The Revenge of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Rimbaud]

In the small room near the top of Gol Dulldor, Sundry was pressing his spectacularly ugly features against the aquiline poetry of Halfullion’s own visage. He was shouting, cajoling, threatening, demanding to know of their Quest, the whereabouts of his Companions, and now, for knowledge of the great sword L’Envey Piennhas, which lay on a chair across the room. Halfullion was still securely tied to the bed.

It was early morning, and a pale grey light filtered in through the window. It was bitterly cold.

Sundry sneered at his continued resistance. Even Halfullion had been surprised at how stupid the questioning must have been to avoid him giving anything away. “I'm looking forward to completing your ‘training’,” leered the foul Guard. “In time you will call me Master.”

”You're gravely mistaken. You won't kill me as easily as I tend to surrender,” replied Halfullion, honestly.

Sundry pressed very close to Halfullion. The Orcish Captain looked into his eyes and, for the far-from-the-first time, Halfullion perceived the evil madness lurking within the maniacal eyes.

”Oh, no, my great Hero. You will find that it is you who are mistaken...about a great many things.”

Water, who was standing by the door, looking thoroughly disheartened by having not chopped anybody’s head off for a while, motioned at the blade on the chair. “His bright-sword.”

Sundry rose and took hold of the fabulous weapon. ”Ah, yes, a Hero's weapon. Much like your friend's. By now you must know your friends can never be rescued from the dark side, of Gravlox’s wrath. So will it be with you.”

”You're wrong. Soon I'll be dead...and you with me.”

The Captain laughed. “Perhaps you refer to the imminent attack of your Heroic Itship.”

Halfullion squinted foolishly at him.

Sundry sneered. “Yes...I assure you we are quite safe from your friends here.”

”Your overconfidence is your weakness,” ventured Halfullion, calmly.

”Your faith in your friends is yours,” snarled Sundry.

Water shifted. “It is pointless to resist, Gormlessar.”

Sundry turned to face Halfullion again. He was wrathful. “Everything that has transpired has done so according to our design.” He motioned outside, through the window. “Your friends out there in the Forest of Workmud...”

Halfullion reacted. The evil Captain noted it.

”...are walking into a trap. As are all of your foolish friends! It was we who allowed the Itship to approach so close. We are quite safe from your pitiful little band. An entire legion of our best troops awaits them.”

Halfullion's look darted from the Captain to Water and, finally, to the sword in Sundry’s hand.

Sundry laughed, madly. “Oh...I'm afraid the ramparts and battlements will be quite operational when your friends arrive.

”Come, boy. See for yourself.” He shifted the bed nearer to the window. Halfullion felt the cold wind on his face.

Sundry stood by the window, with Water standing at his side. Halfullion strained to look through a small section of the window.

Sundry looked at him, sharply. “From here you will witness the final destruction of the Itship, and the end of your insignificant Quest.”

Halfullion was in torment. He glanced at his sword sitting on the
armrest of the chair. The Orcish Captain watched him and smiled, touching the scabbard.

”You want this, don't you? The hate is swelling in you now. Take your Hero weapon. Use it. I am unarmed. Strike me down with it. Give in to your anger. With each passing moment, you make yourself more my servant.”

Water watched Halfullion in his agony.

”No!” Halfullion felt despair cascading around him like a latrine bucket emptied upon his head.

”It is unavoidable. It is your destiny. You, like your sword, are now mine!” Sundry was exultant, Halfullion seemed broken.

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

Some time later, in the late morning, with sun streaming into the room and playing on the coverlet atop the bound form of the Hero, Sundry announced that he had a visitor. From his restricted position in the bed, his vision hampered by the door post and Sundry’s ample orcish bulk, Halfullion could only make out a slim figure with truly stunning blonde hair.

“But, soft! what light through yonder doorway breaks? It is the east, and that sweet figure is the sun,” murmured Halfullion. Time appeared to have slowed. “See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

“Her? She?” said Sundry brutally, shattering the moment. “This is the fearsome…” and he failed to disguise a smirk “…Gravy, son of the Captain Gravlox, who is busy destroying your pathetic friends.”

“You will find me more difficult to destroy,” said Halfullion, confused, but with unexpected backbone. The Orcish Captain started in fear, and checked the bonds again.

The slim blonde figure entered. When it flicked its hair back, the face was revealed and the image of feminine beauty lost. Gravy’s face was a general plague area. Acne fought with pimple colonies, who themselves were besieged by eczema. Combined with green skin and shyness, Gravy was certainly not a great catch. Halfullion felt his stomach turn. He wondered idly if stomach’s really had space to do all this turning that so many people talk about. Cartwheels, and butterflies too, stomachs were marvelous things.

“Hello, thtrange Hero,” lisped Gravy, in a weak, fluctuating voice. “I have jutht returned from a trip on the river, looking for wigth.”

“Wigth?” asked Halfullion, thoroughly bemused.

“Wigth,” nodded Gravy.

Halfullion was lost. “You enjoy boating, …Gravy?”

“Ah yes he does!” interjected Sundry. “You can hardly keep Gravy away from boats.”

Gravy smiled shyly and ducked his head, murmuring something about liking to be out in the rain. He would have said nothing more, but the fabulously annoying Sundry heard his low emanations and exclaimed, “Indeed! Gravy especially likes to be in a boat when it’s pouring.”

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

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Baklava was bored. No, "bored" was an understatement so vast as to defy all description sufficiently punchy to work in a paragraph of this nature. He was mired in a morass of equine ennui that sprang from the risible requirement that he stand completely still in a thoroughly unimaginative and under-written clearing awaiting the return of the Mariachi singer in the cheap Mexican bar of stupidity himself, Lord Earnur Etceteron. Baklava had already listed his top-100 pet hates about being Earnur the Egregious' horse three times, and had started listing the different ways in which he would like to thrust the Dashing Dipstick's teeth down his own gullet when the Orcs entered the clearing.

This was a welcome change. There were two of them: enough to make things interesting, but not enough to necessitate any undue effort on his part. Baklava reflected that he liked those odds, and proceeded to pretend that he hadn't noticed them. Vogonwë clearly hadn't as he was still leaning over Pimpiowyn, trying ineptly to wake her. Thank Heavens for the unique eyesight of the Elves, thought the sarcastic steed. If the Bumbling Bard had managed to kill off one of these approaching Uruks then he would have been in serious danger of dropping off to sleep. One Orc just wasn't enough to keep him interested these days.

The two rather unimportant Uruks, their shirts ensanguined to the point of being completely crimson, strode up confidently; sniggering about the complete absence of alertness demonstrated by Vogonwë, who was thinking of a poem about how Pimpiowyn looked sleeping thus. Her mortality shone through at moments such as this, and he was inspired to utter:

O lovely girl with crumb-decked skirts
Whose eyes delight in nice desserts
I wish I had a world of time to think
Of something that rhymes with "think" but isn't "brink"

Mercifully at that moment Spudgun and Skunthawp, for so were the two aggressors named, although in a feeble piece of characterisation they'd been given no lines whatsoever in which to reveal this fact; necessitating the frustrated intervention of the omniscient narrator, made their rather sad and predictable move. They approached the mighty steed, noting that he could keep them in meat for a month, and in that moment Baklava casually reared up and dashed both of their skulls in with a pair of well-aimed hooves.

Curses, he thought; now he was bored again, and whichever sickly muse it was that inspired Vogonwë had been about her misguided and inept business again. As the horse-lord finally gave up and went to sleep, his ears were full of the Wood-elf's whining nasal screed:

O Pimpi fair
I love to wear
A bit of straw
Within thy hair
Let's be fair:
There's grass to spare...

Thankfully, the rest was silence.

*******

On the other side of the mighty, sweeping spinney of Workmud the Okay-I-Guess, Lord Earnur Etceteron was striding manfully back, laden with obscure herbs. Some of these were actually required for Merisuwyniel's ill-fated curry, but the rest were, well, more recreational. As he walked, he sang an ancient lay of herbal lore:

Pick it, pack it
Fire it up: come along
And take a hit from the bong.
Put the blunt down, just for a second
Don't get me wrong: it's not a new method.
Inhale, exhale - I just got an ounce in the mail.
I like a blunt or a big fat cone
But my double-barreled b...

Suddenly his amazing dashing-hero sixth sense told him that something was wrong. That and the mighty Uruk standing in his path pointing a crossbow directly at his face.

"Stand aside, foul Spawn of Souroune." declaimed our half-baked hero tritely. "None, be they Uruk, or Skwerl or Opus may face the Black Sword of Dun Sóbrin and live."

The Uruk looked at Lord Etceteron as though he had suddenly grown antlers. His eyebrows huddled together for security against the sudden wave of confusion that was sweeping across his ill-prepared cranium. Eventually he managed to articulate his incredulity.

"Wot are you on, Sunshine?" said the great, heavily-muscled creature, waving his crossbow gently in case Earnur was in some way visually impaired.

"I say unto thee, foul fiend of Udûn: you cannot pass."

"I ain't tryin' to pass, mate," said the crossbow-orc. "You are. And since this is a Mark XII double-crank mini-ballista, the most powerful handbow in the world, what you have to ask yourself is 'do I feel lucky?'"

Earnur did feel lucky. Even before his hand touched the hilt, he knew exactly which two vertebrae were about to undergo an unexpected trial separation, and the great sword Wylkynsion sang a song of pure joy as it swung in a perfect arc, almost faster than the eye could see:

Erewegoerewegoerewego
Erewegoerewegoerewego-o

The Uruk's expression didn't change, but the position of his head did. It went from sitting on his shoulders to sitting on the ground in a very familiar-looking pile of goat droppings.

Stitch that announced the sword, and Earnur strode on, reaching the clearing much more quickly than he expected. Nothing much had changed: his horse was still asleep, so was Pimpiowyn and killing the dragon was still not allowed. Stowing his special herbs in an oilskin pouch, he got out his pipe and began to load the bowl with some pungent green leaves.

Pulling out his flask, Lord Etceteron sat down to await his companions.

[ February 22, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Orogarn Two bounded into the clearing, triumphantly holding up two slain birds. “Fair is fowl, and fowl is fair!” he declaimed.

Vogonwë’s hopeful glance turned dark as he saw the spoils of the hero’s hunt. “Crebain from Dunland,” he muttered. “They hover through fog and filthy air.”

Merisuwyniel stumbled, albeit gracefully, into the clearing, her lovely eyes reddened in a most becoming way. “When shall we two meet again?” she moaned. “In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won,” spoke a voice most melodiously. Startled, Merisuwyniel looked up and saw – Falafel. “You can speak too?” she blurted. “But you have never done so before!”

“Well,” her mare answered, “I couldn’t go letting those male equine companions have the last word, could I? Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, about him whom you think lost:
Lesser than the Elves, and greater.
Not so happy, yet much happier.
He shall share their Fate, though he be none.”

“Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence? Or why upon this blasted clearing you step my way with such prophetic greeting?” questioned the Elven maiden.

“Let’s just say I have well-informed sources,” Falafel said enigmatically. “Now, shouldn’t you be cooking those birds?”

Voices could be heard approaching the camp. “Let the Itship beware!” a strange voice warned, its ethereal beauty proclaiming its Elven origin. “For there walks a power in the Forest whose wrath they will arouse at their peril.”

A well-known Dwarven voice answered gruffly, “Nonetheless they will have need of wood.” Kuruharan, his sturdy arms laden with logs and branches, walked out of the deceptive shadows of the trees. “Hi! Chrysophylax, here is work for you!”

The dragon awoke, obligingly belching a spurt of flame in his direction. Fortunately, the Dwarf had quickly dropped his load and dodged to the side. Behind him, Tofu stepped proudly, well aware of the importance of his news, yet willing to wait until the stage was set for his grand declaration. In his wake, an Elf followed, exclaiming “Vogonwë!” as he laid eyes on his relative, thrice removed. When O Lando saw the sleeping beauty of Pimpiowyn, he rushed over to give her the required waking kiss, alarming his jealous cousin. Whether it was the magic of a pure Elven, wholly immortal kiss or perhaps the smell of the now cooking fowls that was responsible, the result was the desired one – she opened her luminous eyes and smiled beatifically.

“Are you going with us?” she asked dreamily, too bemused to wish his attention to cease.

In the meantime, Merisuwyniel had succeeded in getting both Vogonwë and Lord Etceteron to produce the edible spoils of their hunt, adding them to the stew. “Double, double toil and trouble,” she chanted softly, “fire, burn; and, caldron, bubble.” She sniffed suspiciously at the herbs, whose fragrance arose from the pot. “Just what did you put in there?” she asked Earnur.

He was spared the necessity of trying to remember just what his pouch contained by the sound of a voice dramatically declaiming: “Friends, horses, sentient weapons, lend me your ears!”

Wot ears? Wylkynsion asked, but his objection went unheard and unheeded.

Tofu continued, clearly enjoying the full attention he was getting. Even Baklava had opened his eyes and was listening. “My master, the brave Lord Halfullion Gormlessar, has been taken captive!” He paused, savouring the open-mouthed astonishment of all but O Lando and Kuruharan, who had of course already heard the news. “Orcs overcame him and bore him away.”

“And you did nothing about it?” Baklava asked disdainfully, nonchalantly flexing the legs that had only recently accounted for two of their enemies.

“Alas, they were far too numerous,” explained Tofu hastily. “I deemed it more wise to obtain the assistance of a larger company to rescue him.”

“Did you see in which direction they went?” Merisuwyniel asked.

The horse hung his head ever so slightly. “Darkness took me,” he confessed, “and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell.”

“Well, then there’s no hurry,” Pimpiowyn said. “We can eat our meal first, then look for him afterwards.”

“When in doubt, always follow your nose,” O Lando Bloom suggested. “My Elven nose will find the orcs and lead you to their hidden fortress.”

“But who are you, and why do you come to aid us?” Merisuwyniel asked.

After the precise nature of the family ties between Vogonwë and him were explained, a rather confusing account, since both tried to talk at the same time, she welcomed him, saying, “You may most certainly join our company for as long as you wish and can. Yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will.”

They sat down to partake of the stew, which tasted somewhat unusual, whether due to Merisuwyniel’s cooking skills, the nature of the herbs or the origin of the fowls. Cold turkey would have been better, thought Orogarn Two, though he bravely finished his bowl. He then arose, fastened his embroidered gauntlets and proclaimed, “Let’s hunt some orc!”

“Will we find Halfullion in time to save him?” Merisuwyniel wondered concernedly.

“We may, Miss Meri, we just may,” Falafel comforted her.

With that, they mounted their steeds, at least those who had them did, and, following O Lando, riding Tofu by his gracious permission, they left the clearing.

