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion shook his head, his exquisite coiffure settling down in gentle, heroic waves. Clearing his head, he looked up and saw the fair Merisuwyniel, Star of the Skies, returning. His heart thudded like a rhinocerous in heat having a mild coronary as he saw her flushed and exuberant features. She had clearly been thinking of him again, day-dreaming of running her fingers through his supremely subtle highlights. Her hair was a mane behind her, her dress was askew and her quivers loose and bouncing upon her shoulder.

He rose, with very great glee, and strode to her, as her heavy breathing and ruddy complexion gave clear notice to Lord Gormlessar that she was faint at the very thought of his pugilist's pectorals.

"So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
Burning in flames beyond all measure," quoth he, grandiosely, with a massive dose of unintentional irony. "My fairest Princess, gladly come are you to this place. Let me escort you to where you might rest." He laid a broad, strong hand on her slim shoulder (exposed by an unfortunate tear in her gown) as if to lead her away. All the while his eyes shone with his love and passion for her, so beauteous was she in this flushéd state.

"Halfie!" she said sharply, and removed his hands. She whistled for Felafel, and before Tofu could even spell 'cuckold' in Greek, she was gone. Thoroughly annoying Halfullion, who slumped disconsolately to the ground, his ardor dispelled, Tofu began to sing, under his breath, "Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love, Untrue Love, Untrue Love, adieu, Love; Your mind is light, soon lost for new love."

Halfullion looked thoroughly miserable so Etceteron sidled over and reluctantly offered a swig from his hip-flask. Some seconds later, red-faced and spluttering, Halfullion had very nearly forgotten all about Elven Princesses.

[ February 04, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Bêthberry]

The not-Queen Saladriel composed herself as best she could, her face filled with the unsurpassed beauty of the ages and shining as if bejewelled with the light of new love. She was moved, nay, deeply touched, at the thoughtful and caring and considerate ways of the Dwarf and she paused to admire with plenitude the deft and dexterous and nimble ways of Kuruharan's fingers as he skillfully repaired the sundered Bowl.

"True indeed it is said that the skill of dwarves is in their hands rather than their tongues."

"Yes, yes, whatever you wish, my dwarven darling," she spoke with a hushed tone which was barely heard over the loud gaffaws and snorts of Chrysophylax, who was becoming quite exercised in his own way, wondering if the Bowl would ever bring forth something to him a little more substantial than this vegetable matter.

"Here, I offer up to you what none have e're earned in so bold an action. And may your hands flow with gold over it." So saying, Saladriel retreated to discuss the affair with several of her handbunnies, er handhares, who seemed none too displeased with the exchange. More volunteered than were strictly necessary, so Saladriel chose the comliest and handed them over to Kuruharan.

Unseen in the light of her surprising ritual of gift-giving were the actions of poor, forelorn, heart-broken Halfullion, whose watery sorrows were not so great as to keep him from noticing that some of the handbunnies, er, handhares, had been overlooked. He was quick to whisper sweet and not so sweet enharements in their ears, whereupon he departed, consoled in his misery by several of them.

[ February 04, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron approached the dread salad bowl with an unsteadiness that was due in part to trepidation but mostly to a day spent drinking, and reciting bad poetry. Vogonwë's latest masterpiece had left him feeling inspired, although it had sadly fallen short of providing more than the sensation; and the fruits of this had been lavished upon all whose ears remained unblocked:

Oh give me a flask full o' the warm South
And let me sup it alway'.
There is a crust within my arid mouth,
And I must wash it clean.
Behold the goblet's sheen
Reflects to me wobbly squiggles and lines

It was with these mighty staves in his mind that the warrior almost-poet strode through the wreckage of the mystic salad, stepping neatly over a puddle of Sauce Vignette to pause awhile and contemplate the wilting depths of the prophetic receptacle. Stooping slightly, he brushed aside the momentary distraction of a stray morsel of Juvenal and gazed deeply into the heart of an artichoke, wondering blearily what wonders he would see.

At first there was only a rather sad assortment of squashed vegetables, drizzled with oil and not a little mucus, and a vague smell of equine halitosis. Then images began to form: first the mouth of a silver flask, then a drop of pure amber liquid. His gaze being naturally drawn to spiritual things, Earnur looked into the depths of the drip and was engulfed.

He was standing in a sward, over some former feared bandits, a bloodied and broken sword in his hands. The leader of his erstwhile opponents wore a fine sable scabbard for his impressive weapon, and without further ado he set about unbuckling it. No sooner did he take the blade to sheath it, however, than there came a voice seemingly from his hand:

You useless twonk! I've seen bleedin' toddlers 'oo could've parried that! I 'ope you 'ad that pansy good an' proper...

There was a sudden, pregnant pause.

I'm not talkin' to Slasher am I?

"You address Lord Earnur Etceteron of Ilvers-in-Slógin, O hidden foe. Stand forth that I may test the mettle of this sword." replied the great warrior, glancing about him wildly.

I am the sword, you berk. 'Ow the 'ell did a prat like you ever beat Slasher Grimodur?

"Peace, my brand. Th'art mine by right of looting corpses. Henceforth we shall be as brothers in battle, and many shall wonder at our deeds..." retorted Etceteron grandly, but his new sword interrupted him.

Leave it aht, Sunshine. I've 'eard it all before. Last bloke 'oo said that it took 'em five days ta find all of 'im. I'll stitch you up 'nall, ya great steamin' tit...

But Etceteron was no longer listening. A brightly-coloured mist was swirling about him, which differed from the usual rainbow in that it eventually coalesced into something resembling reality. He was in a grassy glen, looking on some sort of grey hammock. Near it, a very familiar-looking bow lay close beside a crudely made wooden foot, which was fastened to a leg that clearly belonged, even at this merciful distance, to a plastic surgeon's retirement scheme. Although it was doubtful that even a mother could love a limb so revolting its owner appeared to have prevailed against plausibility and taste; for entwined with the disgusting appendages of the beast were those of someone rather more attractive. Were it not for his certainty that every Elf he knew possessed both keen sight and a functioning sense of smell he might have thought this better-looking half familiar, but as it was he could only mutter something about Cupid being painted blind before a welcome veil was drawn over the scene.

Now he stood in a black landscape. He faced some great and terrible evil, but his sword would point only at the ground. The faint words of an argument reached him, cut short as a huge taloned hand swept into view and his vision darkened.

Now he sat in what could only be a tavern, slumped over a rough-hewn table. Someone at the bar was buying a round for everyone, and he sprang to his feet to order a large Miruvor and soda, but the vision faded as swiftly as it had begun. For some reason an unexpected earthquake had begun, and someone was shouting at him, presumably to beg assistance.

"Lord Etceteron? Lord Etceteron? Oi, Clothears!" said the Lady Saladriel daintily, and never, it seemed, had he heard a voice so fair. Suddenly struck by the beauty of the not-Queen at a delicate moment when relative sobriety was beginning to set in, Earnur muttered something indecipherable, to which she replied: "Your visions have fatigued you greatly, my lord. Perhaps you would lief retire?".

Suddenly being alone with a bottle of wine didn't seem the attractive proposition it usually did at this time of day. Aware that he really would rather like some company this time he made the greatest conversational sally of the month:

"You've got nice hair." slurred Lord Etceteron feebly.

"Ummm... Very well... I think you ought to go and have a lie down now." decided his hostess uncertainly, obviously none too happy with the compliment: the not-royal court was not used to such gin-sodden idiocy. Realising that he had failed to make an impression, and too embarrassed to speak further without a drink, Earnur did his best to extricate himself from this new blunder with no more than the usual loss of dignity.

"Gratefully, Lady." said the daredevil dipsomaniac, "For I have seen much that seems to me strange, and I must ponder on it ere I sleep."

Lightweight

"Shut it." Etceteron told his brand, which had spoiled his momentary satisfaction with his apparently successful gambit; but it was an ill-advised moment of remonstrance, since only he had heard the word.

"I beg your pardon?" inquired Saladriel sharply.

"...Mmmm? Nothing. Sorry..."

Mumbling apologetically, Lord Etceteron made to retire. Pausing only to grab a jug of wine from the table he left the Fellowship and made for his quarters to commune in spirit with the elven vintage. He left surrounded by derisive metallic laughter that only he could hear.

[ February 09, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox made his way wearily from Topfloorien. I meant to kidnap her and hold her for ransom. Really I did, spoke a voice inside him. Who are you trying to kid, and more importantly, what will you do now? came a second voice. You are an Uruk! insisted the first voice. You are a Shmuck! What now Romeo? Deny thy name...? Gravlox shook his head violently. "Not enough sleep," he muttered as he approached the borders of Topfloorien...

[ February 06, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Bêthberry]

Celery was stewing yet again. He had fancied a bit of garden of his own, but Saladriel had not invited him to peep. And now his hopes of dicing her were shredded. He had not intended Saladriel to string along that dwarf. "There's no good help around these days," he rabbited on, blaming Aliciel for failing to ensure that Tofu had discharged soon enough into the bower. He sulked off to devise a pithy plan to defeat these pulp fictions on the marrow.

After much cerebration, the Company were again summoned for a final celebration to the chambers of Celery where he spoke crisply but ceremoniously of hardening their hearts for the leaf-taking. Seeing their resolve wilt, he offered more of the magical mashed mushrooms, served once again by Aliciel who was quick to point out that one bite would make them large and the other bite make them small. Halfullion at this news had a spot of trouble holding manly onto l'Enviey Piennhas and Wylkynsion berated Etceteron about getting the bite right. Orogarn Two demanded the right to take two bites of the pasties, one also for Too and Pimpiowyn munched the entire mash in one masticatory mouthful. Vogonwë immediately memorialized the marvellous morsels in extemporaneous amphimacer, which cretinous cretic shall here be recorded to highlight its curiosity as an archly archaic anachronism.

In amaze
Lost, I gaze!
Can our Eyes
Reach thy size?
May my Lays
Swell with Praise
For this Meal
So unreal.

Not realizing this was the antipathetic antidote, Saladriel attempted to allure Kuruharan into nibbling on the nicety which she held in her mouth, but he was busy trying to garner Celery's attention in order to discuss the potential for this product in the weight management market.

Suddenly, the earth stood still.

"Oh, poop," said Etceteron. "These aren't the honey cakes of the born-gains. Pimpi burped. Orogarn Two did a double back flip. Halfullion tossed his head dashingly. Saladriel rolled her eyes--all that apparently she had to roll.

"I guess that what should be shall be after all," she intoned in her most meaningfully monotonous, monogomous monotone.

"Oh woe! Alas! Farewell great visions," bespoke our heroine, Merisuwyniel. "I feel your loss, good members of our 'ship. I was clearly foresightful in refusing to partake of this repast, for now I have my memories at least intact. I will not forget he whose very steps enthrall my bow. Yet you great Saladriel are fairly envious and perhaps needful as well. I will give you the Bow if you ask for it."

With these generous words the lovely girl with the lovely hands tremblingly held the lovely bow up to the not-Queen. The Bow seemed to stand upright and fairly hummed with its own good vibrations.

"Well-dressed am I but clearly I have met my match in your saucy skirts. I do not deny that I have long longed for such a long bow. And for many years I have pondered what I might do should a living bow come into my hands. And now at last it comes and if I take it all shall love me and despair."

"I know what it is you seek, for I have seen the bow quiver on your pillow beside you. I say to you, Merisuwyniel, that even as I speak to you I perceive the Dark Lord. He ever gropes to see me and my thought, but is yours the greater need?"

Saladriel lifted up her hands and from the hot peppers she held in her fingers there shot forth a firey burning taste and as she planted herself there, to Merisuwyniel she seemed herbaceous and edible beyond tossing. Then Saladriel dropped her hands and lo! she was once again merely the not-Queen of Topfloorien, a simple mixed salad rather than a Caesar.

"I pass the croutons. I will choose ascetic vinegar and leave the bow cid'er."

They stood a long while in silence and then the Lady spoke again.

"Now is the time for you to leaf." She snapped her fingers and many handhares came forward and provided them with more croutons for the journey, with cloaks woven of the strongest hemp and held about the neck with a brooch like a mushroom head veined with dollar signs.

"They are as good as credit," said Saladriel. "Now let us drink the cup of V8 and the shadows of consumerism fall between us. And here be the munificent and magnificent gifts of Saladriel and Celery to the Company."

"To the dashingly dashing Halfullion, the Lord Gormlessar, I give a sheath to fit his sword, which is overlaid with a tracery of flowers and leaves and mosses and on it is carved runes which speak the extraction of the sword, in notches."

"To the Lord Earnur Etceteron, valiantly valorous and in vino veritas, I offer a mithril flask of prodigious unemptying production and on which is carved the image of an elk's antlers and the words, in runes of course, Dorfiddich Single Malt. Other runes of the magical inscription are, unfortunately, weathered and scratched and overhatched. The only remaining runes which can be made out are the potentially portentous, 'made ..... compromise.'"

"To the mightily physically fit Orogarn Two, he of very fine fettle, I give a mithril fob for binding his wallet to his belt, should he ever find it again, that it be not lost nor taken from him ever again, knock on wood." (Here Saladriel glanced at the Entish bow quivering on Merisuwynial's back.)

"To Kuruharan the Convivial but Conniving, I give a pouch of sundried tomatoes and mixed antipasto, a sort of vegetal pemmican, and suggest he devise ways of marketing it for the tourist trade which will spring up in the footsteps of the Fellow/Galship."

"To Pimpiowyn, not-lover of orcs, I give a box of bean seeds set with the letter S for Saladriel but may it also stand for Sustenance in your tongue, so that always the half-halfling would always have something to feast upon. At the very least such musical fruit could always be used to punctuate Vogonwë's poetic output."

"To Vogonwë himself I give a raspberry wreath, to be worn around his brow as a totem to guard against those who would hazard a critical comment upon his poetic output."

"And, finally, to the splendidly lovely and sumptuously attired and perfectly finished heroine Merisuwyniel, I give a cosmetic bag 'broidered with the runes, Yo,Logo. In it are samples from all the coolest Brand Names of creams, salves, unguents, ointments and foot powders for when you will be in rough places and want to be brand-new. Oh, and emery boards for your lovely nails."

And as the Fellow/Galship took their leaf there arose the voice of the Not-Queen singing puckishly to them one last time:

If we purists have offended
Think but this and all is mended
Tolkien has but words us lended
And we our elbows now have bended
As if in jest bad verse is ended
And laughter much is cheerily sended.

[ February 10, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel gracefully swung a shapely leg, clad again in the practical yet feminine divided skirt which was her habitual attire, over Falafel’s back. The starry festive gown had been relegated to her saddle bag, folded carefully with layers of tissue paper and enclosed in a waterproof protective cover. Likewise had she traded the high-heeled Manwëolos for her fine leather boots, supple and sturdy. As she waited for the others to take their farewells, she unwrapped the small package that Celery had secretly slipped into her hand, recalling his words.