[Kuruharan]

The very secret journal of Kuruharan, the son of Khoreth.

-140 days after pre/post-Durin’s Day-

After a day’s journey we halted for the night. The next morning Vogonwë insisted on a poetry recitation. Consequently, we did not get ready to go until noon. Eventually, everything was gathered together and packed in preparation for departure.

A party of Elves suddenly arrived. They made the mistake of mentioning to Pimpi that they carried several deer that they had recently killed and invited her to share some of it. And behold, everything is off and the departure can wait.

-141 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

It has been determined to leave today. We made about two miles going in the wrong direction before we gave up for the day and made camp. We had a brief council and decided that due to the presence of Uruk-hai and Fangirls in the area we would not build any fires or make the least noise.

As soon as the council broke up my companions proceeded to do both at once.

-142 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

We passed a party of woodsmen today. I wanted to avoid them, but the rest insisted on stopping and talking to them. The Woodsmen said that lately groups of orcs have been carrying consternation through the vales of the River. This is most disturbing.

The Itship was so distraught that they decided to make camp for the day and mourn for the souls of the departed. The time was currently 10:00 AM.

Due to the depredations of Pimpi, the food, which was intended to last us four weeks, is starting to run short.

-143 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

Rations have been cut in half. This means that Pimpi is now cut down from Quadruple rations to Double, while everyone else eats half rations.

After proceeding in the wrong direction for a half-mile, we halted to make camp at 10:30 AM.

Later in the afternoon, several Uruks were found snooping around the camp. Seeing a chance to impress Merisuwyniel, Earnur and Orogarn Two jumped into battle. Both of them killed three. O Lando spent his time prancing around admiring himself in a mirror and missed the whole engagement. Vogonwë got all tangled up in his hair bow and fell helplessly to the ground, coughing up hairballs left and right. Pimpi dashed off to guard the all important supplies and was not seen again for half an hour. Merisuwyniel behaved oddly through the battle, running about and screaming something about how her ex-boyfriend’s buddies had tracked her down. Ignoring her, I shot two Uruks before the rest panicked and fled. Chrysophylax slept. The horses laughed.

Merisuwyniel screeched in horror and ran over to weep and pout over the bodies. She kept on saying over and over again something about how she wished that it could have all worked out.

I certainly wish that it could have all worked out too. Worked out in the sense that we should have killed all the orcs rather than incompetently managing to let most of them get away.

We had no idea what to do to calm Merisuwyniel. It was almost as if she was trying to recover from a really messy break-up.

Eventually, a gift from yours truly of a few revealing dresses, and several cosmetics sufficiently covered the dead orcs, loosened her throat, swept away the clouds that obscured the view, freed the tongue, made it possible to have ideas and plans, and generally allowed us to get on with the rest of our lives without Merisuwyniel’s blubbering.

It was decided that due to Merisuwyniel’s bereavement we would not travel tomorrow.

-144 days after pre/post Durin’s Day-

Half rations still. They will shortly have to be cut to quarter. (Pimpi’s to normal.)

To relieve their boredom Orogarn Two and Earnur argued about who was braver in yesterday’s battle. Their debate became very animated. They eventually took to chopping down nearby trees in order to show who was the more manly. Merisuwyniel, O Lando, and Vogonwë objected. Lively squabble ensued.

Pimpi slunk off to have a snack.

I rolled over to take a nap.

Chrysophylax slipped off to eat some nearby villagers.

[Mithadan]

It took Gravlox the better part of a day to evade the pursuit of the Fangirls. But at last, as night fell, his head ringing from the screams and whines of the overamorous Elf-o-philes, he found a burrow in the side of a hill. Evicting two halflings and an assortment of hamsters, he settled in for an evening of remorse, self-blame and the Orcish waybread known as Doritos. Then he fell into a tortured sleep filled with images of leering Fangirls and dreams of Merisu pushing him from cliffs or tall trees into pits full of fire.

He woke with a bad taste in his mouth and a heavy heart. After a breakfast of pickles and cold chicken from the halflings' larder, he left the burrow and wandered aimlessly for a time bemoaning the fates of the world and his Orc boots which had never fit properly. For three days he wandered until he happened upon the camp of his Uruks. A quick count showed that of the twenty lads he had set out with, only ten remained.

"What has happened here?" he demanded. Buzzcut stepped forward and proclaimed proudly, "We captured a mighty Elven warrior, the one with the teeny blade. I sent him ahead to Gol Dulldor with three of our Uruks to guard him. Then three of our lads were in the edge of the forest doing what bears do in the woods, when they were attacked by more warriors. They were spitted en flagrante..."

A bit more questioning revealed that the captured warrior was of Merisu's party, as were the others who had assailed his Orcs. They were last seen heading in the general direction of Gol Dulldor...very slowly.

"Should we prepare to attack the enemy?" asked Buzzcut. Gravlox thought for a moment, briefly entertaining a vision of snatching Merisu away from her companions. But that was old school. Gravlox was a changed Orc. He shook his head. "No, we return to Gol Dulldor to check on the prisoner."

And so they broke camp (and some dishes), mounted their wolves and headed back home...

[Bêthberry]

O'er Land with O Lando

As time tumbled on and on and on, a weed of the wind's thought, and as the Third Age passed on from personal witness, beyond media report, entered into history and then wafted in the very mists of marvelous myth itself, the stirring events of the Orcish Opposition and Fateful Retrieval of Gormlessar from Gaol came to be immortalized by Anon the Imputable in the most impuissant images imaginable. Let the lay be laboured here.

How they brought the Itship from Aching to Spent

Oro' sprang to the stirrup and Vogonwë and he,
Earnur and Pimpi and Meri all three,
Kuruharan and Chrys were galloping too
To Gol Dulldor by forest they galloped all through.
Not a word to each other they kept a great pace
'Lando's nose led them on in this resolute race.
He sniffed and he snuffed till they'd had enough.
The riding was hard; it was terribly tough,
And they ached aplenty in parts of their duffs.
Yet still they went galloping this Itship they did
No stone went unturned, no scent that was hid.
Calling their mounts pet names without peer,
They galloped, they galloped 'till Halfie was near.
Neither slacking nor slowing their pace not a wit
They determined determinedly never to quit.
They thought of their Halfie in all that they did.
Oh they rid and they rid and they rid and they rid.

[Obviously, Anon the Imputable was not brown(nos)ing here.]

However, at the time of the Orcish Opposition and Fateful Retrieval of Gormlessar from Gaol, the probable events passed more portentously thus:

The waxing moon polished the shiny night sky until the stars shone more brightly than any Simonized job. Slowly, each member of the Itship waxed on about the pursuit, until even Vogonwë could not render their words in a better tell'o it. No one could hold a candle to him; it was a wicked tale.

"I should be happier if I could see the print of a boot," sniveled Kuruharan, who saw profits dissipating on the long distance decline.

"Let's not let this drag on," sneered Chrysophylax, wishing he could have a drag on his fiery breath.

"Let us not be a pig in a poke about this," sniped Orogarn Two, thinking of the lovely pigskin leather of his missing wallet. "Let us sniff first and press our pursuit later."

"Let us not to the marriage of our herbs and our appetites admit impediments," snorted Etceteron. What the great sword Wylkynsion said cannot here be reported.

"We must trust O Lando," sniveled our hapless heroine Merisuwyniel. "He nose what to do."

"Nobody knows the truffles I've seen," sniffed Pimpiowyn, whereupon both O Lando and Vogonwë sought to avail themselves of the opportunity for an encounter of a closer kind with the scented half-halfling, o'erwrought as she was with the odour of fear, to say nothing of sanctity.

"I have not elf-nose enough," snuffed Vogonwë, wallowing miserably in doleful complaint about his maternal lineage. Piteously he performed an exposition extempore upon the rooting for delicate morsels in hopes of attracting Pimiowyn to his person, but it was O Lando who was the elf of the hour and action.

"Come," snickered O Lando, who was riding piggyback for the first time. "Let me be a true TofuRider. We must visit the polluted places of the Workmud where we will see such belching smoke stacks and fouled water as can nowhere else be found in Muddled Berth, for the pulp and paper industry here has fouled most unfairly the forest with its clear cut logging and sawmilling practices. You shall come with me and keep your word to the Lord Gormlessar."

To this the Itship agreed, though with no great delight.

Then O Lando raised his tired nose. Following the orcish scent was no truffling matter, but his morels demanded that he aid his third cousin's third-rate friends. It would have been creminil to have shirked their need, for evil was mushrooming all around Workmud. Indeed, they had all been kept in the dark too long and fed all manner of strangely composted matter.

This then was the trail that they pursued thus, but beyond their noses none of them had more foretellings as did O Lando to sniff the odour of the orcish trail. Even he, delicate of nostril and fair of olfactory nerves, was hard set to distinguish betimes the orcish scent from the sulpherous fumes of the mills and the noxious adours of tanneries and soap factories. Of course, it could also be said that the heady smoke of the campfire stew rather impaired than extended his senses.

But then at last they heard a great concourse of trumpets from the enemy and they knew they were arrived at Gol Dulldor. O Lando dismounted from Tofu to approach an elf who happened upon them, an elf he apparently knew by name, one Asparagus Snap.

"What's happening, dude?" he sneered at O Lando.

"We're having fun, Gus," snickered O Lando as he turned to view the ramparts of Gol Dulldor which lay before them.

[Diamond18]

There were many flies in the vicinity of Gol Dulldor, as one might well expect from an Orcish stronghold. There were black flies, blue flies, red flies and dead flies (Flywraiths). There were houseflies, barn flies, and dark-tower flies. There were horse flies, and mule flies, and dragonflies. But worst of all, there were knickerbuckles.

Pimpi swatted at one fly of indistinct species, and wondered, “What do they eat when that can’t get half-hobbit?” She really wanted to know, as the digestive habits of different creatures was a curiosity to her.

Vogonwë took advantage of the fact that O Lando was occupied with that other Elf, and came to her rescue. He opened his flask of 'Mudwater and took a dainty sip, then with amazing accuracy that wasn’t really amazing coming from the erstwhile Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud, he spit a stream of liquid at one of the buzzing insects and hit it right between its buggy eyes. It exploded with a little poof, and a sickening scent filled the air. Or rather, as they were in the vicinity of Gol Dulldor, he put the already ill aroma on its deathbed.

He repeated this a few more times before he caught the attention of Earnur, who said, “What ho…is that the fabled drink of the Workmud Elves?”

Vogonwë swished a bit around his mouth and spat three deadly streams out in quick succession, killing three more hapless flies before they could dare to land on his love. “Yes, it’s a bit of Double 'Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise Delight,” he said, then handed over the flask gregariously. “Try some!”

Earnur accepted it and took a sniff, effectively killing his olfactory senses for at least a week. Then with no further ado, he swigged a swizzle of the stuff down manfully. He then promptly fell off of his horse.

Baklava had been lost in thought. Truth to tell, he had been daydreaming again about trampling Lord Etceteron to death, and had just got to the good part, when he was startled out of his reverie by Earnur’s sudden dismount. For a moment he seriously considered making his dreams a reality, but his hooves were stayed by a low, lyrical, mellow, snort.

He turned his head in the direction of the lovely sound, and saw Pasdedeux beside him. Gently, gracefully—and not to mention, quite helpfully—she swished her tail and flicked some flies off of his hide for him. All thoughts of...what's his name...fled from Baklava's mind.

Pasdedeux's riders had also dismounted, though less violently, of course. Vogonwë had leapt off in order to retrieve his flask before its contents ran out upon the ground. Pimpiowyn rushed to Earnur’s side to see if the fall had killed him. For, if he was dead, she wanted to rescue any food he might have had in his pockets before the decaying corpse contaminated it.

So it was that Pasdedeux and Baklava were riderless and fancy-free, staring into one another’s almond shaped eyes. (As any horse drawing book will tell you, the eyes are indeed like unto almonds, and the chins like teacups.) Long on this journey had they been glancing surreptitiously at the other when the other was not looking. She, admiring the noble black stallion with the rippling horsy muscles, too horsily handsome for linguistic gymnastics to describe. For Pasdedeux went wild for the dark and brooding type. And he, silently smitten with the beauteous mare, with her mane of the softest, silkiest, velvetiest…mane. Her mane put Vogonwë’s hair to shame. And speaking of the half-elf: his bothersome method of mounting the mare had grated seriously upon the nerves of the stallion, who hated to see such a fine creature utilized like a pommel horse.

In a romantically tragic sort of way, both had previously been too shy to do anything more than gaze dreamily at a distance. And then there was the fact that their confounded, cursed, contemptible owners had been constantly riding them or tethering them apart from each other. That had not helped.

But now Pasdedeux, in an admittedly uncharacteristic display of forwardness, had seized the moment. While Vogonwë and Pimpi were hastily trying to revive Earnur by slapping him, the horses were communing silently. Now, a stallion of lesser heredity and utter equine excellence would have said, “What’s a mare like you doing with a dippy Elf like him?” But nay, Baklava didn’t even need to neigh. As they looked deep into the depths of each other's eyes, there passed between them an understanding, which conveniently cannot be recounted in any tongue of Men, as it would ruin the surprise.

The blissful moments passed away far more quickly than the amount of time you have spent reading about it, so nothing much had happened with those of the company who were concerned with petty things such as getting into Gol Dulldor, rescuing Halfullion, and revenging the Entish Bow, etc. But Vogonwë and Pimpi did succeed in summoning Earnur back from the dark pit of drunkenness into the world of the living, and it was far too soon for Baklava’s liking. As the groggy nobleman took the reigns of his stupendous steed and manfully resumed his mount upon the cranky creature’s back, he had no idea what was racing like a racehorse through the mind of the great horse.

And it was probably just as well, for it would have hurt his feelings.

[ February 25, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion and Gravy had spent the day together, as happy as potatoes in a sack. By the mid-afternoon, to the anger and bewilderment of all and Sundry, the Hero Lord had persuaded his blonde goblin friend to loosen the bonds upon the top half of his body, allowing him to view what happened through the window. However, the day was grey and damp, and wispy grey clouds floated below the room’s window, so high were they. When the guards had realised what Gravy had done, they were furious, but dared not question him, for his father had an indecent tendency to defend his family quite brutally. Sundry had ordered L’Enviey Piennhas taken downstairs, and installed in a dark place at the rear of his tower. He was taking no chances with this warrior. He was not taken in by the man’s curious pretence at interest in all matters hair, although his passion when the conversation had turned to thinning and texturising was alarming. He himself had retired downstairs to finish his lunch, but he had left two brave guards standing, not Which, nor What and there was no Water - for he was playing bridge, although the game was slipping away from him. Instead three huge orcs stood by the door, guided by a smaller Captain; by name they were Monophobia, Rhabdophobia and Merinthophobia and the Captain was Hypertrichophobia.