“The eyes of the men who surround you on this journey are not sufficient witness to your beauty,” he had said. “Take this small token from one who has seen much that was once beautiful fade away from memory, and delight in the vision it shows you.”

After she had removed the shiny wrapping paper and the elaborate bow, she saw a locket, exquisitely shaped of gold and mithril, attached to a mithril chain. She pushed the clasp to open it and lo! the face of a wonderfully fair, dark-haired Elven maiden was therein. She recognized it as the image of Tinúlizzie, the most beautiful Elf that ever lived. Then the picture faded, and a golden-haired maiden became visible. Eyes of velvety violet looked back at her, and only when the image moved did she realize that she saw herself in a mirror.

Peering more closely, she realized that her complexion was rather ruddy, more so than a becoming blush would account for. Furtively, she rummaged through the cosmetic bag till she found a sample of tinted moisturizer and applied it to her face. Then she disguised the shadows of sleepless nights with cover stick. How restlessly she had tossed and turned, torn between self-reproach and longing.

She had looked into the heart of an enemy and seen there love and understanding. Now memory was all that was left, and memory was not what her heart desired. That could only be a mirror… And as she gazed into the mirror, it seemed that she could see the outline of a dark figure, waiting for her – but where?

[Kuruharan]

The Elves took the Questers down to the pier to show them their noble craft. The Elves had been very considerate in loading all their supplies and horses onto the craft beforehand. Given the amount of supplies and the size of the horses the Fellow/gal-ship hoped that they had been given a veritable flotilla of mighty river craft.

"And here is your ship," said Celery as it came into view.

The Fellow/gal-ship was disappointed that they had only been given one boat. They were further disappointed when they got a good look at the boat. In fact "boat" was probably not the correct descriptive term for it. "Three pieces of plywood nailed together" would probably be a better way of describing it.

Their gear was piled up in the middle of the craft. Chrysophylax was taking up one whole side of the raft, and the horses were precariously balanced among the baggage on the other.

"Ummmm..." said Pimpi dubiously.

"That’s right," said Celery. "Its a wonderful craft!"

"But..." said Merisuwyniel.

"You just get aboard and everything will work out fine," said Celery.

"But..." said Merisuwyniel.

*BOP* *SMACK* *SHOVE* *KICK* *TOSS*, erupted the sounds of a sudden scuffle as the Elves "helped" the Fellow/gal-ship aboard.

There was no other way for the Questers to ride on the raft except for them to mount their horses and dragon, except for Orogarn Two who had no horse.

"But we have to go upriver for a few miles," said Orogarn Two. "We have no oars."

"Ask and ye shall receive," said Celery.

A few pathetic splinters of wood were tossed their way.

"By the way," said Earnur, "where is not-Queen Saladriel?"

"Ah...er...um, she had an appointment, yes that’s it, an appointment," sputtered Celery. "She soooooo hoped to be able to give you a good send off, but she’s all tied up at the moment." Inwardly, the word that arose unbidden to his mind was, "literally!"

"Anyway, bon voyage!" cheered Celery.

"Oh, these city dwellers have such sophisticated expressions!" Merisuwyniel thought dreamily.

The Elves of Topfloorien had broken out their ukuleles and grass skirts, and they started to play a wistful song of departure, swaying gently to the music.

"Well, off we go!" called Halfullion.

The Fellow/gal-ship leaned down from their horses to use their so-called oars. They set to their task with good cheer and vigor.

+++++++

Two days later

+++++++

"Can’t...row...another...stroke..." gasped Earnur as he collapsed in his saddle. The rest of the Questers silently agreed and they all slumped over in their saddles.

*BUMP!* went the raft back into the pier approximately two seconds later.

The Elves of Topfloorien were all sitting pathetically on the ground staring forlornly at the Fellow/gal-ship. They only managed a muted and half-hearted hum of their song of departure by this point.

"This is getting nowhere fast!" thought Celery to himself. "How are these philandering jerks supposed to drown if I can’t get them out to midstream. What if they decide to spend another night here! I’ll end up even more cuckolded than I am already!"

Suddenly, inspiration struck.

Gathering some of the other Elves, Celery and his helpers grabbed long poles and started shoving the raft away and out toward the river.

"Oh, why thank you," said an exhausted Merisuwyniel.

"Think nothing of it!" said Celery hurriedly. "Off you go!"

And off they went. They drifted out into the river and were picked up by the current.

"I say," said Kuruharan suddenly. "Aren’t we going the wrong direction."

"Huh?" said Vogonwë.

"We needed to go upstream from Topfloorien. We are rapidly going downstream," said Kuruharan.

"What difference does it make so long as we get to the other side of the river?" asked Orogarn Two.

"Hmmm..." said Kuruharan dubiously. "Getting over there may be the problem."

"Nonsense!" said Halfullion. "The way the river current is we’ll just float right over to the other side and hop off this thing without even getting our feet wet. You’ll see!"

Alas, all the Fellow/gal-ship saw was the opposite shore drift lazily by for the next two days.

"Something is not right here," said Orogarn Two.

"I’ve eaten the last of the food," announced Pimpi.

Suddenly, a horn call blared from the opposite bank. Several dark and agile river craft darted out of concealment and bore down on the Questers.

"River Pirates!" cried Kuruharan. "To the skies!" So saying, Chrysophylax abruptly took off, bearing his master out of reach of danger.

"Wait!" shrieked Merisuwyniel. "Something is wrong with this!"

"I’ll say!" bawled Halfullion, furiously trying to get Tofu aloft. "What has come over this cursed beast! Fly varmint, FLY!!"

"Horses don’t have wings!" shouted Vogonwë.

"Says you!" snapped Halfullion.

"Look out!" called Orogarn Two.

The pirate ships had closed in rapidly. The crews were scrambling preparing to board the raft and slaughter the defenders.

Earnur drew Wylkynsion in preparation for the first real battle that the Fellow/gal-ship had yet experienced on their travels. As the pirates closed in he reacted in the only way that a strong, tough slab of raw, reeking manly manliness could react.

He succumbed to a sudden fit of the vapors and fainted.

"Git," snapped Wylkynsion.

Seeing his rival’s discomfiture, Halfullion prepared to draw his blade to do battle with the foe. However, something was missing. His mighty sword of legend and lore was nowhere to be found.

"Where is it, my preciousss? Where has it got to?" squealed Halfullion in a desperate attempt to find the sword.

"You had it just a minute ago," said Pimpi helpfully.

"Wait a minute, here it is," said Halfullion. He tipped his new scabbard up into the air and {presto} a little miniature sword popped out. It looked to be just the right size to be put through an olive and served on a platter.

"Could there be a worse time for this to happen?!" yelled Halfullion.

"No!" said Merisuwyniel scornfully. How so unlike her new beau who had a much more reliable sword.

Merisuwyniel had been shooting the pirates with the Ent that was Broken, killing about five with each shot. Her markswomanship was greatly aided by the fact that the pirates were crowding together on their ships to gawk at her. However with every five that fell, fifteen more came crowding to stare.

Vogonwë was doing his part by tossing arrows at a furious pace and killing many more of the foe.

For her part, Pimpi could see little hope in resistance. They had no more food, so it would be better to surrender in hopes of getting a decent meal.

Orogarn Two was silently calling on the strength of his ancestors and his high lineage and drawing his boring, but truth be told much more useful, sword in preparation for combat.

Kuruharan and Chrysophylax glided sedately above. As an encouragement to those trapped below he pulled out his accordion and started to slowly play the mournful strains of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

As concerned for their comrades as they were Chrysophylax could not bring himself to swoop low enough to blast the pirates to cinders. The pirates had many archers and Chrysophylax had a relative who had perished in very similar circumstances. The two of them contented themselves with providing moral support.

Suddenly, the moment of truth arrived.

"Board ‘em!" howled the pirates.

"Kill 'em!" screamed Wylkynsion, even though he was in no position to do anything at the moment.

The pirates jumped aboard with a wild "Huzzah!" and the turmoil of mortal combat began on the little raft.

Alas, the raft was not designed for this kind of rough-housing.

*GLOOP* *KA-CRUNCH* went the little craft as it simultaneously capsized and broke apart.

The pirates reacted swiftly to snatch up the valuables, and were notably slower about retrieving their comrades and the unfortunate Questers.

When this work was completed they stood on the deck of a river-boat tied hand and foot facing a deranged looking captain with one wooden leg, and a big bushy beard.

"ARRRH, Mates! Wot we got ‘ere?!" asked the captain.

"I didn’t get a word of that," said Merisuwyniel. She was desperately trying to avoid the pawing hands of the pirates. "His language is archaic and his dialect barbaric!"

"Wot you got 'ere is a sword that is too good fer ya!" said Wylkynsion.

"Hoo said that?" said the captain after a moment of bewildered glancing about him.

"Me," said Wylkynsion.

"Hoo?!" asked the captain.

"Oh for..." snarled Wylkynsion.

"Stow that," yelled the captain. "We must get arrrrh plunder ashore before darrrrrrhk. Man the oarrrrrrrrhs. Leave these bilge rats here. And somebody ‘ave an eye fer tha’ dragon."

The crew whipped into motion and rowed for the opposite bank. They went up an small tributary as it was getting dark. The Fellow/gal-ship had reached the other side of the river, but they were prisoners of the moderately dreaded, but not really quite feared, River Pirates.

From there they were lost to sight in the dark, but Kuruharan and Chrysophylax followed them.

[Mithadan]

Gravlox and three of his scouts watched from across the river as Merisu and her company attempted again and again to launch their "vessel". Buzzcut roared with laughter as the current pushed the raft back to shore no matter how its crew struggled to guide it into the rushing water. Even Gravlox began to giggle when, during the fifteenth attempt, one of the "warriors" fell into the river and splashed frantically until he realized the water was only hip deep.

When two days later, the raft finally got under way, Gravlox organized his band and they began to trot along after Merisu and Co. ( Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks, and everywhere we go... splash, splash... NO SINGING! ).

The assault of the river pirates caught even Gravlox unawares. He watched intently as they looted the raft of its goods (giggling a bit at the "prowess" of Halfullion and Etceteron) and then with alarm as the pirates took Merisu and the others hostage.

"Well, that's that," proclaimed Buzzcut. "We'll have to find someone else to play with." But Gravlox urged his Uruks into a double-time march (one broke a leg trying to keep time) and as night fell, they were camped a half mile from the pirate outpost. When asked, he responded that the pirates were now their target.

Following traditional Orcish custom, they made their wounded comrade comfortable. Then they ate him.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Earnur awoke and groaned. It was a groan of agony for his pounding headache; a groan of deep, heart-rending frustration for his sudden alcoholic fainting fit and a groan of total humiliation because he had been tied up by someone who looked as though he'd failed the audition for a fish-finger advertisement. This would never do: The sword Wylkynsion was already annoyed because it had killed nothing in weeks, and now at the first sign of a real fight, not to mention an opportunity to kill someone with a silly beard, he had keeled over like a nun in an abattoir.

His position was especially awkward as he could reach neither of his flasks. If this situation couldn't be resolved soon he would begin to sober up, and it was far too early in the day for that. Urgently he cast about him for a means of escape, perchance to drink.

Fortunately the pirate crew, being grizzled sea-dogs, were fond of the stronger spirits that were distilled around Greyhaven* and other less salubrious Elven enclaves. A bottle of Strangereek's had fallen to the deck very near where he was sitting not more than a day ago, and he could smell the spilled liquor eating its way into the planks. Shuffling closer to the reeking crater he allowed the bonds at his wrists to touch the highly volatile beverage, at which a substantial proportion of the rope evaporated. Now able to reach a miniature of the good Captain's Olde Amber Amnesia that he kept in a secret pocket in case of unfavourable customs laws or chemical weapons treaties, he applied a few swift drops to the ropes around his legs and was free.

The solitary tar assigned to guarding the prisoners was reasonably good. Given that the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin was more sober than usual and fighting unarmed, the other man had a certain advantage; but all the same it took an entire rambling paragraph to make a deprecating comment about his haircut and break his neck like a dry twig.

Swiftly untying those of his companions that he could see through his stinging eyes and stinking headache, Lord Etceteron now addressed himself to the real problem of the day: how was he to recover the sword Wylkynsion, which had never failed in battle, and for which the pawnbroker in Minas Vëatë always gave at least ten silver pieces? He turned to his companions, but it was too late to say anything: the greybeard loon was returning to gloat, and had noticed this daring piece of escape work. In his hands he held a blade that was the terror of three continents and thousands of temporary incontinents; a blade that would have sold its forger for the amusement value, as indeed would this narrator. There was a viciously satisfied gleam along the edge of Wylkynsion's black blade, and the Captain's first words were not encouraging:

"What d'ye mean, ye lily-pommelled landlubber? Captain Byrdsae always gloats over 'is victims afore they walks the plank."

"Lord Etceteron exercises no man's pet." announced the bemused nobleman, glancing for support to his manly companions.

The Captain engaged in a one-sided bout of whispering, which culminated in "All right; we can kill 'em now." and lunged towards our gallant party, beginning the second skirmish in two episodes. The action was hotting up in earnest.

Note:
* Now Grimsby

[ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Birdland]

(Two kraken-ish creatures float in the water, watching the the second skirmish)

"So what do we do now?"

"We watch."

(Creatures watch)

"Can't I eat one?"

"No, we can't. That's not what we do."

"They're right there. Just one."

"No. Just watch."

(Creatures watch some more.)

"I'm hungry."

"Here. Have a fish. Nice fish."

(Beats fish on rock and eats it.)

"That passed the time...Who's winning?"

"I think the ones on the left."

(They move to the left, and watch some more.)

"Is it over?"

"Seems to be."

"Let's go."

"Yes. Let's go."

(They do not move.)

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Rimbaud]

"For goodness sake Halfie," pleaded Merisuwyniel. "Now is the time!"

In the heat of the moment and the confusion into which they had all been thrown, like croutons in the soup of combat, she had neglected her martial prowess and was clinging on Lord Gormlessar's arm as a limpet would a limpet-attracting surface. At any other moment, he would have been rather pleased at this abrupt turn of events; however, prior to the sodden Lord Etceteron's fumbled rescue attempt (he had not untied Gormlessar's wrists but had very nearly severed his thumb) he was feeling rather queasy. He refused to look at his (presumably bloodied) hand for fear of the fainting fit he knew (with some small shame) would result in him seeing anything red and moist.

Merisuwyniel tugged on his arm more fiercely. Luckily, with this being an action sequence, the director had slowed the bad guys down to super-slow-mo, but due to time constraints, the editing team had left the Fellow/Gal-ship running at normal speed, allowing them quite a bit of time to prepare. Orogarn Two sat down, cross-legged, and began cleaning his nails out with his sword, that the inept River Pirates had neglected, neglectfully, in a wanton display of neglectful neglect.

"Merisuwyniel, please bandage my thumb," gasped the injured Hero Halfullion. Adroitly she did so, ripping material from her bodice. Etceteron tried unsuccessfully not to gawk and mumbled something about the South Downs, and rolling slopes, but no-one was listening.

"Why so afraid, oh mighty one?" she whispered as she finished off the make-shift dressing.

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine, making the green one red," he replied carelessly, rather surprsing her for she thought that line had been punned on previously and considerably more humourously. Etceteron, trying to yank a hitherto unsuspected black dagger from a similarly sable soft satin boot, stumbled into her.

"Out, damned sot!" she cried. Ah, I see now, it was a sort of precursory pre-emptive premonitory sort of affair, she mused. She finished wrapping the strips from her tunic around his hand.

Will I ever cut her hair? wondered Halfullion. This wound to my hand seems most grievous. Yet I am a Hero! I must ignore my pain.. He yanked the dread blade L'Envey Piennhas from the gorgeous yet somewhat effeminate scabbard gift from the Lady of the Bowel, Not-Queen Saladriel, and removing himself from Merisuwyniel's whitened grasp, he strode forth manfully to meet his destiny. He had managed to retain the sword through their capture due to it's miniscule size at the time. The scabbard magically matched the sword, inch for inch.

His haircut was simply unbelievable and accounted for three of the enemy before battle was even joined. He shook his supreme waves of faultless folicles at their backs, as they scampered away, gibbering in fear and awe of his stupendous bouffant.

Even his companions seemed dumbstruck by Halfullion's grand charge, this flaming hunk of a man, all rippling muscles, superbly tailored tight leatrher armour pieces and a flying buttress cod-piece that bespoke of a quite incomprehensibly incredible masculinity. His charge was only slightly lessened by the sight of his sword, which in its current state would not have caused a softened slab of butter to tremble unduly. It was, to use the friendliest word available, stubby.

This did not stop the mighty impact of his first blow, a blow so strong that it clean knocked the head off the first marauding maruader. The head span, in a graceful arc, coming finally to the hands of Ororgarn Two, who had risen from the ground. Orogarn Two, that most athletic warrior, caught the flying noggin adeptly, slapped it down upon the ground, whereupon the springy turf sent it bouncing swiftly up again. Undeterred, he tapped it thrice more upon the ground, becoming more surprised each time it returned, finally jumping, spinning, and slamming the head down into a circle of rocks leading into a small ravine beside him, and inventing the game of Basketball in the process.

"Huzzah," mumured Vogonwe and tried to think of suitable words for the spell-binding action he had witnessed. He spent the remainder of the skirmish thinking of rhymes for 'hoop-meister'.

Halfullion meantime had rediscovered his heroic qualities. His sword now at a more appropriate size for a blade of such dread repute, he was busily chopping the heads of all the enemies that came at him. The pile of heads was growing rather rapidly and the other members of the party started to become rather nauseous. Seeing that they were not required, they walked off, heading where, they knew not, befuddled by the darkness and the difficulty of the way.

* *

Fearing for his safety, sometime later in the night, the Dwarf and the Dragon were sent back to discover what had become of him. They were gone for a long time.

When they finally returned, they bore with them the noble Hero, who was quite liberally coated in the life-blood of their would be captors. The Dragon seemed replete and immediately settled down to sleep.

"Where have you been?" questioned Merisuwyniel, with a note of hysteria in her voice, and more than a trace of Listerine on her mouth.

"I found him," said the Dwarven Merchant, grimly. "I found him, squatting atop a gruesome pile of heads, busily..."

His voice faltered and it seemed that it would not go on. Halfullion helped him out.

"I was cutting hair!" he said happily. "I have discovered a fabulous new hairstyle! It's business in the front, party in the back!!!"

"Eh?!" cried all the assembled in mass confusion, as dawn flooded the skies around them with a somewhat listless light.

"A mullet!" cried the wood-be hair-stylist, sword wielding hero. "To the French, mullét! Business in front, party out back, like I said. A mullet!"

And he had pictures.



And links.

Finally, all in the party knew true terror. More than pants-wetting, consciousness-fracturing terror, we're talking real, unadulterated, primal fear.

It was the grimmest part of the whole quest. It took them another dayus walking, in utter silence, with Halfullion uncermoniously tied to Tofu's back and gagged, before any of them could set the horror aside at all. However, Vogonwë managed somehow to lower the tone before they slept that night. In a dread tone, his aspect fell, he recited the grim words of the Mullet Haiku:

It's not a trailer.
Angry mullet man insists.
Manufactured home.

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Diamond18]

In the morning, Vogonwë awoke in a cheerier mood, visions of mullets successfully driven from his head by sweet and poetical dreams, not doubt aided in their sweetness by Saladriel’s gift.

Now that they were no longer floundering in the water, drifting downstream or prisoners of pirates, he saw that the time for blessing his companions with the third fit of his epic poem had now come. It was a tricky fit to write, but he had managed to finish it in his mind the previous day, whilst he had been cleaning the pirate blood from his arrows with a soft terry cloth.

His companions awoke, and he seized the opportunity their grogginess created to declare his intent. Pimpiowyn, who had a developed a lush and affectionate glow in her magnificently large and dewy eyes since counting the number of pirates he had dispatched with effortless skill, reacted favorably. Her little hobbit heart had gone pitter-pat to see her arrow-throwing love at work, but unfortunately the amorous mood was bound to pass with nothing more than a poem.

The others were, of course, groggy and unable to think twice about it.

“The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs,” he intoned, “Fit the Third, Lollyin’ in Topfloorien:

The Subway behind them, the woods before them,
The ground beneath them, the sky above them,
Food inside them, clothes upon them, air around them,
The Company rode along.

They entered the woods, under the golden boughs,
The leaves were falling, the birds were calling,
And Holdit met them at the gate, and led them to,
The Elven not-Queen who did them await,
In her treetop flet ornate.

Topfloorien, Topfloorien!
I’ll say it again, Topfloorien!
Your golden trees, your shopping sprees,
Fill female hearts with glee.
Such happy times we had then,
When we were in Topfloorien.

Saladriel welcomed them to Topfloorien,
And a sumptious feast they had then,
Again, I say Topfloorien.

The ladies fair went shopping there,
And came back looking even fairer.
Their beauty was, as ever, indescribable.
They looked so swell,
That the males flocked to them,
Like pigs to swill.

Pimpiowyn of the fiery curls,
Sets the senses awhirl,
In a dress of red,
To match her head.
Words fled at the sight of her,
And she’s all mine, so ha!

And Merisuwuniel…Merisuwyniel!
What can be said about her?
Her beauty is staggeringly, amazingly,
Breathtakingly, Unmistakably,
Wow.
Merisuwyniel, Merisuwyniel, Merisu;
Why do all the guys flock to you?
Well, duh!
Beauty like hers will probably not walk the earth again,
To that, Amen!

They partied some more, and then,
Saladriel took them to look then,
Into her Salad Bowl.
They saw different things,
Of cabbages, and kings,
And whether Balrogs have wings.
Et cetera.

And then, it was time to go.
They set out again, wistful for when,
They had been,
In Topfloorien.

When the poem was over, it was time for breakfast. Pimpiowyn’s mood had cooled considerably right around the fourth repetition of “Merisuwyniel”. She took her plate of fried mushrooms and bacon over by Lord Etceteron and forked her food with unusual gusto.

Merisuwyniel, meanwhile, sighed wistfully as she thought over the events missing from Vogonwë’s poem. It was a good thing, too, as under the influence of his leaden tongue the night would probably loose a great deal of its romance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After breakfast (three for Pimpi, who always ate extra when upset with her beau) they set off again. By mid-afternoon they reached the gloomy boughs of Workmud, Formerly Known as Greenwood the Untreated Lumber Yard. But it had been many years since the venerable old forest had fallen in shadow, a darkness emanating from the rotten heart of the woodland realm.

They looked into the dark depths of the trees and felt a distinct sense of foreboding. Whispers of doom flittered through the mind of all but Vogonwë, who said, “Ah, home sweet home! Why, the place has hardly changed at all in a hundred years! Still as dark and gloomy as ever!”

“Nevertheless, this is our road,” Merisuwyniel said gravely, leaving Vogonwë to ponder what the “nevertheless” was for.

Pimpi trembled a little, but was determined not to let on that she was afraid. She couldn’t help but cling a little closer to Vogonwë, though she had been determined to give him the cold shoulder until he noticed that she was giving him the cold shoulder.

“This forest has the look of a place where one could loose a wallet, or other things of value,” Orogarn Two said cautiously, protectively gripping his mithril fob.

“Looks a bit close, in you take my meaning,” Chrysophylax said, acutely aware of his own bulk.

Kuruharan assessed the tangled and overgrown path and gave up hope that there were any inhabitants with money to spend dwelling therein. “Aren’t there any other paths we might take?” he inquired hopefully.

“Why?” Vogonwë asked. “My cousin Throngduil will give us a royal welcome. Soon, Master Dwarf, you will sample the fabled hospitality of the Workmud Elves. Have you ever tasted ‘Mudwater? ‘Tis the finest (and most potent!) wine this side of the Sundering Seas.”

“More potent than Strangeeks?” Earnur asked doubtfully.

“Pfft. Child’s play,” Vogonwë said.

“I’m in. Let’s go, then,” his companion quoth manfully.

At the mention of the Workmud Elves, Kuruharan’s outlook brightened, and he ignored Chrysophylax’s doubtful hesitation. “Burn a path, then,” he said impatiently. “It’s all right; Pettygast isn’t around to whine about it.”

And so, they entered the sullied realm of the woodland Elves, and other things of lesser repute and not so squeaky-clean moral standing.

[ February 14, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel was astonished and secretly impressed by the tremendous demonstration of stereotypical male behaviour she had experienced in the victory over the pirates; so much so, as a matter of fact, that she herself reverted to stereotypical female behaviour.

“Let us make camp here,” she announced. “I will prepare a meal for us.”

Amazed silence greeted this prospect, coupled with not a little scepticism, since none of them knew whether this would be a consumption devoutly to be desired. Pimpiowyn recovered first and heartily agreed, being inclined to think that any meal was preferable to none. They dismounted, but instead of the rest they hoped for, they were assigned tasks by their leader-turned-cook.

“Vogonwë, you know the plants of this forest, and Pimpi recognizes anything edible – you will search for vegetables, roots and fruits. Chrysophylax will light the fire, but Kuruharan needs to find firewood first. Orogarn Two and Halfullion, your weapons have slain so many foul creatures; now you can show if you can slay some fowls for our stew.”

Halfullion protested, “But I refuse to kill living creatures just so that we can eat them!”

“I’m not suggesting that we eat Tofu,” she snapped somewhat irritably.

“Can’t Earnur do it?” he asked.

“No, I have a different assignment for him,” came her answer, as she turned to Etceteron. “You are knowledgeable in the matter of herbs and spices, are you not? Search for some to season our meal; I especially need curry.”

“But where shall I find curry?” he queried, rather puzzled.

“Curry can be found in the most unlikely places,” she replied.

All of the companions took off to complete their assigned tasks, since a warm meal and rest could only be had afterwards. All, that is, except for Halfullion. He sidled up to Merisuwyniel, laid his arm around her waist and said coaxingly, “Can’t I help you here? Orogarn Two can hunt well enough without me.”

“Well,” she retorted, “perhaps your mighty sword can be useful for dicing the vegetables. It should be just the right size!”

Offended, he left, muttering under his breath something about showing her the size of his sword. Little did he realize that watchful eyes had observed him and the Elven maiden…

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë skipped lightly down the path, and Pimpiowyn trailed behind with somewhat lesser enthusiasm. “I’m tired,” she pouted, “and I don’t like the look of these woods, and I don’t see how we shall find anything edible in this tangled mess of nasty trees.”

“Where’s you sense of adventure, darling?” Vogonwë replied glibly. “Come on, you’re with me, and I know the ins and outs of this place, so the very idea of having anything to fear is utterly preposterous.”

This heartened Pimpi a little, and she declared Tookishly, “I never said I was afraid. I just don’t think we’re going to find anything tasty and worth our trouble.”

“That’s because you don’t know where to look. I roamed these woods freely as an elf-child, and then as an elf-teenager, and still more as a grown elf. Follow me and we will bear the most food back to Merisuwyniel,” Vogonwë declared.

Pimpi was about to make a clipped observation about his eagerness to impress Merisuwyniel, when he suddenly skipped lightly off of the path and gamboled into the dark and dreadful looking forest. Pimpi froze and watched him with an expression of mingled surprise, consternation, worry, confusion, and secret admiration. “Eh…” she said.

Now, Workmud is known far and wide as being an unsavory place, though it was once peachy-fine, they say. But everyone knows that in this day and age, gamboling through the woods off the beaten path is not generally what one would classify as a “good idea”. Besides the abundance of queer noises such as grunts, groans, moans, hisses, scufflings, scurryings and hurryings in the undergrowth (plus the black skwerlz poncing about) Pimpi saw nasty cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. They looked dreadfully sticky and clingy, not to mention extraordinarily thick. She thought it very queer. But Vogonwë seemed not to mind, as he effortlessly pranced his way through the undergrowth and the dangling cobwebs alike. The grunting etc. toned down a bit as he passed by—no doubt the purveyors of the noises were also shocked at his nonchalance.

For a moment Pimpi debated whether or not she should stay on the path or tag along after him, but some odd grunting noises behind her sealed the deal, and she cautiously followed in his footsteps. “Eh…” she said again, then mustered a more loquacious, “Vogonwë, dear, wait up a bit.”

He paused. “Oh, one thing,” he said as if being struck with an idea, “on a scale of one to ten, where would you rate spiders?”

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Little ones, or big ones?”

“Smaller than some, bigger than others.”

“Bigger than a breadbox?”

“Depends on the age,” he shrugged.

“You’re scaring me.”

At this Vogonwë laughed in a forced sort of way. He waved his hand gracefully. “It doesn’t matter then, don’t worry your pretty little reddish golden curly head about it. We probably won’t meet up with any here, unless…um…I mean, I was thinking about composing a poem about spiders. Perhaps, ‘The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the—’”

“Oh, look!” Pimpi cried all of a sudden.

“What?” Vogonwë said, yanking an arrow from his quiver.

“Mushrooms!” Pimpi replied, squatting down and pointing at a patch of luscious looking mushrooms growing under a log. “Great big ones, too!”

She began to gleefully scoop the fungus up into her sack, and all thoughts of gruntings, scurryings, spiders, and other unpleasant things were forgot for the time being. It didn’t even worry her when Vogonwë turned and struck up a chattering conversation with a black skwerl. And she didn't think twice when Vogonwë turned back to her and said, "If you're done there, I've heard of an excellent little grove not far from here where we can find some grapevines."