The wizened guard Captain was not at all a fan of Gravy nor his luxurious barnet, and he disliked seeing the mighty Enemy Knight downplaying himself in so desperate a plea for freedom. He was disgusted with the current behaviour of his fellow Guards, too. Monophobia was clinging pathetically to the arm of Rhabdophobia, neither orc looking as testosterone charged as they might. Indeed, Rhabdophobia had refused to beat the prisoner, in an earlier transgression. Merinthophobia seemed agitated and could not bear to look at Halfullion, the strapping strider strapped strictly straight upon the straw reverse of his shield. At that moment, Athazagoraphobia burst in.

Athazagoraphobia was a young orc, barely out of his teens, who had an unfortunate name and a more unfortunate tendency to be unheard, due to his weak voice. He clamoured for attention, and eventually Hypertrichophobia looked his way, a grimace on his face at seeing the young messenger un-helmed.

”Sir! Sir!” Athazagoraphobia squeaked at him. “Sir, I have a vital message! Ithyphallophobia has been studying our records about the Grand High Hero Lord Gormlessar. He has discovered something terrible!”

“What!?” barked was Hypertrichophobia, bristling with anger. He had no desire to beat around the bush, and all this splitting of hairs was making him wish he had tried hair of the dog that morning, yet sober he re-maned.

“Sergeant Ithyphallophobia has discovered that Gormlessar is not only armed with his dread Piennhas! He has a dread blade, an Iron of Death, from the First Age!”

“Not the dread black blade Gurthang!”

No, Sir,” reported Athazagoraphobia earnestly. “The dagger forged from the remains of that sword - the evil dagger Gurl-Thang!”

Hypertrichophobia whirled as swiftly as a girl in a hair-product advertisement. Time seemed to have slowed again, however, which severely hampered his progress.

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

The Grand High Mighty Super-Fabulous Hero Lord Gormlessar had not been idle, Eric or otherwise, during this conversation; neither had he been so whilst earnestly discussing braiding techniques with the sweet lad Gravy. Whilst Gravy ladled praise upon his discovery of the Mullet, he had surreptitiously been working his hand into his trousers. There was hid the fell dagger Gurl-Thang with which he would carve his way out of this hell-hole, rescue the fair maiden Gravy and gallop madly away. He was dimly aware of some problems and inconsistencies in his scheme, but he knew, as all Heroes do, that planning spoils great plans.

As Hypertrichophobia and Athazagoraphobia came to their realization by the doorway, he had grasped the dagger, whipped it out in a slashing arc, cutting free the bonds on his left hand side. He sprang from the bed as they came at him, his shield still attached to his back, so that he resembled nothing so much as an irate turtle. The guards made to charge at him, but their progress was flawed and subsequently floored. Rhabdophobia sprang forward but could not bring himself to draw his club from his belt. In shame, he ran from the room. Merinthophobia found his stomach tied in knots at the sight of the cut bindings upon the floor and sunk to his knees in terror. Monophobia, finding himself alone, began to weep piteously, and rather half-heartedly threw the muffin he had been eating at Halfullion. It struck a grievous blow, and our Hero was sorely hurt, yet he struggled to his feet and grasping Gravy’s hand, leapt out of the window. Hypertrichophobia was still stick in super-slow-motion as if he were advertising conditioner; bearded in his own tent, as it were.

Illyngophobia and Ownpetard ran into the room and saw immediately what had happened. Overcome with the need to do his duty, Illyngophobia rushed to the window. “Quick! Quick! We must pursue!” He cried boldly. “Aid me after them, my Companion!” He fell to his death, hoist by his Ownpetard.

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

A quick change of tone, and the story continued, although there seemed to be an extra sentence preceding the next part of the tale. Our noble friend Halfullion is not deceased, gentle readers, far from it. Indeed, he lives, as you may have already ascertained. Gravy, too, his new companion and potential business partner – for their ambitions for all things Salon were tremendous. They had fallen, fortuitously, upon a large pile of raked leaves, left there by the author as a cheap device. Clambering from the soft mulch, our fearless Leader Gormlessar, heard the sounds of battle.

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

This was getting disconcerting. Unstructured, too. These are just fragments. Can you even spell i.n.d.u.l.g.e.n.t.?

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

Halfullion and his Orcish pal had had the good fortune (or temerity, depending on whether you wanted to use that word or not) to fall on the rear of the tower. This was unknown to their Noble Colleagues, the Itship, who were assembled before the front door, debating rescue attempts. Soon battle would be joined. The confusion would be immense. Some would die. Some would live. Sentences that should not have been writ, were wrote, and will be writ again, I wend to wote.

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Birdland]

The assembled rescuers peered up at the dark, befouled towers of Gol Dullor. The source of the befoulment was evident from the vast flocks of crebain which had made the towers their home for generations. They would have really preferred a paint job, but the budget was tight, so they made due with what they had and claimed that it made a "statement".

Suddenly a great, winged creature peeled off from the flock and folding its wings, stooped with claws extended, falling down on the heads of the Itship as it screamed:

"KILL! KILL! KILLLLL!"

But another Crebain quickly descended after the first, and gently grasping her by one wing, led her gently over to a nearby dead tree. He sat her down, patting her shoulder gently while she looked around frantically, wringing her hankerchief in a nervous manner.

"Now lovey, we've discussed this all before, remember. We're "cre-bain". And what do crebain do?"

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

"Nooooo-no-no-no-no, my silly genetically insane love fledgling. Crebain are car-ri-on eaters. We never-ever-wever do the actually killing, now do we?"

"No kill?"

"That's right! We let the Orcs kill them, then we eat the corpses. And we know how much you love your corpses, don't we? Which is why you no longer have quite the girlish figure I knew when I married you."

"Eat the corpses?...EAT! EAT! EAT!"

"Yes, my darling wittle basket case. All the corpses you'd like."

"PECK OUT THEIR EYES!"

"Your favorite part, my love."

"RIP OUT THEIR NOSTRILS!"

"And then suck out the brains. That's right. Oh, you do remember! Now: you sit tight right here, and I'll go tell Gravlox about the intruders. And no sooner than you can say "regurgitate", those Orcs will have dinner all ready for you. Can you do that for me, my funny little half-wit?"

The cre-wife nodded her head up and down vigourously, and was continuing to do so as her long-suffering nestmate flew off to inform his Orc masters of the situation. After which he snuck off to the other side of the forest, where he was keeping a certain younger, understanding jackdaw in a love nest.

The rest of the Crebain started to make reservations.

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two stood with eyes closed and one hand clasped tightly around the mysterious crystal hanging on its golden chain. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his face contorted as if he was battling with forces unseen. His breathing quickened to a frantic pace, loud as a frightened Múmak, and then suddenly stopped. His hold on the magic stone faltered, his hands went desperately to his throat, and he collapsed to the ground unable to breathe.

Kuruharan scrambled forward and immediately dumped the contents of a large black bag (marked M.D. for “Marketing Dwarf”) onto the ground beside the fallen Grundorian. Bottles, cans, vials, and flasks of all sizes scattered on the leafy floor of Workmud, each labeled with explicit instruction of how and by whom their contents were to be consumed. The Dwarf searched frenetically through the medicinal pile until he located a short, cylindrical container made of a strange, opaque orange materiel. He pressed-and-twisted its white lid and poured two small white pellets into his hand.

“Here,” he handed the pellets to Merisuwyniel. “Shove these down his throat. They’ll start him breathing again.”

The lovely elf looked down at Orogarn Two, whose eyes were bulging slightly and whose complexion was starting to blue.

“I’m not a doctor,” she said. “Vogonwe, you know him better than I do. You do it.”

“Oh no, dear lady,” said the poet, already composing in his head a rhyming reason for not assisting. “Perhaps the petite Pimpi is more suited to such ministrations. My bedside manner is lacking when it lacks a bed.”

The half-halfling looked up from where she sat nibbling an odd-shaped mushroom she had discovered growing in hollow, rotten log. “Nck thhnk yugh,” she said with her mouth very full.

Orogarn Two’s eye rolled up into his head and his body began to convulse violently.

“Oh, for the love of all that is holy in this most unholy of unholy lands!” shouted The Lord Etceteron in an unnecessary repeated use of the words ‘holy’ and ‘unholy’. “I’ll do it!

He strode forward, grabbed the pills from Merisuwyniel’s hand, and shoved them forcefully into Orogarn Two’s gaping maw. Unable to breathe, the aristocrat from Minus Teeth was also unable to swallow, and Earnur was forced to assist the pellet’s intake by adding a dollup from his ever-smoking flask. The potent potable pushed the medicine inward faster than Liquid Plummer pushes hair through a clogged drain, and the Lord of Grundor suddenly took in a huge, gasping breath.

He then uncontrollably regurgitated the entire contents of his stomach onto the forest floor, retching wildly for several moments, spewing his guts, and causing the gathered adventurers to fight sudden waves of nausea. Soon, everyone but Pimpi, who’s stomach was unassailable, was groaning as they unwilling participated in a group puke-fest. At last, Orogran Two’s stomach stopped heaving, and one by one his companions regained control of themselves. Everyone quickly moved several yards away (and upwind) from the site of the pungent event.

“What was that?” shouted Earnur, trying desperately to wash the awful vomit flavor away by pouring Strangreek’s directly into his mouth and swishing it around. “What caused you choke, Orogarn?”

“Two,” answered the speedily recovering Grundorian. “It’s Orogarn Two, Lord Eteceteron.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Apologies. Tell us what you saw with your crystal.”

“I saw our comrade, Halfullion, trapped in Gol Dulldor and surrounded by effeminate Uruks.”

“Ewwwww,” said the party in unison.

“I saw an unknown Elf maiden and a legless Uruk engaged in amorous activities.”

“Eeeeewwwwww!”

“I saw a half-starved half-halfing standing alone and foodless.”

“Oh no!” Pimpiowyn rushed forward with a mushroom in her hand. “What were these visions? Are they visions of the future.”

“I don’t know,” answered Orogarn Two. “The crystal shows things that may or may not be.

“Then what use is it?” asked Chrysophylax.

“It has it’s uses, dragon,” said Orogarn Two angrily, raising his hand to his crystal and walking toward the huge creature.

“You’re not going to puke again, are you?” asked Kuruharan, jumping between the Grundorian and the dragon.

“Stop it!” shouted Merisuwyniel. “There’s no time for bickering. Do you hear that?”

[Birdland]

The crebain circling the tower gazed down in open-mouthed, wide-eyed astonishment as the enemies of Gol Dullor stage a mass purging at the very gates of their beloved, bespattered home.

"Oh, that was disgusting!"

"One of the most revolting displays I've ever seen!"

"Who would have thought that Elves and Men would have been capable of such an act of defilement?"

"Who are those guys?"

"LET'S GO!"

Immediately, the entire flock descended and began cleaning up the mess left behind by their enemy. Soon no trace of the partly digested bioterror remained to be seen.

But the crebain merely regarded this as an appetizer, and soon returned to their circling, hoping battle would be joined and they could start on the second course.

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox led his band into Gol Dulldor ahead of the arrival of the Itship. He was greeted at the gate by a messenger Orc. "Sourone wants to see you," he was told.

Bidding goodbye to his troops, he made his way back to Sourone's office. He knocked at the door, then entered. Sourone was behind his desk reviewing some papers. He looked up as Gravlox entered. "Ah, Gravlox, sit down, sit down," said the Dark Lord.

Gravlox sat on one of the red leatherette chairs and looked expectedly at his master. Sourone removed his wire rim bifocals and rubbed his eyes before he spoke.

"Gravlox," he began. "You've been a valued servant for many years, but recently certain...improprieties have come to my attention."

Gravlox swallowed nervously. "Improprieties?" he asked. "What might those be my Lord?"

Sourone smiled toothily at Gravlox causing the Uruk to shiver. Then he turned and called, "Hazel, come here please." From the shadows near the executive washroom, Gravlox's wife emerged.

"Honey?" cried Gravlox in surprise.

Hazel walked over to stand beside Sourone, who, none too discreetly, patted her anatomy. She giggled, "Sourone!" Then she faced her husband. "Don't you 'Honey' me! For the past two years, you've been home a total of six days. 'Out on missions' you always say. Well, I've talked about you..."

"With who?" asked Gravlox.

Hazel smiled evilly and pointed to his wooden foot. "I was lonely, ouch!" whined the foot as Gravlox kicked the desk. "Every night after you went to sleep, your foot and I would have a little chat," continued Hazel. "Six missions over two years, and your foot says that you didn't raid, pillage or destroy one village. No mayhem, no murder. Instead, you've looked for abandoned settlements and rooted through them for loot. Gravlox how could you!" With an obviously feigned sob, she passed a sheaf of papers to the Uruk.

"What's this?" asked Gravlox as he accepted the documents. She smiled again, causing Gravlox to shudder. "DivOrc papers," she screeched. "You and I are through!"

"Don't I get a trial?" asked Gravlox.

"Ah, yes, a trial," said Sourone as he ran a finger along Hazel's jaw. "The court finds in favor of the plaintiff and enters a judgment of DivOrc. Wait for me in the washroom, dear." With a triumphant cackle, Hazel walked away.

"Now, Gravlox, what shall we do with you?" mused Sourone. At that moment an alarm sounded. A small Orc ran in and shouted, "We're under attack by a band of Elves!" Then the Orc ran out into the halls shouting, "To arms, to arms, the Figwits are coming!"

Sourone stood and looked down at Gravlox. "It seems you will have a chance to redeem yourself. But only one chance," growled the Dark Lord. "Go!" Then Sourone turned and entered the washroom. An odd assortment of sounds came from behind the closed door.

Gravlox stood with a grin. "It could be different," he said. "But it couldn't be better..."

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Etceteron casually swept a couple of unfortunate Crebain out of the sky, noting as he did so that Wylkynsion's balance appeared to be off. Not enough blood, he decided, and skewered another feathery body by way of an appetiser for his undernourished sword. It was obvious that the gates of Gol Dulldor weren't going to open on their own, and he was hoping that the enemy would be stupid enough to open them for him, as they usually did when he was so ludicrously outnumbered. The Black Sword was one of the few men who could realistically expect to use a massive numerical handicap as a tactical ploy.

Luck and dramatic purpose were with him this day; for as he paused to brush some guano from his tunic the dread portals swung back on their under-oiled hinges, screaming like a legion of film buffs at an enforced five-hour screening of Wednesday-afternoon game shows. His blade was ecstatic as a veritable army of Orcs issued forth, waving an ill-assorted collection of spears, scimitars, axes, hammers and, in one particularly misguided case, a pair of nail-scissors. At their head rode a familiar figure, one-legged and brandishing at once sword and spear.