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Mithadan]

The pirates, fifty strong, advanced in a ragged line against Gravlox and his troops. They were all heavily armed with spears, swords and other assorted pointy implements and WMD. Behind the line of pirate warriors, Merisu and her companions were tied to stakes. The pirate captain stood nearby menacing her with a flaming brand. She twisted her head from side to side, gasping in horror and wiggling in an attempt to free herself from her bonds. The captain leered at Merisu, then drew a jagged knife which he ran along her troat until he reached the first button of her bodice, which he cut off with a deft flick of his wrist. Gravlox roared in anger and with one hand drew the ZigZag sword. In his right hand, he brandished his spear. In his left, he raised his bow. He raised the ZigZag sword and screamed as he charged the pirates, letting arrows fly as he went and waving his spear frantically, while avoiding darts from the pirates with his shield. The pirate band withered before him like a perfume merchant before a dog's breath. He slew ten with a single swipe of his blade and twenty more fell with his arrows in them. Five more were spitted on his spear, three were clubbed with his shield and one broke a nail kicking his wooden leg. At last he stood before the pirate captain. Merisu's eyes shone as she looked upon her hero. Even her comapnions cheered the mighty Gravlox...

"Captain?" asked Buzzcut as he shook Gravlox gently. The Uruk's eyes opened and he shook his head to clear it of sleep. "What...what is it?" he replied.

"They got away, sir," answered his lieutenant.

"The pirates?" aked the groggy Orc Captain.

"No, sir," responded Buzzcut as he edgily took a half step back. "The Elves and their friends."

Gravlox shot to his feet with burning eyes and advanced upon his subordinate. "We did as you said, sir," Buzzcut protested as he began a prudent retreat. "We floated a case of Orc Draught Lite down the river to the pirates. They got roaring drunk. Then that bloody warrior got loose somehow and managed to kill them all. Damn near cut off his own nose doing so, but he did it. The Elves are heading towards Workmud."

Gravlox smiled...

-----------------------

Several hours later, Gravlox and his band were spying upon the Elves from behing a portcullis. They watched as the males wandered off in various directions seeking food. Again, Gravlox smiled...

[Bêthberry]

The Voyage Out

A crashingly adventurous sound broke heroically through the tumult of the trees. Then, a swayingly swinging grapevine swung down, ridden by a lithe, long-limbed, long-fingered , long-haired non-gender-specific vision of pulchritudinous pleasantness whose long locks trailed clouds of Gloréal hues.

As the grapevine plummeted to its precipitant perigee, the apparition of pulchritude which rode it reached out to take up into his arms luxuriatingly the lovely and luscious Pimiowyn, intending to comfort her of her fears. The vine shuddered and spread itself thin, thin, and thinner until finally it broke, dropping somewhat unceremoniously the half-hobbit and her elven hero onto Vogonwë, who had promptly cast off his webbed thoughts and given chase to retrieve his darling. For a long, long moment there was a tumble and a tussle amongst the three on the ground as the elven hero grouped indiscriminately in search of something.

'Oh pardon me, forgive me. The things I have seen I now can see no more. I cannot tell a sparrow from a finch a league off without my Foster Grants. I saw that you have been pursuing the peatmossed pediments and purloining puffballs and wondered mayhap if perchance you had found them. And I heard the darlingly dear maiden speak of her tremulous trepitation and so I risked relieving her of her perilous position.'

"My pardon, gracious lady. 'Twas but my natural piety which strove to ensure that your glory would not pass away from this earth."

Pimpiowyn's ears reddened and her cheeks flushed with excitement at her close encounter with this most winsome elf and she allowed herself more than a single thought about winning some. Vogonwe's protective posturing was abated, however, as he took a closer look at the pouncing hero.

"I'll be!" he cried.

"You'll be what?" answered the elf, squinting his eye towards the other vision of loveliness which had bespoke him.

"It's you. O Lando L'oréal Bloom. Third cousin Bloom," ejaculated Vogonwë with confounded cupidity.

Bloom submitted the voice to the gaze and amazement rose in his eyes.

"Oh pishpash. Behold the light and the vision splendid. My nature yet remembers what was so fugitive. It is Third cousin Vogonwë, thrice removed from Workmud. What thoughts that too often lie too deep for tears have brought you back here, to a forest of one's own?"

[ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

'Twas brillig, and in a wabe somewhere toves were gyring and gimbling slithily, as is their wont. But there was nothing at all mimsy or borrowed about the lone black-clad figure who strode with almost cretinous fearlessness through the pathless eaves of Workmud the Okay-I-Guess.

Lord Earnur had gladly accepted the fair Merisuwyniel's herbal challenge, with its fringe benefit of making that smug git Lord Gormlessar look bad. Not for the first time he considered how much restraint he had shown in not simply cutting the hole hand ("whole", he corrected, briefly wondering how he could be mis-spelling his own stream of consciousness).

Finding all of the ingredients for a vindaloo in this part of the world wasn't going to be easy; but fortunately he happened to have in his saddlebag some rare and exotic spices, which he had bought from the venerable herbalist Madhyr J'Affrey during his last trip to Far Harad. For some reason in that searingly hot part of the world it was impossible to get hold of a cold beer, and the natives quenched their parched throats with tiny thimblefuls of something that could have floored a rhinoceros at fifty paces. He would have to return when the quest was over, he reflected: some people there were still unscrupulous enough to sell it to tourists in pint mugs.

This gave the Lord of the Castle of Dun Sóbrin another brilliant idea, as he suddenly remembered the bottle that had been his salvation from the pirates. Captain Strangereek's Olde Amber Amnesia Special Reserve (aged ten minutes within a mile of oak casks, and guaranteed no more than 30% turpentine per bottle). He inhaled some of its heady aroma, which was far less painful than plucking his nasal hair, and took a deep draught.

Unfortunately not even so seasoned a boozer as Lord Etceteron should take a draught of the Special Reserve, deep or otherwise; for draught-taking is close akin to quaffing, and some drinks just aren't intended to be quaffed. The world spun crazily on a shifting axis; the sky did things that no self-respecting atmosphere should even know about and the ground chose a bad moment to take up ballet. After what seemed an eternity of falling he found himself lying on his back, gazing up into an infinity of azure sky.

Suddenly he realised with a cold stab of fear that he was remembering things that had happened more than two days ago. He must reach the bottle again. No, not the bottle: that way madness lay. He needed good, friendly, perpetually-replenishing Elven draught; or even at a pinch the bottle of balsamic vinegar that he'd taken from the uncourt of Celery and Saladriel in case of an emergency. Even Athelas would do, if he could reach his pipe. If this went on much longer he'd start to remember... what? Curse his manly ability to achieve his goals: now he could no longer remember why he wasn't allowed to remember what it was that he couldn't remember. "Ah, pour the meths an' stone me well!" he cried in his anguish, as he tried in vain to reach some alcohol, any alcohol, and slip the surly bonds of memory.

Too late! He was from his womb of substance abuse untimely wrench'd, and a curtain of long years was swept aside. Now once again he was the young apprentice dashing hero, trying hard to look manly as he hefted his father's impressively-beruned, yet as it had turned out atrociously-made brand Windósil, the sword-that-was-on-sale. Once again he stood in memory within the glade of Careless Gardenhon; suddenly realising why the place had looked so familiar before and why he had drunk half his bodyweight in armour polish every night he had spent there.

O Vinaigrettiel! O Fair One! No wonder he had momentarily gone all gooey over her goose of a sister, who had clearly forgotten all about him. Great had been their love when first they met beneath the clouds, near lunch-time on the fourth day of Autumn. He had come upon her unaware as she practiced her scales in the drizzle; and he had touched her soft arm and she had half-heartedly fled from the smooth, well-muscled young man with the imposing yet apparently crooked mythic sword.

You wet bleedin' ponce. If yore gonna think abaht that wet blanket I'm gonna find anuvva pirate ter kill yer wiv.

Suddenly Earnur's brain and arm resolved their differences and joined forces. Slowly, dreamily he drew his sword and threw it into a nearby pile of goat droppings.

"Mmmmm?" he said distractedly, wishing that the sword wasn't so indispensible to his work. It had, with characteristically crass insensitivity, reminded him of the very memory to quell which had taken two bottles a day of Orc-draught (or the nearest equivalent in lamp-oil and furniture polish) for the last ten years.

They had been so happy. Her father had cut up rough at first, demanding that he go on a wild-goose chase after some stolen jewellery; but Earnur had made a secret counter offer, which was that he simply ran off with Vinaigrettiel anyway and sod whatever problems Thingy was having with the finance company. For two years they dwelt in blissful harmony, for being immortal she didn't receive his mortality, and being chained she received his freedom. And her bliss was greater than any other bored rich girl has known.

Why, oh why hadn't he stuck with Windósil? It wouldn't cut butter and broke if you looked at it in the wrong way, but it had belonged to his father and at least it wasn't forever swearing at him. Oh, and it had never killed his girlfriend's cat and then called her a toffee-nosed cow. "The sword or me" she had said; but there had been a lucrative adventuring offer on, and his participation had been conditional on taking the legendary black sword. And he was going to get her the biggest, most tastelessly overpriced piece of Dwarven jewellery he could possibly find with the money. He didn't think she was serious until he'd awoken to find himself very alone and sleeping next to the sword, which had laughed at him.

Finally buggered off 'as she? Good riddance. Right, when d'we kill summat

That recollection was the last straw. He determined to leave the sword where it was for the next sucker who came along. Finding that his long bout of crying over spilt milk had restored his motor functions, he went off in search of some wild garlic, swigging the suddenly very strangely flavoured Strangereek's.

All of a sudden, and without warning, the sun disappeared. He had blundered into a small copse of withered, weather-beaten and strangely hairy trees. What was more, they seemed to be moving independently of the breeze. Horrible realisation began to dawn as he looked up to see a pulsating and luminous mass above him and a massive sting dripping lurid fluorescent-green venom in front of his face. Actually he had already walked into it, but since concentrated spider venom is one of the main ingredients of Harvest Haemorrhage (whence came its unusual name), he had remained unharmed. Drawing his black-bladed dagger, he made ready for a fight, but without warning the creature emitted a scream of deafening proportions and leapt ten feet into the air before running off, gibbering incoherently. As the demented racket dopplered into the distance all he could remember was "...Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! A human! There's a human in my bedroom! Help!"

Rather sheepishly Lord Etceteron sheathed his dagger and went to collect his disreputable weapon, happily finding the very bulbs he required growing right next to where he had thrown it. Wylkynsion would get the roughest whetting of its long life when he reached camp; and it was the thought of this, along with the last dregs of what he now realised was the bottle of vinegar that caused him to sing the Lay of the Broken Sword as he walked back to join his companions.

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Rimbaud]

A campaigner as experienced as the Lord Gormlessar should have known better than to separate himself from his noble Companions and lay down to rest in an Elvish Glen. Especially, in an Elvish Glen where a great sign advised to ‘Sleep Here’. And indeed the pixie spirits that only children should believe in betrayed him.

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

In his sleep, he was drowning in sorrows, and his sorrows, they learned to swim. Surrounding him, going down on him, spilling over the brim. Waves of shadow, waves of joy, he reached out to the one he tried to destroy. Like a candle burning at both ends, Halfullion’s Dreme waxed lyrical, balanced on the edge of music. In all things, was his mind bewildered, and this is why.

Halfullion was a Hero. Not in the inaccurate sense of being heroic, but more in that sense of unavoidable and undignified Fate. He was Fated to be a Hero, as this Sentence is fated to be over-capitalised. Capitalisation being always a dubious crime. Yet, this appointment (for such it is, for a true Hero) preyed ever heavy on his subconscious. He had the unfortunate tendency of being present at great events, and of being depended on by those whose Quests were of vast significance. Not being the most mentally alert of the world’s great heroes (his horse regularly beat him at chess) he found himself disoriented to the point of despair, as quest after mission after thing beset him. The tragedy now, more than before, was that in his heart of hearts, he knew what he would like his destiny to resemble, should he force himself from the Path of Heroism.

Halfullion Gormlessar, the world’s foremost knight and worst poet, longed to cut hair. He longed to curl up and dye. He wished to blue-rinse damsels, not rescue them. Rapunzel would have remained pertinently un-rescued had he been that knights, for fear of damaging those truculent tresses. He wished to fondle folicles, brush bouffants, to pay the toupe. He was beginning to feel his masculine martiality as a malevolent malpropism maliciously miring him in mores of mild moral malfeasance.

In the heart of Halfie, there dwelt a fear. A fear to him nameless it was, yet called by some Cowardice. He feared Death, feared its beady eye. He knew both branches of the Elvish tongue, both Quixotic and Simian (the latter being mostly a series of aahs and ooks, with an over-abundance of accents grave and acute, umlauts (diaerises) circumflexes, cedillas, tildes, stregs, eths, bolles, ligatures, macrons, hácek and breves) but did not know how to communicate with this fear. He knew that one day, a day which drew ever closer, even his dread blade would fail him and the enemy would cut him down. Yet what he truly feared was capture. For when the enemy became aware of his Cowardice and his Ignorance, his Myth, his Repute would become decapatilised and he himself decapitated, deprecatingly and not with the dignity and pride he would want in a good death scene. He would want a good deal of screen-time, especially if he wasn't coming back for the sequel.

He tossed and turned, and finally awoke. He was trussed, bound hand and foot. He was strapped to the saddle of a horse, a horse trotting, seemingly protesting. The stench of orc was all around him. He knew not what had become of his companions.

A fierce blow to the back of the skull sent him back to delirium.

[Diamond18]

An hour or so had passed since O Lando L'oréal Bloom queried his question curiously, and Vogonwë had proceeded through a revolting ballad about Pimpiowyn’s family history and was nearly done reciting Fit the Third of the Lay of the Entish Bow etc. for his listening pleasure.

Pimpiowyn was primly plucking the plump produce from its voluminous vines, but her sapphire eyes wandered from time to time to the vine-swinging elf who had swung so sweetly to her rescue. The fact that she had not needed rescuing was entirely beside the point, for the thrill of the event had not paled from her cheeks.

The object of her wandering eye himself had passed the time by listening politely to Vogonwë’s roundabout way of explaining his presence. At the end of the recital Bloom declared, “It has been many long years since the bows of Workmud echoed with your invidious verse, cousin Vogonwë, and I must say that to my ears the sound is like unto that of a memory long repressed by sheer energetic determination, only to be relived when caught unawares in the state of dreaming when one settles down for sleep once a week.”

“Thank you,” Vogonwë smiled smugly, the meaning behind the convoluted words unable to penetrate his raspberry wreath. “And what have you been up to this past yén, Lando?”

“It would not be entirely inaccurate to say that my time has been expended upon activities ranging from the equestrian arts, the ancient and venerable art of archery, the occasional lembas commercial, and random instances of rescuing elven damsels in distress, who fall madly in love with me and write epic tales which feature our supposed nuptials as prominent plot points.” So said O Lando L'oréal, his loquaciousness in full Bloom.