At last, enthused the brutish blade. Oi! 'Andsome! You want some?! Come 'ere an' get it!.

"I just washed this tunic" mused the lord of Dun Sóbrin, absent-mindedly taking up a fighting stance by Oragarn Two, who was clutching his crystal once more as he too prepared to meet the advance. Vogonwë had an arrow in each hand, and was already beginning the greatest chant of accuracy known to the Elves of Workmud:

Is there an allegory in these sections? It seems to me that...

His words were lost in the din of a thousand battle cries, ranging from one Orc's "This bit is soooo kewl!" to Etceteron's own "Heart shall be higher, will the bolder as our enemies perish in unconvincingly high numbers!" Even Pimpiowyn was holding a dagger uncertainly, as though worried that it might bite her. Kuruharan, axe in hand stood close by his business associate, which might have been heroic comradeship or the desire to be near the largest and most lethal being in the field. Already the noble dragon was casually picking the remains of a barbequed Orc from his teeth and eyeing up its erstwhile companions as a hungry man regards an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The Entish Bow was still half-way through the hastiest war-chant it knew, although its fair owner, her hair streaming conveniently away from her eyes, was acting rather more swiftly as arrow after arrow thudded home into the ranks of the enemy. Anyone perceptive enough to notice, which ruled out every participant in the battle, might have noticed how few of these came close to the huge leader of this wild tide of destruction.

Not laughin' now are we, Sunshine? sneered the dread sword Wylkynsion, as it neatly bisected an Orc's head and swept back with all the strength of Earnur's mighty and gin-soaked arm behind it to skewer another that had somehow got behind him. He was too busy now to notice the actions of his companions as he cheerfully fought three huge Uruks with one hand whilst drinking the strongest spirits known to Middle-Earth with the other. One particularly callow Orc got too far inside his guard and was rendered unconscious by the very fumes of this concoction; a mixture of Strangereek's, Orc homebrew and Miruvor that was favoured by poisoners rather than drinkers in most societies. As the flood swept past him he could hear skulls cracking as his fabled black stallion tried to fight his way closer to Pasdedeux, but his own thoughts were on the need to parry that clumsy thrust , remove an arm and swing back for a groin job on the other fellow. As he fought the words of his sword formed a vicious counterpoint to his expert butchery:

Don't... (hack) Come... (crunch) Out... (gurgle) To... (squelch) Play... (slash) Unless... (whimper) You... (snap) Know... (squish) How! (splat).

Mithadan's Post:

Gravlox led an army of Orcs, 3000 strong, from the gates of Gol Dulldor. Before him stood a small knot of heroes. He grinned. Knowing precisely the correct tactics to employ when attacking a small force with vastly superior numbers, he ordered the army to do exactly the opposite. "Spread out!" he cried. "Form a single line! We can't let them get around us! Defend the Keep!"

The Orcs hurried to follow his orders and spread out to form a single line in the space between the two bottomless ravines that protected the flanks of the citadel. Unfortunately, there was at best room to form a line of perhaps a thousand Orcs between the sheer drops. And drop they did. They marched off the edges to topple into the chasms by the hundreds.

"Lemmings," muttered Gravlox under his breath. Then he spurred Shagoff to the left swinging the mighty ZigZag sword as he went. This action relieved a couple of dozen Orcs of what passed for their heads. Halting at the side of the line of soldiers, he shouted, "Sing, boys, sing!" Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks, and everywhere we go...

He could barely contain his laughter as he watched the army try to keep time, count and fight at the same instance. He would make sure that Merisu was safe at any cost and Sourone be damned. If Gravlox would lose his head as a result, so be it.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Rimbaud]

“Hark!” cried the Noblest of the Enobled, the most Masculine of the Emasculated, Halfullion Halfemption Gormlessar III, Prince amongst Men, Stylist amongst Butchers.

“Gravy,” snapped Gravy, peeved that his vastly gorgeous companion could not remember his name. “My name is Gravy, not Hark, or Lo, or Whazzat, or any of the other names you shout at me.”

“Terribly sorry, Gravy, you scrumptious fellow,” said Halfullion soothingly. “It’s just that this tiresome Doom has been laid upon me and I have a nasty feeling that I have to go and get hurt now. This and the general culmination of events are leading to this great Heroic Flux, which makes me prone to saying things that might sound a little stilted, except this bit, which is simply a rather unnecessary and lengthy explanation that still, for some reason, has not ended.”

“I see,” said Gravy, bitterly. “I suppose that means that the Salon is not going to happen.”

“You never know, old fruit,” said Halfullion, girting himself with the sword of a fallen orc nearby. He also equipped himself with the unfortunate Enemy’s helm, and looked rather ferocious. Gravy felt a stirring within him. “Look,” said Halfullion. “I’ll go and slice these fellows attacking my pals, and you can hunt around for a decent hiding place and some food. I’ll be home in time for supper. Maybe some pig loins, Gravy. Go hunt some pork!” He winked lasciviously, and his immense charm caused Gravy to faint.

Our Hero galloped madly into the fray, leaving Gravy motionless.

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

“Huzzzah!” cried Halfullion, decimating rank upon rank of his hapless foes. “Nothing can stand before the might of,” - he checked the handle of his borrowed sword for a name - “Stumpy. Eh? Stumpy? Gah. Oh, well. Yes! You cannot stand up to Stumpy the Valiant!”

Indeed, the nettles before him gave way in no short time and he progressed on toward the maelstrom that his vastly overpowered friends were causing. He smelt barbequed orc, and realised the dragon was casually toasting most of the enemies.

Not to be outdone, Halfullion charged at the ranks of the orcs, who were all facing the other way, waiting patiently to be chopped up by Etceteron.

* * * * * * *

Some indeterminate time later, Halfullion had single-handedly defeated at least one rather puny orc who had been looking for his spectacles, and had been rather unfairly ignored by all the others. “Hey! Fight me you fools!” quoth he. But they stayed facing the other way, well knowing his weakness. He could not stab them in the back, having signed the Chivalry Convention of Geneva. He pounded on their backs, but they would not turn.

As morning turned to afternoon, he became rather dispirited. More upsettingly, he sensed his Doom closing upon him, which was dampening his spirits considerably.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Birdland]

The Crebain, after a few close shaves from Wylkynsion, had taken to the surrounding trees, and were peaking furtively through the foliage as the battle continued to drone on below them.

"So, how many of the enemy have fallen?"

"None of them."

"None of them?...Who are those guys?"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel shot arrow after arrow, each released with deadly accuracy, often passing through one orc to pierce a second one. It did not occur to her that her amply-filled quivers should certainly be empty after a time, until she realized that the arrows felt different in texture and form than usual. A glance at Vogonwë, not far away from her, showed her that his arrows too were strangely made, though they flew just as quickly and certainly as ever. Yet there was no time to wonder as long as throngs of orcs poured forth from the fearful fortress.

After a time the enthusiasm of the orc troops had diminished noticeably and their onslaught was more hesitant. Merisuwyniel breathed deeply, her chest heaving in a most spectacular manner. She turned to look at her fellow Elven arrow-slinger and saw that he was staring behind them in bewildered consternation. She swung around in a whirl of flowing hair and divided skirt to gaze into – blackness! Though the daylight had not yet faded in front of them, a dim, dusky darkness had crept up behind them, casting fear into the hearts of the foes and wonderment into those of the Fellow/Galship. Branches were stretched out toward them, as if they were offered to them to be used as arrows.

“Whence cometh this strange wood?” asked the Elven maiden in astonishment.

“I called them!” rang out a voice, clear and proud, though rather wooden. “They are the Thorns, those trees that have reverted to aggressive attacking behaviour. They have come to avenge themselves on the Tree-Slayers and Burners, those run-burra-run, the orcs.

“Well, why are you all staring?” the Entish Bow asked. “Have you forgotten that I too can speak and that this is indeed my quest which you pursue? Did you think that I am merely a common, crude weapon? Do not underestimate the power of the Ents!”

Then their hearts were glad of the unexpected aid and they praised the Bow, saying, “Praise it with great praise!”

Several orcs had taken advantage of the pause in the fighting to approach with as much stealth as was possible, considering the warning effect of their stench. Quickly the company parted and pursued the foes into the trees, and they were never seen again.

Merisuwyniel turned back to face the enemies, looking across the battlefield into a pair of burning eyes that gazed at her. Her breath caught, her heart skipped a beat, then raced in wild elation even while she fitted another of the Thorns’ arrows to the Bow. She shook her golden tresses to dispel her momentary confusion, carefully aiming far to the left of those eyes. So intense had been her concentration during the battle that she had not even been aware of the fact that the Bow too sought its marks away from that familiar face.

Swords flashed, arrows flew, foes fell – the battle continued to rage around her, yet she was aware only of the unruly beating of her heart…

[Rimbaud]

The Orcish Army of Gol Dulldor was becoming just a mite dispirited. Several hundred of their number had died before noon, and although the Itship had stopped for lunch, the slaughter had resumed and the carnage was quite terrible to see. As for the Itship, Merisuwyniel had broken a nail, the dragon was feeling sick, and Etceteron had momentarily fainted after swigging his entire flask in one exuberant gulp. Other than that, and a little weariness in their weapon wielding arms, they were unhurt. They continued to callously destroy the once proud Army of Gol Dulldor.

Halfullion’s fight had improved, by his standards. He had had a jolly good slaughter, and spitted quite a few of the scaly buggers, improving his mood tremendously. However his Doom lay heavily upon him, like a large jellyfish atop his head. As you can imagine, this was quite disconcerting.

He finally caught view of his Valiant Companions, and their new Entish allies. The sight stirred his heart and he attacked with renewed gusto. He thought of Gravy and his future in hairdressing and an amiable grin grew on his face, as he carelessly disembowelled a promising young architect orc named Dennis. He thought of fair Merisuwyniel and a keening grew within his heart and he greatly desired to see her.

He spotted Kuruharan and Vogonwe standing over a figure on the ground and he dashed towards them, slicing his way through like a knife through butter, or more aptly, a fool through orcs. The figure on the ground was Etceteron.

“Halfullion!” cried Kuruharan, selling an unarmed nearby orc a cheap replica sword for a stupendous sum, then chopping his head off anyway. “Good to see you broke free! How tremendously Heroic you are.”

“Heroes are as Heroes do,” said Halfullion, mysteriously. “Is Earnur hurt?”

“Nay,” snorted the Dwarf. “Drunk.”

“Ah.”

They fought back to back for some time as the shadows lengthened.

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

An hour or more later and things took a different turn. A great cry went up. Through the ranks of orcs came a huge, lumbering figure, clearly computer-generated, but no less terrifying because of it.

“They have a cave-troll,” muttered Vogonwe, incorrectly.

Halfullion moved to before the great foe.

“No! It is suicide,” cried Vogonwe, hopelessly.

Suddenly, they were all there, all the Itship in one place. Merisuwyniel’s heart was torn asunder as she saw Gravlox in the distance urging his orcs on, and in the foreground, the manliest man of all men, Halfullion Gormlessar, facing down the gigantic troll-fiend. Etceteron awoke, blearily, and struggled to his feet, his sword sneering at him. Pimpi munched on an in-battle sandwich for inner fortification. Orogarn Two ran around picking off stragglers, somehow predicting with devilish accuracy where they would go.

Halfullion swapped a couple of blows with the great troll, as the battle stalled around them. All eyes were on this confrontation. The Thorns took this opportunity to swallow an extra couple of ranks of orcs, unnoticed. The Forest belched, in a rather unseemly fashion, but this did not deter the grand Gormlessar.

He had lost his helm, and his fabulous hair waved casually in the wind, awing all.

The troll shook himself with a great roar, and streamers of black smoke arose from its armour. The orcs had set it alight as a living weapon. They goaded the troll with pikes, poking the enraged beast towards Halfullion and his silenced companions. The fiery monster loomed above them, twenty feet tall at least.

The dark figure streaming with fire raced towards them. The orcs yelled and shook the ground with their stamping. Then Halfullion raised his whistle and blew. Shrill the challenge rang, and tinny, like the squeaking of several anemic mice out in the great field. For a moment the orcs quailed and held their ears. The troll ceased its advance. The Itship retreated further behind the seemingly fearless Halfullion. Then the sound died as suddenly as a flame blown out by a dark wind, and the enemy advanced again.

“Back!” cried Halfullion to his friends. “Back! This is a foe beyond any of you.” The Dragon had fallen asleep, satiated. “I must hold the entire battlefield.” His logic seemed spurious, but the others, feeling somewhat lethargic after a great deal of chopping and throwing, let it pass. “Back!”

The troll reached the Hero. Halfullion stood directly before it, leaning on the sword in one hand, but his other hand raked his gleaming hair, gold and streaming. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the smoke around it reached out like two vast wings. It raised its huge flaming club and it snapped, crackled and popped, like a well-known cereal, but slightly more terrifying. Fire came from the joints of its armour and it howled. But Halfullion stood firm.

“You cannot pass,” he said. The orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. “I am a Hero of the First Order, wielder of the sword of Some Orc. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, Parody of Fiction. Go back to the Tower! You cannot pass.”

The troll made no answer. The fire upon it seemed to die, but a darkness grew around them as evening fell. It stepped forward slowly before him, and its wings were spread an improbable distance around it; but still Halfullion could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small and altogether alone: blonde and erect, like a firm young sapling before the onset of an axe.

From out of the smoking troll a club came swinging.
Stumpy gleamed dully in answer.
There was a ringing clash and a great thump. The troll fell back and its club flew up in molten fragments. The Hero swayed on his feet, stepped back a pace, and then again stood still.

“You cannot pass!” he said.

With a bound the troll leaped right before him. Its burning armour hissed and cracked.

“He cannot stand alone!” cried Etceteron, waking fully, and ran back towards Halfullion. “Wylkinson!” he shouted. “I am with you, Gormlessar!”

“Grundor!” cried Orogarn Two and leaped after him.

At that moment Halfullion lifted his great fist, and crying aloud he leapt twenty feet high and smote the troll before him. The troll’s helm broke asunder and fell from its head. A blinding sheet of smoke and flame sprang up. The ground cracked beneath them from the force of the blow. Right at the troll’s feet it broke, and a chasm opened, orcs screaming as they fell within to their deaths.

With a terrible cry the troll fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung a scimitar, and the blade cut deep into Halfullion’s torso, casting him clear, upon the ground before his friends and smashing him to his knees. He fell, sore wounded.

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

The orcs howled and the gap in the earth closed, swallowing a great many of them. Yet now they were enraged beyond all fear and charged upon the Itship with utter destruction in mind.

It was every Companion for themselves in the chaos and they were separated anew. Halfullion struggled to his knees, blood pouring from his great Wound. Thoughts flashed through his mind; how he had been a fool, and how he loved Merisuwyniel, and how he could never be whole, and how he would never see her fair face to tell her. They cut him down as he knelt.

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

As night fell, the Companions regrouped, sore grieved at their loss. They fought their way to hold the ground over his body. Etceteron knelt by the great, broken frame of the noblest Hero. He and Orogarn lifted him and moved him back, as the orcs retreated for the night. They carried him to the edge of the Entish Wood. There they laid him down; and now the night drew very close. Etceteron drew his sword Wylkinson, and with it he cut the bloodied armour from Halfullion; but fate was that day more strong, for Halfulllion was not quite dead, and the sword slipped as Etceteron cut the bindings, and Halfullion’s foot was pricked. Then he was aroused into a sudden wakefulness of rage and fear, and seeing one bending over him with naked blade he drew Gurl-Thang with a choking cry, believing that Orcs were come to torment him; and grappling with him in the darkness, he grabbed Wylkinson, and the sword twisted in his hand, and jumped to the hand of Etceteron again, and he slew Halfullion Gormlessar, by the sword’s fell will.

So ended Halfullion Gormlessar and it was upon the stroke of midnight of the first day of battle against the Orcs of Gol Dulldor. Even to this day, in Hero-Training Schools across the land, tales are told of Halfullion, and how it took three deaths to kill him, and how it was his own Companion that dealt death at the last. Fot it was writ in his Hero Contract that he had to die by the hand of a friend. It was that or be untimely ripp’d from somewhere or other, and that sounded nasty in the extreme.

[Diamond18]

As Halfullion Gormlessar passed from the world, time slowed significantly, until it went beyond slo-mo to an actual standstill. In those few momentless moments, a few select things happened. Etceteron, stunned beyond words at the deed which he had just done, stooped motionless over the deceased Hero. He, along with time, was stunned into an impenetrable state of freeze frame, and the thoughts that fled through his head, I cannot here name.

Vogonwë was awed at the vivid mortality before him. Into his cranium there leapt unbidden a string of words, and as time stood still and twiddled its thumbs, he spoke in a low, sonorous, mellifluous, melodious, harmonious, euphonious voice (intoning thusly):

Death of an Half-Elf

His blood ran red—
Carmine and crimson,
Vermeil and vermilion,
He was dead—Halfullion.
Cardinal and currant ran out,
Upon the ground.
Like burgundy claret,
He blood pooled 'round.

I stand in shock,
Upon this rock,
And look upon,
His golden locks,
His hair so blonde,
Feathered across his forehead.

Some moments hence,
He came from thence,
So heroic and quixotic.
And now he lays in a daze,
That is to say death (but poetic).

Ah, Halfullion! You were truly an,
Worthy and most noble companion,
A talented and stylish beautician,
Wielder of a most mightily morphing sword,
Though you were certainly out of your gourd.

Where go you now, thou of split heredity?
For you were an half-elf, like me.
Though I don’t recall you having,
A crisis with your fated identity.

Where ere thy soul doth fled,
Now that thy mortal body be dead,
May thou find a land with many hirsute heads,
All in undying need of styling gel.
Go now, fair soul, and even though,
You yawned at all my poetry,
Be at peace, Lord of Fool Intrepidity!

Vogonwë was so moved at the death of the half-elf, that when he was done with the dirge, he turned with a cry and let fly with a half-dozen arrows at once, taking out his half-elven frustration on a baker’s dozen of Orcs—and the Baker, too.

With a disgruntled sigh, Time awoke from its slumber, and moved on.

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron realised the enormity of his deed even as the blow fell, guided with callous efficiency by the ill-will of the sword Wylkynsion, which was of all weapons the most apt to turn a mere close shave into a painfully final cut. He had never liked Lord Gormlessar much, but still he would have liked to spend more time exploring the dead ground (he shuddered, and took a nip of the liquor of Topfloorien) between cordially disliking the man and brutally stabbing him to death.

Wylkynsion itself was unrepentant: Got the fairy! That'll teach 'im ter be an 'airdresser! it announced gleefully, and not for the first time Earnur considered how woefully inappropriate was this choice of weapon for a noble hero. "Shut up, you insensitive bugger!" he hissed, and covered his embarrassment by screaming theatrically and charging a knot of nine Orcs, who had taken advantage of the It-ship's momentary distraction to charge them.

Nine dead orcs later, Earnur was once again in a position to lament the slaying of his comrade. "He was a bit of a pillock," he reflected, "but his death was ignoble, to be so cruelly slain by the hand of a companion."

Less poncy talk, more chopped Orc interrupted a coldly metallic voice, and for once he was in accord. All of this noble musing was all right in sagas, but right here and now, outnumbered by fast-diminishing yet overwhelming odds, his best bet was to kill as many of the enemy as he could to keep them from his companions.

Although he could see that the Orcish hordes appeared unwilling to attack, and their leader's tactics clearly consisted of marching his troops into the two huge ravines that framed the battlefield, some of the mighty Uruks had managed to overcome the demands of advanced theoretical mathematics and harmonic interplay, and were suicidally determined to win their dark master's favour. These intrepid few, numbering some three-hundred heavily-armed (and still more heavily-stomached) Uruks were charging directly at Earnur and his companions, and the Black Sword, forged by the very hand of Eöl himself, thirsted for their bit-part blood. Alone he leaped to their midst, laying about him in all directions, until they bizarrely broke and ran, presumably thinking themselves under attack not by one, but a whole army of alcoholic assailants. A brief respite thus won, an arterially sodden Lord Etceteron and his gloating sword made their way back to their surviving companions, all of whom maintained a respectful distance from the ensanguined warrior and his blood-drenched brand, almost as though they could hear the crazed and exultant chanting of the great sword, which ran through the mind of the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin like an armoured division.

Come on you buggers! I'll kill all o' you! 'Ere you! Wotchoo lookin' at? You want some? Eh? I'll nut you from 'ere ter next bleedin' week! I'll 'ave any ten o' yer! Come get some!

But enemies and friends alike were far enough from the blade to render pursuit hopeless in Earnur's current weakened state. Instead, despite Wylkynsion's dire imprecations, Earnur sank to his knees by the corpse of the mightily manly Lord Halfullion Gormlessar, and moved not for some time.

[Birdland]

"Well, that's one down."

The crebain watch resentfully as the champions kneel around their fallen companion.

"I can't see. Are they eating him?"

"I can't tell. I don't think so. Maybe their waiting for him to rot a bit."

Well, I just hope they leave some for us"

"Why don't you have some Orc."

"Mmmmmmm, nah, I just don't feel like Orc tonight."

"Hey, look, they're picking him up."

"Well, looks like they decided on take-away."

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A thin black smoke trailed out of the cracked earth where the Troll had fallen. Nothing else was to be seen; the vale all around was empty. (Why the orcs, whose biorhythm was normally active at night, had retreated, no one knew.) Grief at last wholly overcame the companions, and they wept long: some standing and silent, some cast upon the ground.

Then they laid their fallen comrade on branches, lashed together with vines, obligingly supplied by the Thorns, as were the torches that surrounded the bier, stout branches which Chrysophylax had lit. The flickering movement of light and shadow gave the Lord’s noble face a deceptive appearance of life, more intelligent and expressive than anyone could remember seeing whilst he yet lived.

Even Kuruharan, who had spent much more time on the battlefield collecting valuables than fighting, was so moved by the Hero’s death that he freely offered those precious relics that he had found: the tin whistle and the great sword, l’En’viey Piennhas. Merisuwyniel gently combed his magnificent hair one last time, then arrayed the cloven tin whistle upon his mighty chest and laid the sword across his lap. It had assumed a magnificent size, as if to honour in death the Lord whose hopes it had too often betrayed in life. Beneath Gormlessar’s feet lay the sword Stumpy and assorted orcish trophies, demonstrating his prowess in battle.

One by one the company dispersed, seeking shelter to get what rest they could for the remainder of the night. Only Merisuwyniel was left, keeping watch over Halfullion’s lifeless body. Her tears and her hair mingled, both flowing freely as she wept for him whom she had once loved. She had felt his thoughts turn to her in the moment of his death, and regretted bitterly that she could not give him back what he had sought for. Now their parting was final, for none of the learned, neither on old thread or new, nor on the New Silmarillion forum, could determine what the fate of the Half-Elven Lord would be.

Softly she began to sing:

Through Rohan forum’s RPGs where the long stories grow
The West Wind comes walking, and about the Inn doth go.
‘What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Gormlessar the Tall by moon or by starlight?’.
‘I saw him ride o’er seven threads, o’er discussions long and fey;
I saw him walk in many posts, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the Books. I saw him then no more.
The Shire his whistle may have heard; knock at the Dragon’s door.’
‘O Gormlessar! From the high threads westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty Mayhem where no deep thoughts are.’

In the realm of the Shire the Green Dragon lies, with many a cheerful guest.
The quaffing there of ale is heard; they come from east and west.
‘What news from the Shire, O drunken wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Gormlessar the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.’
‘Ask not of me where he doth dwell – his Pile o’ Bones there lies;
In Barrow dark he treasure guards that ne’er will see the skies.
So many Wights and Shades have passed that Newly Deceased began;
A Skeleton or Spirit becomes Ghost Prince of Cardolan.’
‘O Gormlessar! Thy existence lies in the Perilous Poet’s hand;
Since he has now disposed of thee, in thy grave thou must land.’

At the Gate of Gondor the Seventh Star stands; the Innkeeper there doth dwell.
And from Ecthelion’s Tower there doth ring a warning bell:
‘Take heed, o ye who here would write, for standards ye must hold
That merit highest quality, like Gormlessar the Bold.’
‘At Gol Dulldor I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven whistle, his magic sword in olden times were wrought.
His hair so proud, his face so fair, his limbs we lay to rest;
His comrades mourn the death of one who was the very best.’
‘O Gormlessar! Thy Doom was hard, thy Fate a Hero to be,
And nevermore thy sword shall cut the coiffures flowing free.’

[The Barrow-Wight]

A single tear rolled down the rugged cheek of the oldest son of Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor, and his massive mane of glitter-rock hair hung lifelessly about his wide shoulders. The loss of one so great as Gormlessar was devastating, even if he had been totally irritating, completely idiotic, and an undeniably terrible punster. Orogarn Two was visible shaken by the death of Halfullion, so much so that he broke into uncharacteristic verse.

The lovely elf maiden kept making you wait
Lying in love with those she should hate
A terrible victim of short-sworded fate
You knew you would be the one
Only the good die young.

They gave you an ego and sent you away
They gave you a bouffant that stayed fresh all day
But they never told you the price you would pay
For the perms that you might have done
Only the good die young.

You fell in with a dangerous crowd
Some were quite pretty, others quite loud
But you were completely and utterly proud
By vanity you were undone
Only the good die young.
That’s what I said.
Only the good die young.

You got a nice white horse and a party on your coronation
You got a sword that morphs
Made by the seven dwarfs
But Halfullion they didn’t give you quite enough appreciation
Didn’t care about your salon dreams
Or your patent on relaxing creams

You should have laughed with the barbers
than died with the heroes
the barbers are much more fun
Only the good die young.

His song ended and Orogarn Two decided the time for mourning was through. It was now time for revenge. He shifted his blue jeans to relieve an annoying chafing sensation that had been bothering him for hours.

“Witness the true power of the crystal,” he said, striding forward wielding his long sword like the whirling blade of a fan. His left hand grasped the stone at his neck and he shouted to his enemies, “Go into the light!”

At first, the creatures facing the lord of Minus Teeth milled about, clearly unsure of his intentions, but soon his spinning sword began to glow as brightly as the midday sun. Slowly, but ever-quickening, the orcs started to line up in orderly rows. Ranks of mesmerized monsters stood staring at the flashing blade in Orogarn Two’s hand.

With a word of command from the hypnotic Grundorian, they marched forward into the metal maelstrom.

[Diamond18]

Pimpi watched the Orcs hit the fan-blade with a sweet and innocent expression of delight. Never did revenge seem so sweet, as splashing hot water with my feet, she mused, thinking contentedly how nice and tidy this passive, once-removed method of revenging her parents was. All the elven and half-elven and not-elven heroes of her company had made for quite a good show, and she was mightily impressed by them all. Even Etceteron’s manfully accidental dispatching of Halfullion had secretly thrilled her.

As she was digging through her pack for an apple or some other delicious oddment, she was startled by an irate voice in her ear. She looked up and saw a little Orc standing before her, its face livid with outrage. Nervously she glanced toward her companions, and saw that Orogarn Two was still quite busy, and all the rest were watching him in awe. That is, save for Etceteron, who was passed out on the ground, clutching the hilt of Wylkynsion, whose blade was pointed in the direction of her and her dagger with a cretinous leer gleaming along its bloody edge. She turned her attention back to the Orc.

“Traitor!” it cried, “foul, stupid, greedy lout! You have taken what could have been a grand and glorious epic, and instead you have churned out a vile, ugly, stupid, monstrous thing! How dare you!”

She blinked.

It continued; “The depth, the beauty, the subtlety, all gone! How long since greed and delusions of self-aggrandizement bought you and your so-called Itship? What was the promised price? Money? Accolades? Fame? Thieves, dirty nasty little thieves! You have taken what was not yours, and butchered it! We hates you, we hates you forever!”

Pimpi wanted to call out to her friends for help, but unfortunately she had been munching on her apple and her mouth was full. All she got out was a muffled, “Vooowy, Owwaaano, Meeewuuuu!” But still the little Orc continued, its eyes flashing with uncontrollable rage.

“You are a filthy, low-brow excuse for a half-hobbit, and I spit on you! Ptttoie! You have ruined, utterly and irreversibly ruined, a perfectly good Quest! Arrogant, stupid, pitiless fools! The only thing that you have done on this Quest which showed any magic or wonder, was when you were shamelessly plagiarizing heroic Questers and talented writers that have gone before!”

“I…it…it was just an interpretation,” Pimpi stammered.

The Orc snorted. “What’s written in your copy of Questing for Idiots? You have a seriously flawed brain, young half-halfing. For instance, why isn’t your pendant whinnying right now? Hmm? Whatever happened to consistency? There are Orcs all around, this RPG is just crawling with ‘em, and you with your magical shrunken horsehead pendant that was supposed to be soooo wonderful for detecting Orcs, hasn’t done a bloody thing!”

“You’re really quite rude,” Pimpi observed.