“You’re married?” Pimpi said, nearly choking on a grape seed.

“As much as I revere the custom, and admire the lovely ladies in question, the truth of the matter is that I remain under the classification of a bachelor,” the elf with the really long name replied.

“A swinging bachelor,” Vogonwë punned perniciously, not entirely opposed to murkifiying the morality of the elf in Pimpi’s perception.

“But enough about me, let’s talk about you, you, beautiful you,” OLLB said winsomely to the happy half-halfling.

Pimpi primped prettily and was about to reply when a sudden stream of dark blue liquid rained down from above and landed with a splash on the forest floor. It missed staining Pimpi’s frock by a matter of inches. She squealed and threw herself into the arms of the elf who was not Vogonwë.

“Ha! The infamous Ink Skwerlz of Workmud!” Vogonwë cried, deftly avoided another stream of not-so-well aimed inky excretion. “I should have known! That black skwerl who directed me to this place had an unsavory look in his beady close-set eyes.”

He glanced over at his hobbit love and pulchritudinous cousin (the former clinging to the latter in a manner not even his raspberry wreath could hide from him) and utilized some manly phrases he’d picked up here and there from his companions in the Itship: “Don’t worry you’re pretty little heads, I’ll take care of these rascally rodents.”

With that, he adroitly drew two arrows from his quiver. They whistled through the air as they arched attractively over his head. With a cocky smile he twirled an arrow in each hand, and called up into the foliage, “I’ll bet you wonder how I knew about your plans to make me blue, eh?”

Then he threw one arrow up into the dark obscurity, and as he did so he affixed an old Workmudian aim-well-spell onto it, voicing the incantation, “Is Lotr a spiritual allegory?”

A second later a small, fuzzy blue skwerl fell from tree top, impaled by the arrow.

He winked at Pimpiowyn and tossed the other arrow into the murky midsts, chanting, “Who is Tom Bombadil?”

Ditto.

Desperately digging another manly quip from his databanks, Vogonwë smiled jauntily at Pimpiowyn and drawled, “They won’t be giving you any more trouble, ma’am.” For good measure he picked up his arrows, and flung them carelessly back into his quiver. And just in case that wasn’t enough, he tweaked Pimpi’s chin and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“Oh, Vogonwë, my heeero,” Pimpi sighed, and suddenly she was struck with a dilemma. Two positively plentifully pulchritudinous Workmud Elves stood before her, one with a mane of the softest and well-shampooed hair (though in the dim light it was hard to say what color it was), and the other with a pair of bloody arrows in his quiver. A decision lay before her…which one to fix her enormous blue eyes on in an amorous fashion? She put a hand to her head in a fetching manner and looked confused.

Then her stomach gurgled, and she decided to think it over later, when her mind would be clearer and her tummy fuller.

“Let’s go back and join the others,” she said, “for no doubt Merisuwyniel is eagerly awaiting our contribution to the afternoon repast.”

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Left alone, Merisuwyniel had time to ponder the adventures of the past weeks. As she reflected on all that had happened, she realized that she was lacking in character scenes, compared to the others of their company. It almost seemed that her part in the story was merely that of a token female, a beautiful Elven shieldmaiden to attract the male audience and give the teenage girls someone with whom they could identify. Why, she thought, it’s as if I were one of those untalented models-turned-actress who get camera close-ups on their pouty lips and swelling bosoms. I’m more than just a pretty face! I haven’t had a single flickering flashback, dramatic dream sequence, not even a split character discussion. I want to do some serious acting for a change! Besides, Dead Mothers’ Month is almost over, and I haven’t seen my parents in a vision.

Tears welled up spontaneously in her luminous violet eyes as she felt the depths of despair in her loneliness. It seemed to her that sad music accompanied the strange emotions, until she realized that the sound she heard was the gentle snoring of Chrysophylax, who had curled up at the edge of the clearing and was sleeping. She was not entirely alone after all. She sat down next to him and, leaning her head against his warm flank, was comforted and fell asleep.

Her thoughts flew miles and miles away, until she saw a figure riding over the plain beneath her on a Warg. It was heading for a precipice, and she shouted out a warning that was not heard. Down, down, down into a rushing stream they fell, and she mourned, realizing that the rider had been her beloved. Yet lo, she beheld him, miraculously floating on the water despite his heavy armour. Desperately, she reached out with her thoughts to push him toward the shore, finally succeeding after a long effort. She bent down to kiss his warm lips – and was rudely awakened when the dragon shifted restlessly in his sleep, possibly sensing her passionate mood.

Then, whether she was awake or asleep, she knew not – a bright light approached, and in the centre of it, a female figure stood before her, visible only as a dark silhouette. Did you really think I would forget to visit you during Dead Mothers’ Month? the voice asked. After all, you still think I’m dead, don’t you? Well, keep mourning me, but don’t be surprised when we meet someday soon. Then we shall see whether my daughter wants to share my fate or not!

The light faded and the figure dimmed, leaving only the echo of derisive laughter to haunt Merisuwyniel’s memory.

[Kuruharan]

Under normal circumstances Kuruharan would have been mightily hacked off at being summarily told what to do. Normally, he would have thrown a tantrum complete with kicking and screaming. But not this time. This time he had an ulterior motive.

He strode purposefully through the woods with a map in one hand and a bag over his shoulder. He was on a Quest of his own.

There was a Great Foozle, as if straight out of some hackneyed adventure story, buried somewhere in the area. At least, that’s what the treasure map that he bought for $1.80 in a little rat-eaten antique shop in Topfloorien said. According to legend, a Grand Oom-pa-pa of legend and song had buried his Great Foozle in Workmud to hide it from his enemies.

Now, Kuruharan was not sure what this Great Foozle was. However, all great stories had a quest for some mystically, magical Foozle of some sort and said Foozles could usually grow giant beanstalks, cause mountain ranges to spring up, or at least put on a sparkly light show. Whatever it did, Kuruharan was sure that it would sell for a hefty profit.

As he trudged through the trees he suddenly came upon an old wood woman woolgathering.

"Hail and fair weather good dame!" said Kuruharan. "Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Kuruharan the son of Khoreth, a renowned Dwarf of immense wealth and outstanding reputation!" Kuruharan bowed low in proper dwarf fashion.

"A dwarf!" said the old woman with a voice that sounded like an old branch breaking. "We don’t see many of your kind ‘round these parts."

"Allow me to introduce my pet," said Kuruharan. "This is Chrysophylax Dives, a dragon of ancient and imperial lineage."

"Where?" said the woman.

"Right behind me," replied Kuruharan.

"Where?" repeated the woman.

"Right ther-whoops!" said Kuruharan, turning around and noticing for the first time that his business associate was not keeping station. "I thought that the sounds of rampaging dragon were noticeably absent," Kuruharan muttered to himself. "Now I wonder where he’s gone off to. I hope he doesn’t damage anything that I’ll be expected to pay for."

"Well, I’m very pleased to meet you and your imaginary friend," said the old woman graciously, evidently concluding that she had a lunatic on her hands.

"Oh, Chrysophylax is not imaginary, he’s just not here right now. Off chasing rabbits, I fancy," said Kuruharan.

The old woman gave him an odd look.

Realizing that the metaphorical ground was rapidly sinking under his feet, Kuruharan changed the subject.

"Perhaps you could aid me. I’m engaged on a glorious quest in search of a Great Foozle. Do you by any chance know of one buried around here?"

"A whoozle?" asked the old woman.

"A Foozle," explained Kuruharan. "The Grand Oom-pa-pa’s mystically, magical Foozle."

"I’ve never heard of a foozle," said the old woman.

"Well, I’m totally bamboozled!" exclaimed Kuruharan. "According to my map, this is the site of the Foozle."

"Let me see that thing," said the old woman taking hold of the map.

"Ohh, right! The Foozle!" cried the old woman. "How could I forget?! I must have been out of my noodle!"

"If you’ll tell me where it is, then I will say ‘toodles!’"

"Nobody knows where it is," said the old woman. "If I did do you think that I would be out woolgathering in the forest?"

"It’s a possibility," said Kuruharan.

"Tell you what," said the old woman. "I’ll take you back to my village. We’ll have a nice heap of chitlins, and we can discuss your little problems."

"That’s okay," said Kuruharan. "I’d better get on with my quest."

He turned to go.

*WHACK*

------

Kuruharan came to in a little wooden hut. He could hear voices outside.

"And he was looking for the Foozle?" asked one voice.

"Yes, and he had an imaginary pet dragon," said the old woman.

"Hand me another flagon," came the first voice. "Now, we’d better re-hide the Foozle underneath the floor."

"But we’ve already hidden it there before."

"Be careful, he might be listening on the other side of the door."

"Not him, just this moment I heard him snore."

Another voice asked, "Do you think he sells sea-shells down by the sea-shore?"

At that point Kuruharan had heard more than enough. This was like listening to Vogonwë, only worse!

He pulled an axe out of his myriad of robes and started chopping a hole in the back of the hut.

"Hark!" cried the first voice.

"It is only a lark!" said the old woman.

Cried the first voice, "The hut seems to be emitting pieces of bark!"

Kuruharan suppressed a scream and continued chopping.

"I see what you mean," said the old woman. "Call out the troops."

"But the troops are engaged in a brisk game of hoops!"

"Who cares?" cried the woman. "Make haste and fetch me those dupes!"

As the footsteps of the first voice receded, Kuruharan could take it no more.

He burst through the door of the hut and found another man with the old woman.

"Ooops!"

Kuruharan dispatched the man with a blow to the noggin with the flat of his axe. He seized the old woman.

"No more bad rhyming!" said Kuruharan, making threatening motions toward her head with his axe. "Take me to the Foozle or I’ll split open your melon!"

The old woman snarled at him, "You’re nothing more than a common, ill-meaning felon!"

Kuruharan screamed in agony.

"Just give me the Foozle!" howled Kuruharan.

"Oh, very well," said the old woman. "One of our farmers is keeping it down in the dell."

She led Kuruharan down a path. Looking back Kuruharan saw a large number of very angry woodsmen converging on the hut.

"Why did you hit me?" asked Kuruharan.

"Because you came for the Foozle," replied the old woman. "It has been ours from time long forgotten."

"That may very well be, but you treated me rotten," said Kuruharan. "Oh-no!! Now you’ve got me doing it!"

The old woman cackled as she led him into a barn. She went to a corner and pulled something out of a pile of straw.

It was a shortish, longish, roundish, squareish, thinish, fattish, shapely, shapeless piece of wood. It was secured in a leather harness.

"This is the Foozle?" asked Kuruharan puzzled.

The old woman started taking off the leather harness. "It looks so strange because it’s currently muzzled."

She handed him the Foozle.

"Help me, help me!" cried the Foozle. "These nasty woodfolk chop down the trees and keep me locked up to impress passing traders."

"Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-orc!" exclaimed Kuruharan. "It’s the Ent that was Broken!"

"The what?!" asked the old woman.

"Never mind," said Kuruharan. "I’m afraid that this will have to come with me. I know where the rest of it is. I’m sure that the Oom-pa-pa would want it this way."

The old woman grabbed a pitchfork. "You’ll not take that so long as I’m alive!"

"That can be fixed," said Kuruharan airily, pulling a multi-shot crossbow out of his boot.

The old woman dropped her pitchfork. "You would not kill an old woman would you?" she asked piteously.

"Not out of hand," replied Kuruharan cheerfully. "But I would bop her on the head, tie her up, and toss her in a horse stall if she gave me any trouble."

"I’ll sit right here," said the old woman.

"I’ll bet," said Kuruharan. "You never did tell me your name."

"Lenore," replied the old woman. "Do you ever plan on coming back to our vale?"

"Nevermore," replied Kuruharan.

He abruptly smacked Lenore on the head with the Foozle. She flopped down unconscious.

"Thank you! I feel cleansed!" said the Foozle.

Kuruharan then went plowing through the barn to see if there were any other prizes to be found. There were a few other wondrous artifacts of majesty and splendor, but they don’t come into this tale. Suffice it to say they eventually fetched a hefty profit.

When Kuruharan judged that there was nothing else worth taking, and that the sounds of the approaching lynch mob were getting too close for comfort, he theatrically bowed to the insensate Lenore. Then with a skip and a hop, he darted off into the woods, back to share with the Questers all of his good news.

[Bêthberry]

The Waves

They walked in single file, O Lando L'oréal leading Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë through the gloomy path where the great trees seemed to lean together, old and strangled with ivy and lichen so thick and matted that, had their feet not drummed firmly upon the ground, had they stooped to stop and linger in the greenwood trees and laid upon the brackish moss, why, they might very well have forgotten which side was up and which down, for dark was the overhang and no sky showed through. The lack of light hampered O Lando not, for without his glasses his keen sense of smell took over and he sniffed his way forward.

The third cousins took to recalling the days before the fading times while Pimpiowyn satiated herself with at least one of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

"I will tell you enough of our fading here," said O Lando to his cousin, "for there was grief at your parting and often now I feel the horror and the shadow of the fangirls." (Here our valiant wood elf struck a particularly lithesome pose, elegant hand held aloft to his brow, his wrist held just so.) We know not now the like of our discussions of eld, the devastating wit, the pedantic jab, the po-faced oneupmanship, the arcane analysis, the sheer delight of sharing line upon line of the most obscure quotations from the ancient texts. Often, my cousin, have I longed for our FAQ about whether spiders are maiar, since they speak, or whether the White Tree could photosynthesize or not, of whether the Wood Elves differ from the High Elves and if perhaps that difference arises from the variance of mushroom grown."

Hereupon Vogonwë interrupted his comely cousin.

"I have heard tell of even more, fair cousin. For in the Wide World from whence I come, it is said that there are Lake-Elves and Pond-Elves, Boreal-Tree-Elves and Coniferous-Tree Elves, Deciduous-Elves and Scrub-Bush-Elves, Muskeg-Elves, Cave-Elves, High-Hilltop-Elves and Middle-Hilltop Elves and Bottom-Hilltop-Elves, to say nothing of Swamp-Elves. And they have grown more tree-hugging and culture-jamming as the years have passed unto the ages, for they have smoked the finest Pipeweed ever since the Age of Aquarius. Yet the coming of Men has harmed them too, sullying them with vain and empty ceremonies and forcing clerical witnesses upon their private rites. They are grown mechanical and sterile and loveless in their ways."

Here O Lando looked with horror upon this news for certainly he had hoped himself one day to partake of the open pledging of troth unhampered by any societal encumbrances and gaudy shows of shower games and Brand Name gift certificates.

Sudden squeals and cries and exclamations resounded through the gloomy forest and the three looked up. Coming upon them pell-mell was a frightful hoard of, of, FANGIRLS.