“And proud of it,” the non-gender-specific Orc declared. “Anyway, I have with me here a petition signed by the Most Noble and Self-Righteous Order of the Nightly Reflector, which gives me leave to kill each and every member of this Bow-brained Itship. And, being that I am noble and courageous, unlike some people I’ve heard of, I am going to kill you first.”

“How is that noble and courageous?” Pimpi wondered. “I’m the smallest and most appealingly helpless member of this group. In fact, sometimes I think I’m just along to be cute and hungry and utterly appealing to wood-elves, for of course my binges do no detriment to my trim and girlish figure.”

“Silence, fool, and meet thy death,” the Orc quoth clumsily. “You are an attrocious character and a despicable insult to a wonderful species. Now, DIE DIE DIE!”

It rushed at her with its claws clenching and unclenching like a lobster, presumably aiming to tear out her throat. Pimpi’s lustrous blue eyes widened, and the camera zoomed in on them as an orchestral swell came from nowhere and swelled to an immense size. In fact, it overtook the sentence and set its sites on devouring the paragraph and the post, but luckily Pimpi leapt to action, unlike some other big blue-eyed short persons I’ve heard of… Before the outraged Orc knew what had hit it, she tentatively drew her jewel-encrusted dagger with the lovely curving blade, and jabbed delicately in the direction of her annoying foe.

By pure luck (good for Pimpi and bad for the Orc) the dagger aimed well and true, though Pimpi wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular. The blade with it’s sensual curves plunged deep into the mouth of the Orc, doing seriously detrimental damage to its throat, vocal chords, and artery. It gurgled unappealingly, and sank to the ground. Pimpi pulled the dagger out as black blood spurted in many different directions, none of which inclined them to besmirch her or her frock. She watched the dead Orc quiver at her feet for a few moments. She became vaguely aware of some metallic noises in her subconscious, as if she only needed to tune her mind to the right magical wavelength to form them into words. But this interested her little, so she cleaned her blade on the grass and settled back down to finish her apple.

Just before sheathing her dagger, an idea occurred to her, and she declared to no one in particular that she could see, “I will give you a name, and I shall call you Thing.” But then, she thought better of it, and amended, “No, I know; I shall call you Hush.”

[Mithadan]

After giving his orders which had sent hundreds of Orcs toppling into the chasms, Gravlox had climbed up a spur of the mountain on which the citadel had been built until he reached the defensive works overlooking the gate. There, he quickly took stock of his options. Pile of boulders ready to be toppled down onto the unfortunates below, check. Cauldron of oil, unfortunately left unlit, check. Racks of spears ready to be thrown, check.

He began with the oil. Using his tinderbox, he lit the wood piled beneath the cauldron and left it to simmer. Then, he proceeded to the rockfall. Waiting for a large knot of Orcs to congregate by the water cooler below, he pulled the lever and was rewarded by a series of most gratifying squishing sounds.

He returned to the cauldron and found it to be heating up nicely, but not quite ready yet. So, he amused himself by chucking spear after spear at random targets below. He had lost count after about thirty, when the spears ran out. Back to the cauldron again. By now, the oil was bubbling in a most satisfying fashion. He sent the cauldron and its contents tumbling down onto a platoon of Uruks who had retreated before the wrath of Etceteron.

Gravlox rubbed his hands together with delight. He had not had so much fun in years. His reverie was interrupted by a shout from above. Looking up, he saw Sourone leaning out of a window and waving at him. "Gravlox! What are you doing? Get down there and fight!" He waved back to the Dark Lord. "Right away, sir!" he shouted in reply.

He raced down the side of the mountain, causing a minor avalanche to fall upon a group of small Orcs who had been hiding behind a shrubbery. Then he leaped back upon Shagoff and headed for a troop of Orcs who were marching out to attack the Itship. Pulling up beside them, he began to chant, "Your left, your left, your left." This caused them to march in circles until they collapsed from dizziness.

A cry came from above. It was Hazel. "I saw that Gravlox! Boy are you in trouble!" He waved at his ex-spouse, then, giggling uncontrollably, he rode off towards the west, where he settled in by a pool of mud to watch the end of the battle...

[Bêthberry]

It was the morning of the day of the afternoon of the third night of the extraordinarily tumultuous and awesomely awesome battle of Gol Dulldor, but the orcs kept a-comin', although there weren't quite as many as there were a day ago. Indeed, the members of the Itship had been called back into the breech of the battle and in so doing had breeched the very bonds of bosom buddyship.

Lo, their boon companion was laid alone. Most true it was that Gormlessar's barrow had become a fine and private place wherein none did there embrace. Meanwhile the members fought for, what was it now? The destruction of mass means of destruction? The eradication of biochemical agents of eradication? Coffee? Oil? Did they remember now in the mass hysteria of frenzied battle and PR doublespeak the gentle entish nature of the Bow? Shall we now devise an apostrophe to the truly appalling onslaught of testy testosterone as the war drums beat? No, we shall not. We shall proceed with the passing of O Lando from the scene.

It appeared the gosh-darn-it-great Gormlessar, in death as well as in life, had imitated the art of all those hip, cool Beautiful People. He had lived fast, died young, and so far left a beautiful corpse. But his too, too solid flesh was melting and shortly his charm would be oozing from every pore. The waxy pallor of death was succumbing to a blackened bruising, a reverse Gothic if you will. Indeed, it could even be said that flies, maggots and any number of two-winged insects of the order Diptera were buzzing around him and he probably would have heard them when he died had the uproar of the battle not been so uproarious. Yet his corpse was spared the greater indignity of infestation by the furtive attendance of one whose great sobbing sobs sopped up the buzzing like stale, day old bread dipped into any mess of potage.

Yes, Gravy, faithful, ugly, bepimpled Gravy, was the sole companion to brave the stench and odoriferous odours of the rotter. He had crept forward from the underbush where Gormlessar had sent him hunting porc, a cry forming on his lips, "Flies, where are thy sting? A short swat passed and thou shalt be no more; thou shalt die." It was testament to his orcish love for Gormlessar and their great plans for the swishy salons that he had brought forth such resplendent verse, for he had not donne well in school, taking neither his O nor his A levels and thinking that SAT was a preferred position for eating.

"You've ungently stolen from our accord, Halfie my lord. Is it excepted I should know no secrets that pertains to you or our plans? Dwell I now in the suburbs of your good pleasure? Can I no longer keep you in good colour and highlight but your dark roots now come forth? Tell me your counsels!"

Suddenly, ere Gravy could quite understand from whence came the voice, for it seemed not something of this Muddled Berth, he heard again the dulcet tones of the last best manly man.

"Gravy, thy bosom shall partake the secrets of my heart. All my mullets I leave to thee, but seek ye out O Lando, for with his braid and my mullets there lies a fortune in Hairdressing Haven."

Gravy was quite come over, for it seemed a message from beyond the grave and as he looked up a radiance shone in his face and lo! he was born again into his original elvish nature and all the trappings and accoutrements of his orcish hideousness fell off him. Let it be said quite bluntly that he was not blinded. This is not an allegory. Nor are we still in Damascus, Toto.

At this point in our story O Lando raced to the scene, well, not really raced, for he skateboarded into the barrow, nearly upsetting the careful repose of the corpse, whose arms and legs had to be reposed.

"Hark! What angel here lurks," cried O Lando.

"Not you too! You're as bad as Halfullion was about my name. I'm Gravy."

"Well, never mind. We'll find you a right elvish name. I dub thee Gravielion."

"And who are you?"

"Lando."

"Lando Calrissian?"

"Wrong story. You've been listening to too many film fans. Behold I am O Lando Bloom, some sort of NoName prince of the Workmud. But haste! I come to pay my last respects," intoned O Lando. With that he bowed his head, took from Gormlessar's corpse the splendid tool Gurl-Thang, cut off his braid, and laid it across the manly chest.

"Look there," said Gravielion. "There lies the unkindest cut of all."

"Etceteron's death thrust?"

"No, your braid. Now you must grow in another before I can use you to model the Halfullion hair cutting methods."

At this point they who kept the watch that ends the knight heard yells and screams and saw a flood of burning, boiling oil spread down from the castle walls. It advanced, they retreated, and the bier and corpse of the most splendidly splendid hero became immersed in the burning liquid. The flames leapt high, higher, into the blackened sky and there were flashes of great light, giant sparks arcing into the sky, almost as if some wizard had unleased thunderbolts of fireworks. As the once resplendent corpse of Gormlessar was consumed by the flames, our two elves could have sworn they saw rebel fighters flying overhead, but then they caught themselves and remembered that that had been a cremation in a galaxy far, far away. Surely our manfully man hero, much as he had tottered on the rim, had never really passed over to the Dark Side. And as the embers died down, they slunk off into the bushes, determined that Halfullion's dream of a chain of salons would be stayin' alive. And they were never again seen by the mortal eyes of the Itship.

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

[Birdland]

"Oooooh! Deep fried Hero! My favorite!"

"But they forgot to bread him."

"It's fondue, ya nit. You don't use breading with fondue!"

"Well, no. But you do use bread."

Only with the cheese sauce, and ol' Gravlox forgot to light the cauldron of molten cheese."

Pity, that. I would have fancied a bit of Hero in cheese sauce. Gravlox never was much for hosting though. Usually left those things to Gravy."

"Uh-oh. He's burning".

"Well, somebody stick a fork in him, He's done!"

Fortunately, the body of Halfullion was completely consumed by his poly-unsaturate, hydrogenated bier, passing beyond the level of crebain canape' and into the realm of fertilizer. His oily ashes returned to the soil of Middle-earth, and forever after the safflower bloomed where he lay.

As for his warrior fea? Well, your guess is as good as Tolkien's.

[ March 05, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Lord Sourone, seeing that the captain of his troops had gone mad, as he assumed, resolved to lead the onslaught of the orcs himself. He came down, terrible to behold with his bifocals gleaming, and the tower trembled with his steps. The fact that this was caused by poor-quality construction rather than the might of his feet did little to mar the effect.

He swing his mighty black mace, but since he had not yet located the enemies, the only ones who fell were his own orcs. Enraged and frustrated, his eyes searched for someone upon whom he could release his wrath. There he saw Gravlox, seated on his Warg as a spectator on the sidelines, watching the battle with an amused grin.

“U!” he spat disdainfully, falling back into Black Speech in his rage. “I c u r 2 la-z 2 fite! Wot fav x-cuse were u going to give me l8er? Do u think u can fool ppl with ur stoopid grin?”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Merisuwyniel’s eyes stung from weeping, from the dust of battle, from the smoke that arose upon the burning of Halfullion’s body. She had remained in the background of the battlefield, since the Bow was of no use in hand-to-hand combat, and she would have been ashamed to draw her small generic dagger, which had no name, no lineage, no history, not even the slightest of magical properties.

She blinked as a ray of sunlight shone into her eyes. It illuminated the clearing ahead of her, and there she gazed upon a terrifying sight. A menacing figure approached, threatening one who sat upright upon his mighty beast of burden. She saw the shadow of the black mace swinging, and with sudden clarity realized who it was that was in such grave mortal danger.

From above came a cackle of maniacal laughter. “Go get ‘im!” rung a harsh female voice from the ramparts of the tower. Both Gravlox and Sourone looked up, distracted momentarily.

Instinctively, Merisuwyniel fitted a Thorn arrow to her Entish Bow. Sourone’s head spun around as he heard a clear voice calling, “Begone, foul limerick, lord of pulp poetry! Leave the noble in peace!”

His cold voice answered: “Come not between the Evil Lord and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the concerts of orcish pop singers, beyond all torment, where thine ears shall be exposed to maximum volume, and thy shrivelled mind be left witless to Britney’s lyrics.”

The Bow sang as she drew it taut, aiming carefully for the left eyeglass. “Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.”

“Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!”

Then Gravlox heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that the Bow laughed, and the sound was like a knock on wood. “But no living man am I! You look upon the Ent that was Broken, wielded by a female, and an Elf at that! You stand between me and my kin, the wooden foot. You are the one to blame for the misery of our separation, and you shall pay for it in this hour.”

Lord Sourone made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt. The light now fell on Merisuwyniel, and her golden hair gleamed brightly. Then the arrow flew, whistling a happy tune as it raced toward the Dark Lord, shattering his left eyeglass and piercing his eye. With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like a Black Metal song he let fall his mace and dropped to his knees. The last thing he heard was the swish of the mighty Zig-Zag sword, which now showed its true enchanted heritage, severing his head from his shoulders. As it spun around, the opened eyes saw Gravlox and Merisuwyniel clasping their now weaponless hands, gazing at each other in triumph and joy.

Then the very foundations of the earth seemed to shake, the leaning tower lurched dangerously, swayed, tottered, and fell down. Amidst the sound of rocks tumbling, roaring ruinously, crushing all who stood beneath the walls, they heard a screech, then all was still. A shining object rolled away from the wreckage, undamaged. Gravlox hurried to pick it up and bring it to Merisuwyniel; they gazed at it, golden and black hair mingling in the breeze.

Suddenly a voice came from the Golden Globe, saying, “This Oscar is not for you, for the Academy does not take fantasy seriously!” Shocked and puzzled by the sound of a voice that seemed vaguely familiar, as if heard before in dreams, the Elven shieldmaiden turned to the Orc captain and asked, “What was that?” The voice then spoke again, with changed tone, “Oh, you have captured her? Excellent! Now bring her to me! I await you ASAP!”

Gravlox wrapped the globe in his cloak and answered, “’Tis a new-fangled invention, called a Cell-antír. It is used to communicate over great distances. Alas, now I perceive that there is a greater might than Sourone who used him for his purposes. We must seek and destroy that power, or it shall devour us. Will you dare to brave that foe with me?”

“I will!” she answered gladly. “But first we must escape this chaos, together with my comrades.”

They heard a voice calling, “The Dragon is coming! The Dragon is coming!”

Chrysophylax swooped down beside them, pausing only long enough for them to scramble onto his back before taking to the sky again. One companion after another was found and joined them, until all were reunited. Though they were astonished to see an Orc in their midst, they asked no questions, seeing that he was giving Chrysophylax directions. The dragon flew swiftly to the Great River. Landing on the far side, they finally reached safety and respite.

[Birdland]

"Our tower! Our lovely, dung-encrusted home! It's gone!"

"Well, it's not as if it was a total surprise, is it? Been expecting it to collapse for years now. That's why they canceled our policy."

"But where will we go? What will we do?"

"I don't know about the rest of you, but as for me, I'm off to the Food Courts of Topfloorien."

"What's that?"