"Oh, he's mine, he's mine," shouted one, who claimed to be Chixinluv.

"No, no, I saw him first. You can't marry him," screamed another, DesiriaBloom by name.

The two were elbowed out by a third. "Who said anything about marriage?" protested she, one Bloomwinner by name.

"Oh, look, there's two of them. Is he a twin?" gasped Lecheria.

"Ew, he has such bad taste in clothes," protested Orlophoria.

"There's no Gap in Workmud, silly," retorted Legosassy.

"Take my socks, take my socks," begged PinkChihuahua while Gayflowerhottie offered up other pieces of clothing which were rapidly being stripped off. A third of this menagerie simply shouted, "Yoo hoo."

"A'maelamin," screamed two more.

"Asi i-Dhúath -û-orther, a mîn," proclaimed yet another.

"Annon vanimelda, edro hi ammen!" crooned more.

"Elen silly lummen omentioliveo," screamed yet one again.

"Noro lim, noro lim, O Lando L'oréal," called a more adventurous sort.

Pimpi looked at Vogonwë. Vogonwë looked at O Lando. O Lando looked at the FANGIRLS.

"They're speaking in tongues! Run," he shouted. "Naur dan i ngaurhoth! Every man for himself."

"Take prisoners," retaliated a voice from among the FANGIRLS.

"I'm not a man," proclaimed Pimpi, who whimpered tearfully before being knocked over in the mad tumultuous assault. She tumbled, roiling and coiling and moiling, into the enchanted stream, which fortuitously, as occurs in all fairy stories worth their salt, produced in her a deep slumber, the dreaming of which produced palpable flushes upon her beautiful features.

Alas the two elves were not to receive such a merciful respite. Their retreat was hampered by their quivers, which persisted in falling off their shoulders and laying waste their precious arrows. Forsooth, they were outstripped as it were by the howling mob, who bounded upon the terrain as pounding surf upon a sandy shore. The FANGIRLS overcame their last acts of resistance, trussed up both elves, and hurriedly dragged them off. Exit stage left, followed by a bear.

[ February 16, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Birdland]

"Hey, said the other bear, "Somebody's sleeping in my stream."

The first bear stopped in his track, as the frantic, triumphant fan maidens ran off into the forest with their booty. As they retreated, Chixinluv raised her delicate hunting horn with the pink "Hello Kitty" motif and alerted the other far-flung fan maidens with the rousing tones of the Booty Call. Then they were gone.

Only the two bears, who were actually Beorns, remained in the now silent glade, gazing down soberly at the sleeping Pimpiowyn. The first sat down on his haunches and thoughtfully scratched his left ear with his hind leg.

"So there is." said the first Beorn, who's name was Bjork. "What is it? A dwarf, you think?"

"Not sure." said the second Beorn, whose name was Bjorn. "Never seen a female dwarf. Could be a dwarf. Could be anything."

"Feet are rather...furry. Could it be a Beorn?"

No, no. I don't think so. Unless she's a Half-Beorn. If she was a born Beorn, she'd be furry all over, now wouldn't she?"

"True enough. Should we fish her out?"

"Well, she looks comfortable enough. Though I dare say she's scaring the fish. Seems a silly place to be sleeping though."

No sillier than the rest of Workmud. I suppose we should pull her out. I think the water is getting in her nose".

So the two Beorn thoughtfully pushed the slumbering Half-Halfing out of the stream with their noses and up onto the muddy bank, where she lay in a sodden heap of designer fabric. Bjork licked the mud from his paw and sat down again with a wheeze.

"Well, she's still sleeping. Should we try to wake her up?"

Oh, I don't know. She might start squealing, like those others. Not sure I could take much more of that."

"Noooo, best not to stay around for more of that. Well, I'm sure somebody will be along eventually to find her. Meanwhile, there's still enough daylight left to swat a few trout. Shall we?"

Don't mind if I do. Lead on, Bjork."

The two faux-bruins waddled off into the forest, leaving our sleeping heroine laying on the muddy bank, where she smiled in enchanted, soggy dreams.

Then came the spiders...

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sent his boys off to amuse themselves. Surely, with the members of the Itship going this way and that, they could find some object for their attention. And so, his own waning interest in mayhem might be concealed from his superiors at Gol Dulldor. For his heart was no longer in it.

As he crept stealthily through the forest, his thoughts turned to his own father who had lost his taste for chaos and violence. When therapy had been unavailing, his father had been dispatched by...Her. Gravlox had not understood at the time. He had asked his ill-fated sire, why, but had not understood the response...until now.

Gravlox, my son,
every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the world,
and ends up making payments on a sofa or a girl,
love and hate tatooed upon the knuckles of his hands,
hands that slap his kids around 'cause they don't understand,
how death or glory,
becomes just another story...

A tear came to his eye. Perhaps his father had been wise after all. But for now, he had other concerns. He crept up to the edge of a clearing to find Merisu slumbering alongside...a dragon? Now this was a potentially unpleasant wrinkle. Nonetheless, he decided to take his chance.

"Pssst," he hissed, tossing some pebbles at the sleeping beauty. "Merisu!" She tossed and turned but did not open her eyes. He lifted a more sizeable rock and considered heaving it at his love, then paused. "Charming, prince," he muttered, setting down the stone. Then he slipped into the clearing and knelt next to the vision of beauty. "Awake, fair maiden!" he said quietly. Then he kissed her lips...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel felt her lips tingle like the ringing of an alarm clock. Loth to open her eyes, she yielded to the sensation, savouring its sensuous sweetness. Involuntarily, her arms stretched out to pull sinewy shoulders closer. If this was a dream, she wished never to awaken.

Yet what was the sound of a chainsaw doing in her dream? She felt a deep rumbling at her back and became conscious of Chrysophylax’ loud snores. Startled, she opened her eyes and realized that the kiss was real and that the one person she had tried unsuccessfully to banish from her thoughts was holding her in his arms. His burning eyes looked into hers yearningly, hungrily. Carefully, so as not to wake the dragon, he pulled her to her feet, took her hand, and led her into the woods.

“I must investigate some of the bridges over the river,” he whispered. “Will you come with me?”

She nodded dreamily, allowing him to lift her onto his strange mount and leaning her head back on his mighty chest as they rode swiftly and silently into the dark forest. The Warg soon reached the bank of a river and followed its course.

They passed several bridges, one wooden, covered with a roof; another made only of ropes; a third broken and replaced by a boat, tied on the far bank. The Orc dismounted and inspected each of them, warning Merisuwyniel not to touch the water.

Suddenly, they heard voices ahead of them in the darkness.

“It is not very big,” the first said.

“But it will make fine eating when it’s hung a bit,” a second responded.

“Don’t hang it too long,” added a third. “It’s none too fat to start with.”

Merisuwyniel turned her head to look questioningly at the Orc warrior. His eyes widened and he whispered, “Spiders! They have captured someone, either of your company or mine.”

“But aren’t spiders more afraid of us than we are of them?” she questioned, puzzled.

“These must be the males,” he explained. “They do not fear anything.”

“Can you help the poor victim?” she asked anxiously. Her Bow was lying back at the camp, and she felt helpless without it.

“I will sing an ancient incantation to bewilder the spiders,” he said. “Then we can free the captive.” He hoped fervently that it would not be one of his men; if so, he would have some serious explaining to do – or he would have to kill him without frightening his sensually sensitive beloved.

He began to sing:

Old fat spider spinning in a tree!
Old fat spider can’t see me!
Attercop! Attercop!
Won’t you stop,
Stop your spinning and look for me!

The voices ceased speaking, and the rustle of many legs running in their direction could be heard. The Warg ran to the left, where the singing was repeated, with the same results. Swiftly running to and fro, they came to the centre of the dense black shadow ahead of them. With surprising ease, the warrior pulled his magical sword from its sheath and slashed the webs that obstructed their path. Merisuwyniel’s sharp eyes discerned a bundle hanging from a tree. “There!” she cried out, and the mighty ZigZag sword slashed the thick strand that tied it to the branches. It fell into the Elf’s arms; she held it tightly as they galloped away.

When they had reached a safe distance, they halted to open the cocoon. Soon, red-golden locks appeared; Merisuwyniel gasped. “It’s Pimpiowyn!”

“She is one of your companions,” he stated, secretly relieved. “What shall we do with her?”

“We must bring her to our camp,” she answered. She gazed fondly at the lovely face, its lips smiling in pleasant dreams – no doubt there were visions of sugarplums dancing in her head, Merisuwyniel mused.

Swift as a breeze the Warg bore them back to the clearing. They bedded the slumbering Quarterling gently next to the warm body of the still sleeping Chrysophylax. Before she realized what had happened, Merisuwyniel was again riding into the dark, dank, dreary, dangerous forest.

“Where are we going?” she queried.

“I want to show you my favourite place,” he answered.

The Warg slowed its pace to pass through thick shrubbery, then they entered a small clearing. Fireflies fluttered and flitted about, playfully lighting the darkness. Their shimmer was reflected from the surface of a wonderfully clear pool. Without hesitating, the Orc stepped into the water, from which a mist rose. “Come,” he coaxed. “It is quite warm.”

She clasped his outstretched hands and waded toward him. Soon she was seated in the shallow water, leaning her head on his shoulder. With a deep, contented sigh, she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace.

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë lay in a dark and troubled dream: it seemed he could hear his own silvery voice echoing in black tunnels, calling Pimpi, Pimpi! But instead of Pimpi, hundreds of lustful fangirl-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, hundreds of feminine arms grasped at him from every side. Where was O Lando?

He woke. Cold perfume blew on his face. He was lying on his back, trussed up like an old mathom wrapped in spaghetti straps. Beside him O Lando lay, white-faced, with a piece of lingerie bound across his bleeding head. All about them sat or stood the company of Fangirls.

Vogonwë struggled a little, but it was useless, pointless, and rather depressing in its utter failure to do anything worth this long a sentence. One of the pretty young maidens sitting near laughed and said something to a companion in their abominable tongue, “Ummmmmm, luk at him trie 2 get away, he’s jsut 2 cute, LOL!”

Another responded in the Common Tongue, making it sound almost, but not quite, as hideous as her own language; “Stay away from him, you, this one belongs to me and my lasses. You get to have the other one.”

Then she turned and stooped over Vogonwë, bringing her teal colored braces close to his face. She had a pink feather with a long fluffy plume in her hand. “Lie quiet, or I’ll tickle you with this,” she giggled.

Terrified Vogonwë lay still, though the spandex that bound him was beginning to hurt. “I wonder if poor O Lando is much hurt. What has happened to Pimpi? Why didn’t the fangirls ravage us? Where are we, and where are we going?” he thought.

To take his mind off these thoughts, he listened intently to what was going on around him. He found that most of the talk was intelligible, for apparently there were members of one or two different websites present, and they could not understand one another’s chatspeak. He mentally kicked himself upside and downside the head for mistaking the fibrous strands of filament in the trees for that of mere spiders, harmless Pawns of Uncooliphaunt.

Vogonwë did not know the tale completely, but since he had last been in Workmud, a war had raged between the Pawns and the Fangirls for supremacy over the Webs. When he had left, the Fangirls were but a small and obnoxious cult that confined themselves to fansites and the like. But their ranks had swollen like a dead raccoon left to fester on the roadside, and in the end it was the Fangirls who had won out over the Pawns, and traversed the forests of Workmud in search of a Good Time.

The spiders were still there, of course, hiding out wherever they could find a deserted spot of webbing. Their hatred for the Fangirls was intense, and though they could not face a pack of them at once, they took delight in devouring any maiden who wandered away from her friends. Even if she appeared quite harmless and innocent, and was minding her own business, lying on a riverbank and dreaming, or some other such innocuous activity. Yes, even if there was no immediate proof that she even was a Fangirl, their wrath was swift, for in their multitudinous eyes any girl was a Fangirl, and the only good Fangirl was a juicy Fangirl.

But enough about that. Back to the insanely interesting present:

Vogonwë was giving himself a mental bludgeoning for not anticipating the Fangirls, and yet more for allowing himself to be overwhelmed and captured by a bunch of girls. He, who had dispatched a fair number of pirates with his arrows, a captive of a bunch of nubile elfophiles! He tried to swallow this bitter pill, and turn his mind to methods of escape. He tuned his ear to their chattering, and realized that they were fighting amongst themselves.

Unfortunately, due to the PG-13 nature of these documents, it can only be said that what he heard told him this:

One of the bands wanted to waste some width and set up camp where they were. They were looking forward to getting it on with their prisoners. As their leader, Goshtalk the Doe-Eyed and Horny, put it, “Why not jump them quick, jump them now? They’re so darn cute, and we’re in a hurry.”

The other band, led by Oolalaluk, wanted to continue on to wherever they were going. “Orders, LOL!” she said. “‘Bring two of the cutest Elves back unspoiled, as quickly as possible. That’s my orders, and if you don’t like them you can eat my bubblegum, LOL.”

After going back and forth about it for a while, a catfight broke out. Meanwhile, Vogonwë was doing what he did best, composing a poem.

How do I loathe thee?
Let me count the ways.
One, You hit me in the head and put me in a daze.
Two, You did the same to my cousin.
Three, You stampeded my dear Pimpiowyn.
Four, You trussed me up with your drawers.
Five GOOOOOLDEN RINGS!
Six, I hate the way you cling,
And treat me like your plaything.
And last but least, there is this thing that I can’t stand in the least,
No, it’s not when you feast, feast, feast, feast—
It’s just that if you say LOL one more time,
I may lose my mind.

The tumult increased, and cautiously Vogonwë rolled over, hoping to see what would happen. It was, after all, rather muddy where they were.

His guards had gone to join in the fray. In the twilight he saw a tall, big-boned Fangirl, probably Oolalaluk, standing facing Goshtalk, a short petite little creature. They had drawn their replica swords and knives, but hesitated to attack each other. The other girls were screeching and clawing at each other, but the two leaders stood still, their budding bosoms heaving as they glowered at each other. “We march day and night,” Oolalaluk hissed, “and when we get to where we’re going, then you can have your sport, LOL!”

“Pffh you!” Goshtalk screeched back.

Suddenly, Oolalaluk reached out and yanked out a goodly portion of Gohstalk’s bleach-blonde hair. This was, as can be imagined, rather painful. Oolalaluk raised the clump of bloody hair above her head and proclaimed, “I am Oolalaluk! Go me! LOL!”

Vogonwë gritted his teeth and tried not to scream. Goshtalk, sobbing and whimpering, called off her lasses, and Oolalaluk ordered triumphantly, “Pick up those prisoners! And don’t try any tricks on them!”

A trio of heavily perfumed Fangirls hoisted Vogonwë up onto their shoulders, all the while muttering dark and petulant things in their own tongue. O Lando, still unconscious and bound with a brassiere, was given the same treatment. And then they were off again, heading for wherever they were going.