"Crebain heaven, that's what, m'lads! My second cousin, once removed on me mother's side, moved there a few years back. He says all the crebain just strut around on the ground all day long, and the Elves throw food at them. Perfectly good food, all day long. You don't have to lift a wing."

"But why would they do that?"

"Well, if they thought we were crebain, they wouldn't. That's why we have to speak another, secret language when we're in the Food Courts of Topfloorien."

"Teach us! Teach us!"

"Alright then. Now listen carefully, and repeat after me: Coooooo! Coooooo!"

"caaaaawwwww! caaaaawwwww!"

"Nah! That's not it! It comes from the belly, not the throat. Let's try again: Cooooooo! Cooooooo!"

"Caw-ooooo! Caw-oooooo!

"Oooooh! Close, very close. Let's try it again..."

[ March 05, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Diamond18]

“Well, here we are, folks,” announced Chrysophylax, alighting upon the ground. He extended his strong scaly wings like ramps, and allowed the menagerie of creatures to descend down from his back like a collection of circus clowns exiting an extremely small car. "What a hideously bad duo of analogies," he mused.

The Itship, exhausted from the excitement, duress, and general overall unrest of the battle, fell upon the bank and lay there like dirty laundry tossed aside carelessly after a hard day of sweaty exercise. Pimpi was the first to pop up, rejuvenated by a patch of mushrooms she had fortuitously landed on.

She glanced around and noticed two things, which she addressed in order of perceived importance. “Where, oh where has O Lando gone?” she wondered.

“I spied him leaving in the company of another Elf,” Vogonwë informed her. “I suspect that, his task of leading us to Gol Dulldor finished, he returned to his home. O Lando was never much for traveling far.”

Pimpi sighed at this news. “Do you suppose we’ll ever see him again?”

Vogonwë shrugged. “Not if I’m lucky.”

This matter resolved, Pimpi turned and fixed her blue eyes which I am running out of similes and adjectives for, on the becarbuncled Orc next to Merisuwyniel. “Who in the name of crumb cakes and tea leaves is that?” she exclaimed.

“I’m not sure how to explain,” replied Merisuwyniel as the curious eyes of the Itship turned to her for an answer. Gravlox, had he been a lesser Uruk, might have felt a good deal of trepidation, surrounded as he was by two overzealous warrior-types, one axe wielding Dwarf with an eye for exploitation, a big fat fire breathing Dragon, an innocuous but annoying Elf, an impertinent little Hobbit-like creature, and four sets of horse hooves. But, being the intrepid Uruk he was, he was simply thoughtful, trying to determine if he had left anyone out of his observations.

Merisuwyniel, meanwhile, was doing a goodly amount of quick-thinking. “This,” she finally fibbed fetchingly, “is a secret agent, who has been stationed at Gol Dulldor for…a while. He specializes in Orcish infiltration, espionage, intrigue, and…the like. He has come to us with high recommendations from…um…Saladriel’s Salad Bowl, and he’s going to lead us to our next destination.” She smiled nervously, hoping that the others would not call her bluff and rise up in anger at the uncharacteristic deceitfulness employed so conveniently.

“Then that hideous mien is merely a disguise?” Kuruharan asked, calculating the selling potential for such convincing stage make-up and latex attachments.

“No, haven’t you ever heard of redemption?” Merisuwyniel answered. “Orcs can be good people, too.”

“And he is to be our guide?” Orogarn Two said dubiously.

“Yes, I will guide you to the stronghold of Minor Moreghoul,” declared Gravlox, “for I have been there before, and escaped through sheer cunning and cleverness.”

“Escaped, or set loose?” Etceteron speculated, arching his eyebrows manfully (though sadly falling short of the sheer awesomeness of Roneld’s brows).

“Eru, this conversation is so insipid,” Vogonwë interrupted. “Wouldn’t you rather listen to me recite Fit the Fourth? There is much to cover, as so very much happened since Fit the Third.”

“Do not stray from the topic at hand,” Orogarn Two said sternly, flexing his muscles.

“Have I seen you before?” Pimpi blurted suddenly. “For, as we have stood here engaged in this tedious discourse, I have been having some seriously nauseating déjà vu… But… I can’t quite place it…”

“All Orcs look the same,” Etceteron said helpfully. “If you’ve killed one, you’ve killed them all.” He paused and amended, “I mean…seen one, seen them all…of course.”

“You must be thinking of my evil twin, Clive,” Gravlox said with an innocent smile, which was quite a feat for an Orc.

Pimpi narrowed her stupendously dreamy azure eyes and mused, “Perhaps…and I know this is a strange request, but perhaps if your Orc friend were to stand in front of a swirling vortex of blood, I could—wait! Lopitoff is trying to tell me something…”

“Timmy fell down the well?” Vogonwë speculated sarcastically.

“No… It’s a code of some sort… “B-E-S-U-R-E-T-O…. Be sure to… Be sure to what? D-R-I-N-K-Y-O-U-R-O-V-A-T-I-N-E… Be sure to drink your Ovaltine?” Pimpi wrinkled her brow at the cryptic message her disembodied jewelry was sending her.

“False alarm,” Vogonwë said cheerfully. “Now, for the Fit—”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Merisu,” Pimpi persisted, “for you are like a sister to me and generally any friend of yours is a friend of mine. But I must say, your Orc-spy looks foul, and feels familiar. I—”

“Oh, look,” said Gravlox, “I have some Doritos in my pack, does anyone want some?”

“Me,” Pimpi said, snatching the Orcish-waybread from his hand. “I love trying out new and different ethnic foods.” And then she promptly fell to busily crunching away at the MSG laden snack. She found it good, and the suspicious Orc rose in her esteem for the time being, because though knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss, especially when said blissful ignoramus is well-fed.

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

Later, Fit the Fourth will be forthcoming.

[ March 10, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Very Secret Diary of Falafel

Quest Day 52:
Finally - battle rages at the fortress of Gol Dulldor, after it took our company so long to get there. It’s good to see some action; the other equines and I are kicking orc rearsides and loving it. My mistress wields her bow with her usual skill and even the otherwise bumbling heroes are doing great deeds in the fray. That’s not as difficult as it could be, says Tofu, since the leader of the Orcs is using rather unorthodox battle techniques. Well, I know what I know, but I’m not going to let on more than necessary. That particular Orc won’t be hurting my mistress if he can help it!

Day 53:
Fighting continues – where do all those Orcs come from? You never see any females; I wonder if they clone them? They do hold back more noticeably now. Tofu, Pasdedeux, Baklava and I have moved to the edge of the battlefield; the enemies are no danger to us, but we can never be sure when Chrysophylax will get hungry and barbeque some more of them. He doesn’t always aim too carefully. I must say, I’d rather keep a safe distance from those strange, wild trees too – trees that can walk and eat Orcs just aren’t normal!

Day 54:
We are all shattered – Halfullion died last night at midnight! After being overjoyed to see him freed from captivity and fighting valiantly, to see him so cruelly hewn down in the flower of his youth was devastating, especially for Tofu. Granted, he had to go through a lot of effort to make his half-witted half-Elf master look good (for some reason, I keep wanting to call Tofu Jeeves!), but still, they were close after so many adventures together. More fierce fighting by all.

Day 55:
What a day! It’s a good thing we kept away from the tower, what with all that hot oil and poor construction. I was close enough to see my mistress and that Orc captain defeat the great foe – I’m so proud of her! When I saw that Chrysophylax flew in to rescue her and the others, I rounded up the other equine colleagues and we ran for the River at top speed. But how to get across? The dragon came back to get us and quite frankly, I’d almost rather have stayed on that shore. I closed my eyes the whole time we flew over the water, and I sincerely hope I never have to experience a ride like that again! If horses had been meant to fly, they would have been given wings. I could have bitten that half-halfling Pimpiowyn when she asked, “Why can’t we just ride the dragon to our goal instead of taking the long hard way?”

Day 56:
Here we are, heading down the river on a raft again, only this time, we are actually getting somewhere. I do hope that there are no more river pirates around. It’s rather nice to have some relaxing time together with the rest of the group. Not exactly a luxury cruise, but not bad nonetheless. Just looking at Merisuwyniel is a pleasure; she is so obviously happy, though she tries very hard not to show it.

Day 57:
Pasdedeux and Baklava are getting on my nerves, flirting with each other all day. I probably wouldn’t mind so much if I could get Tofu’s attention, but he’s still pining for his master. What’s a war horse to do without a Hero? I tried to comfort him, but he seems to have lost his purpose in life. I wonder what will happen to him.

Day 58:
This trip is sooo boring! Day after day the shoreline passes by, and it’s certainly not interesting enough to keep my attention. No castle ruins high above the river, no picturesque vineyards; this cruise is never going to make the list of must-do sightseeing. Instead there were rapids to make things really uncomfortable. I admit to my shame that I became very seasick, and I wasn’t the only one. We were all glad when we left that stretch of the river behind us.

Day 59:
Finally the local tourist attractions have showed up! We passed between two huge figures flanking the river, and Orogarn Two told us that they are called the Astronauts. Apparently legend says that they came here from a far away planet long ago, bringing their advanced civilization to Muddled Berth. Quite impressive! Later we saw some imposing mountains, called Toll Brandy, Ambush Liquor, and Ambush Eggnog. Or at least that’s what Etceteron called them. The roaring sound we hear now is that of the Falls ahead of us. We will have to go around them, and I’m glad of it. I don’t know if I can even use my four legs anymore, but I hope I never have to get on one of those rafts again.

Day 60:
We have arrived at Park Galore, which is some kind of national park, I guess. It’s pleasant enough, and I’m happy to be able to run around, as are the others. The grass is lovely, although the humans, Elves and whatever hybrids they are think it necessary to make a fire and cook a meal. Oh well, to each his own! Now for a little nap in peace and quiet before someone finds me here…

[The Barrow-Wight]

“As a representative of the Porcelain Throne of Grundor and the oldest and most agile son of Ororgarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, etc. etc…”

“What. Ho?”

“Etcetera, not Etecteron. my good Earnur. Ahem. As I was saying, being what I am, that makes me an official Park Ranger. Welcome to Park Galore.”

“I thought you said your father was Denimthor,” said the ever vigilant Chrysophylax.

“Yes, indeed. You heard me correctly, dragon. Orogarn One is my father's name and rightly reflects his noble lineage, but his official title is Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor. The title comes, of course, from his position as honorary chairman of the Levite Clothiers Society. Their fantastically woven clothing, of which my breeches are but a tight and attractive example, are the linchpin of the wealth of Grundor.”

Smiling broadly, he dug into his backpack and produced several colorfully printed brochures, which he handed out to everyone.

“The Park is a wonderful place. As you’ll notice on the map on page three...”

Pages rustled as everyone turned to the appropriate section.

“… we are now standing at the main entrance of the great and very renowned Grundorian amusement park known throughout Muddled Berth as Park Galore. Sadly, the establishment has been closed for several centuries for maintenance, but we are hoping to open it again as soon as the upcoming unpleasantness with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is over.”

He pointed southward to where the lake disappeared in a cloudy of misty, foggy, cloudy steam.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed the thunderous tumult of the thrilling Wetwang Water Plunge, the only ride still functioning in the park until recently, when, most unfortunately, our last elven pontoon was stolen. We’ve tried it with other less-flimsy watercraft, but the ride has proven less than safe since their introduction. I don’t recommend anyone buy a ticket. If you’ll turn to page five, please.”

Again the adventures went to the correct page.

“Since all of the rides are either utterly treacherous or completely out of order, I recommend visitors concentrate instead on the wondrous and historical Big Heads of Grundor. Yes, you heard what I said! Right here in these very woods are the stupendously large stone busts of each and every one of my most esteemed ancestors, plus a few of people we have no clue to the identity of. Starting with my great grandfather Orogarn Jr and working al the way back to the great Kitzeldoor the Astronaut, you will find a big ole hunk o rock carved to look just like their Noodleorean noggins.”

“I see one now,” shouted Pimpiowyn excitedly, pointing to the edge of the forest where a dark, stony mound protruded from the earth. “It looks just like you, Orogarn Two!”

“That’s just a boulder,” said the Grundorian. “The Big Heads are works of art designed to maintain the stately visage of their subjects for countless centuries.”

Vogonwe moved closer to the object and looked back, commenting, “It really does remind me of you. The pointy chin and sunken eyes are unmistakable.”

“How can a normal, dirty boulder look anything like me?” asked Orogarn Two. “And I have neither a pointy chin nor sunken eyes.”

“Have you seen yourself lately?” asked Kuruharan, searching in his bags for a mirror.

“I’ll never understand you people!” shouted Orogarn Two. “Here I am, giving you a free tour of the premier entertainment attraction in the Eminem Mule, and you are likening me to a cracked hunk of rock sticking out of a hillside. What do I have to do to get some respect?”

“Do you have any food,” asked Pimpi, hopefully.

“A drink, perhaps?” suggested Lord Etceteron.

“Something better than a lame ripoff of a classic Billy Joel song,” muttered Vogonwe.

“The secret to your big, big hair,” Gravy would have lisped if he was still there and The Barrow-Wight hadn’t missed that he had been written out of the story.

“Obsequious attention to my charm,” purred Merisuwyniel.

“A bite to eat,” hoped Pimpi, again.

“End this post,” demanded an annoyed reader.

[Bêthberry]

Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail

Somewhere not in a galaxy far, far away there was a deep, deep valley, overhung with a deep, deep gulf of shadow and despair, and all was dark and dreadful about it, in the most dreadfully dread way. And in this dark and dreadful shadow there rose a mighty fortress of rock and castellated gothic windows, corridors gloomy and cobwebbed, rooms ghosted and cursed, and towers windy and tall. It was lit not with imprisoned moonlight, but with a wavering phosphorescence, a florescence of crepuscular light, an ignuus fatuus if ever there were one. Its name was Minus Moreghoul and its Mistress was yet another who plotted all manner of vile and loathsome deeds of the vilest, wicked sort. Some of them really quite terrible too.

She was one who might once have had everything She could desire in the world, but certainly She no longer had it now and had been so long a boon companion of sadness that She had come to make a very obsession of it, watering her days and nights and evenings and morns and let us not forget the noon times also with tears and sorrows until her very soul had become a rotting bog of despair and most of her gowns o'ergrown with mold and mildew. And coming to enjoy this very despair and dread She naturally determined to share her desolation with others, She who had made a rash challenge and lived everyday to regret it. And so it was that She had first sundered the ent and spread its entience far and wide. She before whom time seemed to slow its pace, so that between the raising of a foot and the setting of it down minutes of loathing passed. (In short, She stopped clocks.) Yes, her name was She and She had not been amused when that fell fool Sourone had fallen. "Never send a wet to do a woman's job," she had sighed, and went about preparing a pretty darn big, foolproof assault of prudent propaganda and pugnacious pugilism upon the pusillanimous-not! Itship. This time She was bound there would be no mistakes. Well, not really bound. But you know what I mean.