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Bêthberry]

To The Treehouse

O Lando should have been exhausted by the cruel pace set by these FANGIRLS, the prodding, the touching, the oogling, the fingers run through his hair over and over again. Instead, he had felt himself strangely empowered by the libation of that draught they had forced upon him. He felt his strength rise and realized his stamina had been fortified for whatever task they held in store for him. Yet, yet, that was not all. His head and heart seemed strangely overwrought and he found he could begin to devise cunning plans to deceive these FANGIRLS. This was something unlike any other libation he had drunk before.

Then felt the wound in his head; it had healed, but he feared he would be scarred for the rest of his fifteen minutes of fame.

"O Lando, O Lando," Vogonwë whispered, "Why does your name sound like a brand name for butter in the Seventh Age?"

"Deep in the heart of my family's ways lies the truth and meaning thereof. It derives I say from the noble spirit of a warg who did great deeds at a place by name of Hogwart's Press."

"Well, we're on this expedition now. Where do we get bed and breakfast?"

"Now, then," intruded Chixinlov. "None of that! Hold your tongues. You'll get your bed and breakfast too, at the end of it, if these girls have their way. But we're tired of lugging you about."

Where upon the brazen hussy cut the thongs about the two cousins, and forced them to run unhampered. A sudden thought leaped into O Lando's mind and he acted on it at once. He swerved aside away from the Path, landed on some mossy keyboards amongst the low hanging websites, and quickly brooched a message which he hoped might frighten the FANGIRLS, Spiders with malice aforethought.

"Hey, you, there's no time for that stuff now," cried out Gayflowerhottie as O Lando was rudely picked up and roughly pushed back along the Path.

Neither O Lando nor Vogonwë remembered much of the later part of the journey. They ran and they ran, kept going only by the stimulation of the orc draught and the licks every now and again of the FANGIRLS. Finally, however, it seemed they reached a goal.

"Oooww, look," cried Legosassy. "It's the Black River boutique. And it is stocked with all the oldest Gothic fashions of satins and velvets and leathers and feathers and chains and hair gels and hair sprays."

The boutique was cordoned off by a rope, with a security guard outside holding a long queque of FANGIRLS at bay.

"How many do you think there are?" asked DesiriaBloom.

"I shouldn't think above twelve," answered Lecheria.

"Twelve! I should have thought it was thirty at least, but my eyes don't see as well as they did. I must need glasses," retorted Orlophoria.

"Does anyone have more rope?" asked PinkChihuahua. "We could lasso the lineup and draw them away."

Gayflowerhottie was deemed the strongest armed and threw the first lasso.

"Not far enough!" claimed Chixinluv."A couple of feet farther and you would have had them."

Gayflowerhottie picked up the rope and threw again, this time with greater strength. It overshot the queque and had to be drawn back gently.

These maneuvres went on several times, again and again, until finally it dawned on O Lando and Vogonwë that they were on longer being watched. O Lando had so wanted to enter the Black River Boutique too that for the time being he didn't mind being captive.

A squeal and loud uproar then proved that the lasso had finally found its mark and the wildest quarrel ensued with all clamouring for entrance to the boutique.

"Get to it now," Vogonwë cried. "Run! Here's our cheap deus ex machina."

There was a flying sound of hooves on the Path and out of the gloom came the shape of a flying deer. It gathered itself for a mighty leap and the two elves sprang onto it. It flew high, high, higher into the air, up and over the Black River Boutique and the ugly fight among would-be patrons.

It soared, but the hold of the elves was tenuous. Vogonwë held on by the thinnest caesura and finally that broke the sentence. As the deer ran on, O Lando could hear the poet fulminating his anathemas as he tumbled earthward in his finest hour.

Flowers bloom as black as night
Removing color from your sight
Nightmarish vines block your way
Thorns reach out to catch their prey
And by the pricking of your thumbs
Realize that their poison numbs
From frightful blooms, rank odors seep
Bats and FANGIRLS fly and creep
'Cross this evil land, ill winds blow
Despite the brand name bargains down below.
All will rot and decompose
For something wicked this way grows...

"Noro lim, noro lim," cried O Lando, holding on for deer life.

"Shut up you fool," said the White Deer. "I'm your agent in disguise. And I've come to take you to cement a deal. There's a dwarf here who is crazy for a deal."

When they were far enough away from the calamitous scene, the White Deer finally halted, knocked three times on the nearest tree, did the hookey pookey and turned it all about and suddenly became O Lando's agent, PeeJay13. They walked to a familiar treehouse, where Kuruharan was waiting, holding the precious Foozle closely in hand. The negotiation O Lando found difficult to follow as the slow tongue of business was unknown to him.

"It is like the market itself, rich and rolling in part and else hard and stern, torn between the Scylla and Charybdis of the bull and the bear. I cannot guess what it means, save that it is laden with profit for me."

"Shut up you fool," said PeeJay13, who turned back to Kuruharan and said, "You now have exclusive rights to the name."

"Really?" said Kuruharan. 'That's great. My own line of hair spiking glue. L'oréal will draw those gothgirls in for sure."

The deal concluded, PeeJay13 left in search of kiwi profits elsewhere while Kuruharan and O Lando just-Bloom-now wound their way back to camp and the beautiful maid MeriSuewyniel.

[ February 18, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Mithadan]

"Get your hands off her!" came the cry from the underbrush. Gravlox leapt up and backed away fumbling for his sword. From the bushes sprang Holdit and two other wood-Elves.

"Oooo, wood-Elves," cried the wooden foot. "I like wood-Elves." "Shaddup!" growled Gravlox as he turned to face his foes.

"Saladriel sent us to ensure the safety of you and your credit lines," shouted Holdit as his companions dragged Merisu from the enchanted pool.

"Wait!" cried Gravlox and Merisu as one. But the Elves paid no heed. Holdit drew his sword, a replica of the mighty Bamding, the Toeslammer, the blade of Clapon the King of the ancient city of Round-and-In. As Holdit advanced, Gravlox raised ZigZag to parry a slash from the faux Bamding. The replica shattered when it came into contact with ZigZag and Holdit was pierced by the shards of the blade that was broken. As he slid down to the ground, the dying Holdit muttered, "That's the last time I buy seconds."

His companions turned to face Gravlox. "Oooo, we're gonna get you for that," they shouted. They raised their weapons and charged Gravlox. The first aimed a mighty swipe at the Orc's head which missed by a good two feet. The momentum of the swing caused the Elf to spin around and fall to the ground. His sword flew from his hands and spitted the second Elf, who in turn fell blade first onto his companion.

Gravlox rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Elves..." he chuckled. But then he saw Merisu standing at the far side of the pool with a horrified expression on her face.

"You killed them!" she cried in grief.

"That would be a matter of interpretation," replied Gravlox, who stepped forward, dropping his blade and raising his arms toward his beloved.

But Merisu turned and raced from the clearing into the forest, weeping as she went...

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë gradually returned to consciousness, having momentarily lost himself by landing headfirst on the ground. He found himself now, sprawled out in a clump of briars a little ways away from the swarm of Fangirls by the Black River Boutique.

Cautiously, he untangled himself from the mess, and such was his prowess that he escaped with nothing more than two small snags in his breeches. He looked around and saw no sign of the White Deer or his third cousin thrice removed, but an odd twinkle of light far off the beaten path caught his eye. He peered into the glowering gloom of Workmud in the evening, and wondered whence the strange light cometh. A shadow and a thought began to grow in his mind, and with a glance in the direction of the frightful Fangirls, he slipped away into the murky woods.

He threaded his way through the density, and on his way he passed by a pool, with three dead Elves floating therein. They seemed vaguely familiar, but he didn't stop to look any closer. He did, however, compose a short poem in his mind:

The dead Elves lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.

Presently, Vogonwë came to a small clearing, where the trees had been hacked down mercilessly and the ground had been bulldozed till it formed a nice looking dance floor. There were many people there, Elvish looking folk, all dressed in tuxes and smart little black numbers. There was a jazz band in their midst, and there were Chinese lanterns hanging from some of the lucky trees which had not been whacked. But the most splendid sight of all was the table of hors d’oeuvores and the giant punch bowl as the centerpiece.

Vogonwë’s stomach rumbled as he recalled that it had been a long time since he’d eaten: was it breakfast? Yes, for he had set out to find some comestibles for lunch hours ago, and the shadows of night were now falling like a cheap backdrop. Cautiously (for he knew that the party-elves of Workmud were notoriously snobbish) he stepped into the clearing.

As soon as he did so, all the lights went out with a mighty poof, and in a gratuitous display of magic, the party disappeared.

“Oh, fuss and bother,” Vogonwë muttered, feeling worldly-wise and above such childish nonsense.

It was not long before he saw the lights renewed a little way off, and he strode purposefully toward the sound of tinkling glassware and affected laughter. They’ll not keep this wood-elf, or half-elf, or whatever I am, from their party, he thought to himself, as there was hardly another person to be thinking to at the moment.

Again he stepped into the circle of atmospheric party light, and again his sudden appearance was met by a puff of smoke. “This seems to require strategy,” he mused. “Ah well…third time’s the charm.”

For the third time, he advanced upon the lights, which were brighter than ever. Apparently, they had added a Discotír to their decorations, and as is turned it showered the partygoers with multitudinous shades of sparkling colors.

Vogonwë sidled up to the edge of the glimmering light, and nonchalantly knocked three times on a tree trunk, two long strokes and one short tap. Presently, a tall and pudgy looking Elf appeared at the edge of the clearing and said, “No admittance except on party business.”

“Hullo, Roomeal,” Vogonwë said, “what’s the word on the path these days?”

“Vogonwë Brownbark, could it be?” the Elven-bouncer looked stunned. “And yet, I have never seen another hairbow like unto yours…but how do I know you’re you, and that you didn’t kill Master Brownbark and take his bow?”

“Don’t I look like me?”

“Well…you could be a servant of the Enemy, in disguise…”

“A servant of the Enemy would look fouler and feel fairer,” Vogonwë told him.

Roomeal stared at him blankly for a moment, then said, “All the same, I’d feel better if you would give some kind of sign that you are a friend, not a foe.”

Vogonwë gave him a withering look, but recited an old poem by which he had been known:

All that glitters is not gold,
Diamonds are sparkly too.
The wood that was weak did not stand long,
Its roots were not deep, and that’s why it fell.
From the bark a new life shall waken,
A lithe form from the shavings shall spring;
Renowned shall be the Log that was Rotting,
And the living boy shall grow like a sapling or something.

Roomeal shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, that is the verse Geppettuil wrote for his son, but just like the second-to-last line says, it’s become renowned throughout Middle-earth. They say you can hear it sung in every pub and inn from here to Harad.”

“Silence, fool!” Vogonwë said impatiently, “I have not passed through Fangirls and Skwerls to bandy pointless passwords with a pudgy ponce. Let me in or I’ll blow your party down again.”

Roomeal meekly stepped out of the way, and Vogonwë proceeded into the party with a put-out look upon his physiognomy.

Once safely into the Clearing Club, he searched out the largest cluster of Elves. Surely at the center of such a group he would find whom he sought, he reasoned. And sure enough, he was in a glade full of people hanging on one person’s breath (they would all vote him most likely to be loved to death). “I hope he still wants it, but it might remind him of when he aimed for the bullseye and hit it nine times out of ten,” Vogonwë mused. “That one time his hand slipped and I saw the dart sail away. I don’t know where it landed, but I’m guessing between green and grey.”

He pushed through the throng of fawning Elves, who were clutching their martini glasses and laughing stiffly at the discourse of the Elf at the center of their attention. Finally Vogonwë came before the Elven-partyking’s throne, an art nouveau chair that looked like a pair of giant lips.

“Dad!” he said.

Geppettuil of Workmud broke his attention away from the elf-maid hanging on his arm, and said, “Well, if it isn’t little Voggy! How are things swinging these days, eh my boy?”

“I need to talk to you,” Vogonwë replied.

“Sure, sure,” Geppettuil said with a smile.

“Alone, preferably.”

The looks that the other Elves were giving him were positively murderous. They surreptitiously tried to shove him away while laughing glibly through their clenched teeth. “Have a sandwich,” one hissed threateningly in his ear.

Vogonwë elbowed the two nearest him in the ribs, and calmly said, “If you can find the time, that is,” while they fell to the ground gasping in pain.

“Of course, of course, I can always find time for my boy,” Geppettuil said smoothly.

A half an hour later, Vogonwë was standing on the outskirts of the group, drinking punch and munching on some breaded frog legs, while Geppettuil regaled his entourage with a tale of the olden days.

Roomeal walked by him, and Vogonwë called him over. “Do you know how to distract those pathetic clingers?” he asked.

“Well…they like to dance,” Roomeal said. “But the band is on their break; they get a break every twenty years, and—”

“Round up the band and make them play something,” Vogonwë instructed.

“But, the singer is down with the flu,” Roomeal said.

“What kind of Elf comes down with the flu?” Vogonwë asked in shock.

Roomeal squirmed. “He’s not an Elf…you see…none of the bandmembers are Elves…they’re…”

“They’re what?”

“They’re spiders,” Roomeal blurted. “Shishkebob and the Eight Legged Freaks, the Coolest Pawns of Uncooliphaunt Around, Swingingest Jazz Band From Here to Harad. But you can just call them the Pawns.”

Vogonwë paused to take this in. “But…but what about the spider leg collection my father has mounted behind the bar?"

Roomeal glanced over at the bar and said, “He took them down. Listen, Voggy, times have changed. Ever since the Fangirl Wars, the spiders have been looking for jobs, y’know? You can’t go very far in Workmud without seeing some poor arachnid holding a sign that says ‘Will Work for Blood’.”

“All right then, round up the Pawns, and find a new singer.”

“On so short a notice? I—”

Vogonwë was, understandably, growing somewhat impatient with his woodland kin. “Listen, Roomy,” he interrupted, “I’ve been away in far reaches of the world where people have short lives and even shorter tempers. Now, I can’t say for sure, but in that time I may have picked up a violent streak myself. And I may be an Orc in disguise, so you don’t want to make me angry, capice?”

“Oh…whatever you say, cousin Vogonwë,” Roomeal nodded nervously.

“I’m not your cousin, you stupid lump of a serving Elf. Now get! I have things to do, places to go, and people to meet.”

Roomeal closed his mouth with a snap and scurried away. But when he was at a safe distance, he yelled over his shoulder, “Well, I see someone has been hanging around Men for a few too many years!”

[ February 20, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Rimbaud]

As Halfullion Gormlessar awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in a strange bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armour-plated, back (he was tied to his shield) and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments, where fiercely tight ropes cut across his flesh and muscles, forcing him into ridges, on top of which his ragged cloak could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His two legs, which seemed pitifully far from the rest of his bulk, and out of sight, waved helplessly out of his view.

What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream.

And I look to my left
And I look to my right
And I’m looking for a man
I’m looking for a sign
I don’t wanna be the prisoner.

He was in a cell, and it reeked of orc. The pungency was so nefarious, that it threatened to send him into a vaporous swoon, as if of hemlock he had taken. Avoiding any real purpose to the third line of the paragraph, he left his action to the fourth. He studied his surroundings, with the keen senses of a blancmange at its most alert. Only a lightly salted kipper would have proven more observant.

Lurching into another paragraph of confinement, he realised he must be in the dread Fortress of the dark known to all and Sundry as Gol Dulldor. Just at that minute, Sundry came in. “Do you know What?” he asked, pre-empting any comment from the bound Hero.

“Eh, gsnuffle nibby-slimpy, rapsfragginglyslinityou hershanitzilitzu,” replied Halfullion succintly, through the gag.

“What, come in!” exclaimed Sundry. What entered. He was a stooped little Orc, much smaller than the rather innocuous Sundry.

“Hello old boy,” said What brightly. “I’m What, what?!”

“What?” asked Halfullion, the gag disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.

“Yes,” said What. The conversation seemed a little flat and rather forced.

“What, send for Water,” ordered Sundry.

What ran out of the door, and soon returned with Water, a tall Orc with an evil scar across his face. He was with his cousin Which.

Which, Water and What approached Halfullion with some trepidation, knowing of his legendary martial prowess. The great sword L’Envey Piennhas had been taken from him and was to be destroyed, once they got the disposal unit working again. The plumbing was just dreadful.

“Water, What, untie him!” ordered Sundry.

“Which?” chorused What and Water, tremulously.

“What?” asked Which, confused.

“What a confusion,” muttered Halfullion.

“What?” asked Water. “You said something, Prisoner?”

“Yes, Water, what is it?” said What, thoroughly bemused.

“LISTEN!” screamed Gormlessar, taking control, despite his indisposition. “Stop shouting to all and Sundry…”

“Eh?” interjected Sundry, but Halfullion talked over him.

“…and listen to me. You,” and he pointed to Water, “untie these ropes, before they suffocate me. And you, What, bring me some water.”

They looked a little confused but did as he ordered. Finally, he was watered and the bonds loosened and he ended up having quite a pleasant night, for the Orcs were amiable, if slow-witted, fellows, and Halfullion blended in well. They were very frightened of him, to be sure, but Orcs were scared of most things, especially their brethren with the letter ‘k’.

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

Far away, roaming loose in the Dark and Mysterious Forest, the great Steed Tofu was feeling rather listless. Despite his contempt for the Lord Gormlessar, he found himself missing the huge warrior more than he would care to admit. The chap had been blasted good at finding good grub, anyway, that was for sure. Many’s the good nose-bag they’d shared. Tofu was wasting away and malnourished. He didn’t know it, but he was scant feet from the others, blundering around in the Forest. Indeed, the Forest of Workmud was really only a copse. Its greatest magic was in persuading that it had more than seven trees, which it didn’t. Tofu, however, was unaware of this, and slipping dangerously into poesy. He, unlike his master, was rather good at it.

When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, quote the grand equine, in a low, sad tone. He recited all of the melancholy letters, until his soft voice faded away with. …Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Her eyes blinded by tears, Merisuwyniel stumbled, tripping over a tree root. Instead of landing on the ground in a most undignified manner, as might reasonably have been expected, she was sustained in the sir, held by two strong arms.

“Why are you running away from me?” the Orc asked, troubled by her reaction.

“You killed my kinsmen!” she sobbed.

“I did not even touch them, nor did they die by my sword, but by their own clumsiness,” he explained.

“Fair Holdit, robbed untimely of his immortality,” she mourned.

“Had he stayed in Topfloorien where he belonged, he would still be alive,” he answered, not unreasonably.

While she yet hesitated, longing to believe his words, yet horrified at the bloody sight she had witnessed, Fate separated them cruelly. In this case, Fate took on the forms of a bevy of Fangirls, called the Holdithotties.

“I know he went in this direction!” one of them shouted.

“But this is the wrong forest,” said another. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Hey, I have that face on posters all over my room,” the first answered. “There’s no mistaking him – he’s sooooo dreamy!”

“Yeah,” exclaimed a third. “And we’ll show those Figwit4ever girls who’s the coolest Elf!”

“Holdit!” All stopped suddenly, running into each other rather ungracefully.

“Where? Where?”

“There!” A shocked Fangirl pointed to the prostrate figure lying in the clearing. “Oh no! He’s dead!”

“And there’s his murderer, trying to capture one of us!” They approached Gravlox menacingly, seeing him with sword in hand, holding Merisuwyniel by the arm.

“How dare you kill the cutest Elf that ever lived, you ugly Orc?” the loudest of them shouted. “Now we won’t be able to see him in the sequel!”

Gravlox had faced armies of fierce warriors unafraid, but this foe was too terrifying for him. Who could blame him for letting go of Merisuwyniel’s arm and fleeing, back to the safety of the fortress of Gol Dulldor…

Weeping, she knew not whether for the slain Elves or the disillusionment of her lost love, Merisuwyniel made her way through the trees, back in the direction of the camp.

[Bêthberry]

"Is this a Tofu I see before me?" queried O Lando, who still had not yet found his Foster Grants.

"I am Tofu's spirit at least," answered the starving steed, "for this to, too solid flesh is withering and I am doomed for a certain term to walk the Workmud in fast in search of Halfullion's grass."

"What alas! Have foul crimes been done? Is our Lord Gormlessar done away?" bespoke Bloom.

"But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of the prison-house, I could unfold a tale to harrow up your soul. If thou didst ever the Lord Gormlessar love--"

"Oh God!" ennunciated O Lando.

"Avenge his most foul and unnatural kidnap."

"Kidnap! Haste me know that with feet as swift as the thoughts of love and arrows as twangy as any space wars sword I may avenge this foul deed."

"First feed me," negotiated Tofu. Whereupon they scoured the greenwood for succulent sustenance and O Lando did commend Tofu for his poetic turn of voice, attempting to do justice to the Lord HighHairdresslessar, who he had hoped would market the L'oréal line of products.

'Alas, poor Halfie! I knew him well, in an old manner of speaking. A man of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me--"

"There's room for only one good poet here and I am he," retorted Tofu.

"So be it, noble Steed. Let us hence to the camp. Your telling's the thing wherein we shall catch the conscience of the Itship. Thence let us take arms against the slings and arrows of this outrageous kidnap and so by opposing the orcs to--"

"For pity's sake, desist!" begged the equitable equine. "Or I'll challenge you to a skate boarding duel the likes of which you'll never see in any movie."

O Lando recoiled with this raucous rebuff and, feeling rebuked, retorted with a reboundingly retiring, "Lead on, McTofu."

[Diamond18]

Shishkebab and the Eight Legged Freaks (minus Shishkebab), the Coolest Pawns of Uncooliphaunt Around, Swingingest Jazz Band From Here to Harad, were really quite a good band. There was actually only two of them besides Shishkebab, but they had a real big band sound, due to the fact that they could each play four instruments.

The party-elves gradually dispersed at the suggestion of dancing, and that finally left Geppettuil alone. Vogonwë pounced on the moment, and as Charlotte Fuzzthorax hit a high note on the sax, he chomped down one last frog leg and nonchalantly tripped a maiden who was attempting to ask Geppettuil for a dance.

“Isn’t this a great party, son?” Geppettuil observed happily, tapping his foot as he watched the other Elves swing dancing where ancient trees had one spread their branches toward the sun. “I say, it’s one of the best I’ve ever thrown.”

“Dad, this is the only party you’ve ever thrown,” Vogonwë pointed out. “You started this party five hundred years ago and you haven’t stopped since. You never came to any of my archery contests or watched me win the Best Horse Mounter of the Third Age So Far Award, because you were too busy sucking down martinis and entertaining socialites. And it’s been the same group the whole time!” He waved his hand toward the dancers, who still had with them their five-hundred-year-old invitations and name tags.

While they were talking, Roomeal stepped up to the band and crooned in a low voice, “Let’s give a hand to Ms. Fuzzthorax and Ms. Fluffilegs for their excellent work.” While the dancers politely clapped, he gave each spider a hand, and as they happily sucked away at them, he picked up a guitar and said, “And now, ladies and gentlelves, let’s sloooooow dance.”

He began to sing,

A child arrived just the other day,
He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were invitations to write and party hats to buy,
He learned to talk while I was away;
And he was waxing poetical before I knew it,
And as he grew he'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, Dad,
You know I'm gonna be like you."

“Yes, aren’t they a blast?” Geppettuil replied absently to Vogonwë.

“Dad, don’t you get it? Out there, in the world, things change. Do you know how many lives of Men five hundred years is? Kingdoms rise and fall in that amount of time, and—”

“Vogonwë, Vogonwë, my hasty son, always you were so obsessed with the lives of mortals,” Geppettuil swirled the drink in glass languidly. “What does it matter what goes on outside the borders of our swinging party? We must do what we have always done, and that’s have a good time. Don’t concern yourself with Men and Dwarves and those other things so much.”

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy Brown and the Elf in the Moon.
"When ya gonna stop, Dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then,
You know we'll have a good talk then."

“Aha! And that’s another thing!” Vogonwë exclaimed. “You always said I was too obsessed with death and mortality and gravesites and the fleeting nature of human life, but you never said why! But now I know, the cat’s in the cradle—I mean, the cat’s out of the bag!”

He paused for deep effect, and declared, “I know that my mother was a mortal!”

In his surprise Geppettuil spit out his drink in a shower of spittle that landed upon Vogonwë’s face. “How, how did you know? I mean, how preposterous…”

“It was a bad hangover and a magic Salad Bowl,” Vogonwë said, “but it was enough to show me my true heritage. Were you or were you not married to one Darthana of Chippendale?”

“Well, you see, that’s a matter of debate,” Geppettuil demurred. “Some say it takes an official ceremony, others say all you need is love, and others don’t have much of an opinion but post anyway.” From there he went into a long thread about what constitutes a marriage.

Vogonwë finally cut him off and said, “Let me rephrase that: was she my mother?”

Geppettuil sighed. “Yes, yes she was. I only hid it from you because I knew that if you knew that you would chose a mortal life, and then both my not-wife and son would be dead and I, I would be forced to live out my life alone until my days are utterly spent. Or something.”

Well, he came home from wherever he’d been just the other day,
So much like a Man, l just had to say,
"Son, I lied to you, but it was for your own good,
"I didn’t want you to go the same way your mother did.”

“I haven’t been giving that much thought,” Vogonwë said, skirting the fate issue. “I just want to know this, Dad, how did Mother die?”

Whimsina Fluffilegs had finished her hand and picked up a violin, which she played sweetly to back up Roomeal’s singing.

Oh where have all the mothers gone, long time passing?
Oh where have all the mothers gone, long long time ago?

“She drowned in the kitchen sink,” Geppettuil sighed. “She splashed some water on the floor, slipped in the puddle, fell, struck her chin on the edge of the counter in the process, and was knocked unconscious. There she lay with her face in the water, and I…I was off buying crackers and cheese for my next party.”

Here he started to sob, and downed the rest of his drink. “Be a good son and get me some more alcohol from the bar, Voggy?”

“What would you like?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s strong…” Then, on second thought, he sniffed and said, “Make it a ‘Mudwater.”

As he walked away it occurred to me,
He wasn’t gonna be like me, no, he wasn’t gonna be like me, he was gonna choose the fate of his Mommy.
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy Brown and the Elf in the Moon. "When you gonna decide, Son?"
"I don't know when, But then you’ll never see me again, Dad, you’ll never see me again."

Just about every Elf in the glade was crying by the end of Roomeal’s song, and Geppettuil was blubbering to beat the band. Vogonwë left him to drown himself in his sorrows, and Roomeal left the stage to assume his duty behind the bar.

“You want a drink, Voggy?” he asked.

“I gave up strong drink a few days ago,” Vogonwë said. “A bad experience with an experimental medicine.”

“That’s too bad,” Roomeal said, mixing him up a Double ‘Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise. “So what are you going to do now, Voggy?”

“Would you stop calling me that? It’s so not poetic.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, since I looked into the Salad Bowl of Saladriel, which shows things that were, things that are, and things that are bizarre, I’ve been considering going to Chippendale to meet the other half of my heritage,” Vogonwë told him. “But first, I have to rejoin my friends. The last time I saw my true love she was rolling down a hill.”

Absently he accepted the drink and took a swig. “See, I think she may need rescuing, and if O Lando finds her before me, I don’t know what I’ll do, because—”

But, alas, he did not finish his sentence, for the Double ‘Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise hit him, and hit him hard. He slipped from the barstool and lay on the ground in a heap, kind of like when a curtain falls off the rod and piles itself on the ground in a mass of fabric that will surely need ironing later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, he awoke with a clearer mind, and knew what he must do. Geppettuil, who had drunk several ‘Mudwaters during his son’s period of unconsciousness, was now dancing in a half-crazed manner to the music of the she-Pawns. Vogonwë, fearing more delay, purloined some of the party food for Merisuwyniel’s meal, and filched a flask of DMGS for Earnur, for he knew him to be a connoisseur of all things intoxicating, and also since he could vaguely remember having drained some of the poor mortal’s drink in Topfloorien.

With these items he made his way back to the camp in a stunningly easy fashion, and very fashionably too, in his spiffy Elven-attire. When he arrived he found Pimpi fast asleep, a smile spread across her by now well described face. He tried various methods of arousing her, and she may very well have been aroused in her dreaming, but still she dreamt.

It finally occurred to him to pour a little ‘Mudwater Surprise into her mouth, for that liquid is rather remarkable in its ability to knock out the conscious and awaken the sleeping.

She did awake, and said dreamily, “Oh Vogonwë, I was having the most wooooonderful dream…I was at a feast, and I feasted and feasted and feasted on foods that were yeasted and greaséd. I fed on who-pudding, and rare who-roast beast, and I never thought that I’d cease!”

“That nice—”

“And you were there, Vogonwë, and you were reciting the most beautiful poem I have ever heard, though now I can’t remember what the words were…”

“That’s a shame—”

“And then, for a little while I dreamt that I was galloping across the plains of Rofoo, wrapped up in a snug blanket in my mother’s arms, while my father guided the reigns of noble Lopitoff, who was still in one piece, though he was whinnying his head off…”

“That’s wonderful, darling. I’ve been having one of the worst days of my life, and that’s saying a lot for an Elf, you know. I can’t quite say if it was the worst, but it came very close, and it isn’t even over yet… Well, anyway, when we were separated by the Fangirls, I—”

But Pimpiowyn had fallen back asleep again, and was oblivious to his complaints. He sighed, and for a moment considered pouring out his troubles in a lengthy diatribe to the horses. But he opted against it, as it just wouldn't have been the same.

[ February 21, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]