* * * * * * * *

The day arriving finally when there could be no more backroom negotiations concerning disarming resolutions, She prepared to meet the press and her troups. Her maids, Mildew and Melancolia, arrived to array her in the worst manner of dress possible. Her corset was strung with not a little effort, her gown of gaudy black sequins taken out of mothballs, and her favourite houseslippers replaced with the iconic stiletto-heeled shoes. Let it not be said that she wore army boots although she led an army. Miss Carver the cosmetician coloured and rouged and buffed and toned her until she looked positively unnatural and the piteous wails and cries of resounding unhappiness of the worst hair day imaginable were silenced by the heroic ministrations of her stylist Miss Fingers.

And She was as beautiful and terrible as the daily thunderstorm, as fair as the thunderous falls of Niagara, which were yet to be discovered, as dreadful as forked lightning, stronger than seismic movements of tectonic plates. Faster than a speeding bullet, too. She was beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful.

Then She looked deep into the Cell-antir, which too had been brought under her thumb, and asked, "Who is the fairest of them all?" And it replied, "All shall love you and despair."

"I pass the test," said She. "I will exalt and see to my unilateral actions to disarm the Itship." So saying, She tripped over her pet, Thing, the horrible hand of harm who haunted the halls of Minus Moreghoul. "Out damned Hand," She cried and decided on the spot that its doom was to be the mascot for the MoreScenario troups.

*********
Cauldrons burned and cauldrons bubbled in the cavernous kitchens of the castle keep. She's chef, Hannibal, and her sous-chef, Fester, were in a pickle procuring and preparing the particular provisions for the political onslaught. Ragout of truth--always the first casualty of war--spiced with travesty, a fricassee of honesty, accompanied by a syllabub of self-fulfilling prophecy, and a cheesecake of dreadful prose, served with a soupçon of insanity, provided the main programme of provocation. She was pleased, whereupon Friday, the butler who kept the castle untidy, called her away for the photo op.

*********

With a very sigh, She strode into the Glass Room where so many treaties to end all treaties had been signed. There She met the MoreScenarios from Far Harried. She had gathered and trained as great a group of them as could ever be found beyond the reaches of Grundor. They were assembled, dissembling at the sight of her, resembling not swarthy pirates of a sub-saharan desert, for that would be racist, which becomes not this tale. Serfthrongs moving endlessly and restlessly: swordsmen, spearmen, bowmen, horsemen, chariot-riders and oarsmen, men not accustomed to doing the bidding of a woman, but as dogs may walk on their hind legs, so women may take the lead in Mary Sue parodies. They felt the fierce eagerness of She; it leapt towards them, a gaze fingering each and every one of them out, a gaze which would nail them if they disappointed She. She went among them, though, and they were gone over to She, ever ready to do the will of She.

And She spoke with Motley, Thudd, Thrush and Robespierre, their leaders, and sent them out to Park Galore, with instructions to bring back the Entish Bow to She unharmed and unspoiled. And Gravlox's wooden leg. And Kuruharan's Great Foozle. Well, actually, any piece of wood the Itship had knocked on. The members of the Itship themselves could be bound and trussed if need be. And she provided them with all manner of ordnance, weaponry and munitions. Massive flame throwers to fight Chrysophylax. Greeting trouts called Restraint and Bad Taste to engage in negotiation. And, especially, the subtle tools of control, Tickler, Collar and Cuff, with which to bind the Itship to her Will.

And they stood and posed and preened for all manner of photographs and interviews, obeying the biding of the gonzo journalist Bilbo S. Thompson until he was finally satisfied that Get Yer Ya-Yas Out would have the pulitzer-winning images it so desperately sought in its own war of competition against the Conniving News Network and the Baddest Broadcast Corp. The access didn't come cheap, but how else was She to pay for this pre-emptive strike?

Finally, shadows lengthened and gathered doom and gloom through the long windows as the sun played peek-a-boo with the timeframe of this post, acknowledging just how trying this post has been with the patience of the reader, who by now was seeing double. Then they drank the Cup of Parting and She commanded them to depart, telling them what part to take, hoping to keep apart all the parts of the Ent that had been parted.

And so ends the first part of the appearance of She.

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

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sat with his back against a tree keeping a careful eye on Merisu's companions. Her assurances were all well and fine, but he had no intention of assuming that the members of the Itship would so easily set aside ages of racial hatred. Even were that not so, Earnur was stone drunk often enough that Gravlox had no intention of trusting that the warrior would remember the Orc was not an enemy.

"Now this is an odd turn of events, isn't it?" asked the Entish foot. "The mighty Gravlox gone over to the side of the Elves and all."

Normally Gravlox ignored his verbose prosthesis, but he was in a thoughtful mood and was trying to adapt himself to the kinder, gentler ways of his new companions. "One might say that the manner in which things have played out would not reasonably have been subject to prediction," Gravlox answered tolerantly.

"And me reunited with the bow and the foozle," continued the foot. "Imagine that! I thought that I'd never see myself again after..." The Entish foot, to Gravlox's surprise, shuddered. His eyes narrowed. "After what?" asked the Uruk.

"Oh! It was horrible," cried the foot. "I was hemmed in by evil Men, Trolls and Orcs bearing torches. Then SHE came. She wielded a 20 horsepower chainsaw from the magical land of Sears and... I can't say! It was too horrible!"

Good , thought Gravlox. "Who is 'She'," wondered the Orc.

"She," answered the foot.

"Her name is what?" asked Gravlox.

"Not what, She!" responded the foot.

Gravlox rolled his eyes and gave up. Then a thought occurred to him. "You know," he began, "We've been together for some time now and I don't even know your name."

The foot literally vibrated with pleasure. "In my language, I am known as Marileangorifurnimaluimestelamdir-abalonechevroletimontecarloednorton-stanmakitasigourneyweaverchimichanga-yuchiangbeeflobsterrollfriedbanana...OUCH!"

Too much information... thought Gravlox as he picked up a second rock to hurl at the foot in the event it resumed its recitation of its name.

[ March 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Earnur Etceteron awoke from a deep dream of peace to a hangover of Biblical proportions. Time had passed, and it was now about four-ish, he guessed wildly. Apparently they had a new companion: an orc, no less; would wonders never cease? Still, one of the secrets of gonzo heroism is never to allow confusing mutations to reality to throw one off-balance. He put the bizarre defection to the back of his mind and swallowed his much-belated morning constitutional. The battle would appear to have been won, since he appeared to be gawping bemusedly at some enormous stone heads; some grim, some fair, some porcine and all tediously repetitive of countenance. "Funny looking blighters," he mused, and was just about to compose a profoundly unmemorable limmerick about it when he realised that something was not quite as it ought to be.

This sudden prod from his uncanny sixth sense for danger had been prompted by the sight of a large party of armed men, more accurately an army, he realised on further inspection. It was an impressive force by any standards, but as seen by a man with treble vision it was a legion. This imposing throng had completely surrounded the It-ship, weapons drawn, its cohorts all gleaming in scarlet and gold, and its tasteless and outmoded jewellery and brutally ornate weapons shining in a manner most offensive to the alcoholic eye. Here were enemies too numerous to face before breakfast: he reached for his elven flask, but instead awoke his jovial blade.

'Ere, this is more like it! You bin savin' this lot up ferra rainy day or summat?

"Not as such," replied the doughty dipsomaniac, wincing at a particularly garish uniform. "I think they're more of a surprise gift from a secret admirer."

You wot? Shuddup and kill summat!

And with that, battle was joined, for the enemy had not made the traditional pause to allow character interaction and had instead simply attacked. Earnur lost sight of his companions in the confusion, as he fought and slaughtered some of the most fearsome opponents of his career. He was just beginning to appreciate the challenge of the fight when some future member of the opposing general staff clubbed him on the head from behind. Not for the first time that day, Lord Etceteron felt the velvety embrace of unconsciousness, although this time it was for a new and exciting reason.

**********

Baklava had been roused from a romantic reverie with alliterative rudeness when his master was finally reunited with consciousness. Not for the first time he was pondering the relative merits of retaining his honour and galloping off into the sunset with the lovely Pasdedeux, and once more duty and responsibility to his hapless master were losing ground. Therefore as soon as battle had been joined he made his way to her side and intimated in equine semaphore his intention to ditch the losers and split.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, in which he brained a couple of would-be equestrians from the scarlet ranks, before he had his answer, which was delivered amid the rout of the It-ship, and punctuated by the cracking of impertinent skulls.

[Mithadan]

Oh, this is just great...

[Bêthberry]

A Savage Journey into the Heart of the Tolkien Dream

Bilbo S. Thompson,
on assignment for Get Yer Ya-Yas Out

We were somewhere around Park Galore when the mushrooms and lembas started to kick in. This was a very ominous assignment with overtones of extreme personal danger and I had wanted to be fully alert in all my senses. The MoreScenarios headed out on the highway, wearing chains, shades, and last week's growth of beard, which was definitely not the designer stubble of the Itship heroes themselves.

This Itship was in revolt about something. It belonged to a generation that saw Itself doomed and useless, struggling with the painful contradictions of values gone sour and rotting and warped by the uncontrolled onslaught of a military/industrial/commercial Tolkien enterprise. They were disillusioned by something, by all those filmic fans whose MO was drool through school and the testosterone riders who assumed that no quarter was the heroic path.

To anyone who was part of the Tolkien scene before Ring became synonymous with profit rather than preciousss, the whole world seemed drifting towards a stance of wild, uncontrolled exploitation. The Itship threatened this militaristic take-over by parodying, ghosting and overthetopping every text they could lay their hands on. What this sprawling, free-wheeling orgy of excess had to do with Tolkien soon became a painful contradiction.

And so the Itship came face to face with the warfare state of She. The MoreScenarios knocked back a few beers, then knocked off a few heads, and then knocked on wood. (Because this would soon be a PeeJay13 episode, no one was knocked up.) It was a garden of agony as they struggled to overcome their natural brutal urges for mortal combat and trophy taking. In the end, following Robespierre's gentle remonstrations, they satisfied themselves with taking only one prisoner, the foul-breathed Etceteron, wrapped up in chains. Once the Bow itself was captured and the Great Fozzle, they decided not to mess with Gravlox's wooden leg, not themselves having any dead foot fetishes. Then, the MoreScenarios careened, fast and furious and loud, on the early morning freeway back to Minus Moreghoul, long hair, beards and bandanas blowing in the wind, leaving the Itship in disarray. We expect soon them to follow.

* * * * * * * *

"Well," said Merisuwyniel. "You know what happened last time we tried to save one of us from capture and kidnap."

"Right," said Chrysophylax. "I overate."

"Wrong," said Pimpiowyn. "We lost our taste for barbequed flesh."

"Buy the ticket; take the ride," affirmed Orogarn Two heroically.

"I haven't got Flit the Fourth written yet; we cannot have more adventures," bemoaned Vogonwë.

"That settles it," spoke up Kuruharan with uncharacteristic haste. "Let's go save Etceteron."

Gravlox spoke not a word, but stood tall and strode forth determined to act every inch of a Gregory Peck hero.

[Diamond18]

"I can't believe we were beat by a bunch of badly dressed (but buff) buccaneers when we kicked butt against the Orcs," Pimpi muttered as they tromped along.

"That, I suspect, has something to do with the fact that their General was actually trying to win," Gravlox pointed out Peckishly.

"Are you insinuating that we only won the Battle of Goll Duldor because of you?" Orogarn Two said indignantly, tossing his magnificent hair huffily.

"Let's not argue amongst ourselves," Merisuwyniel reprimanded sternly. "And if you end another sentence with the suffix "-ly" I shall stop this march and spank you."

They continued walking, Children of Ilovetar and beasts of burden alike. Vogonwë and Pimpi strode side by side, hand in hand romantically, but more specifically because Pasdeduex had mysteriously disappeared. "Que sera sera, c'est la vie, please kiss me," Vogonwë had proclaimed, and offered gallantly to carry Pimpi, but she declined, knowing of his bad habits of dropping everything to pirouette, from time to time.

"Must every sentence run on, so?" she wondered wearily as they marched (in case you forgot what they were doing).

Gravlox paused, then, and said, "Wait a moment, I have to adjust my foot."

"What the matter with it?" Merisuwyniel asked attentively.

"It chafes from time to time," he replied, reaching down and pulling up his pant-leg to get at the leather straps binding the wooden shoe to his stump.

"How did you lose your foot?" Orogarn Two asked, as such matters interested the footloose and fancy-free hero quite a bit.

"Oh, it's was a long time ago; a bunch of namby-pamby Elves interfered with my amusement involving a human couple, a horse and some bratty kid. Some Elf tripped over his own pointy shoes while rushing at me with a magic shovel. The shovel cut off my foot, but I kil—" He stopped, having rattled off this mouthful of information without pausing to think first. "I mean..." he appended lamely, while his appendage muttered, "Whoops."

Pimpi then proceeded to suddenly scream. She clutched at Vogonwë's silky soft hair, and he screamed too, as a considerable amount of duress was being placed on his scalp.

"What in the name of gross and net profit is going on?" Kuruharan exclaimed.

"It's him! It's him! Ohmieru, it's HIM!" Pimpi shrieked in Vogonwë's ear as he tried to disengage her fingers from his tresses.

"Who's who?" Merisuwyniel asked.

"Him! That's him! He's him!" Pimpi explained incoherently.

"Him?" Merisuwyniel looked at Gravlox.

"Yes!" Pimpi cried, untangling one hand to point at the itchy-footed Uruk.

"He's him?" Merisuwyniel probed further.

"Yes! That's him!"

"I see," Merisuwyniel mused.

"I don't," said Vogonwë, Kuruharan, Chrysophylax and Orogarn Two in unprecedented unison.

"No, you don’t understand. I’m not ‘him’. I've changed. I'm different," Gravlox declared. "I've reformed! Redeemed myself! You can't tell me from Gregory Peck, now."

"I don't know who the Udûn Gregory Peck is," Pimpi said, "but I know that you're the Orc who killed my parents!"

There was a collective gasp, followed by a pregnant silence, followed by her boyfriend and her father, who had a longbow aimed at the boyfriend, and preceding them was a preacher and after that, Merisuwyniel broke the silence's water by saying, "That can't be true! Not my Loxy!"

"Yes! Your Loxy!" Pimpi insisted, with all the flare of a bad Soap-Opera actress.

Vogonwë spoke up: "This is poetic irony, is it is not?" He was silence by a half-halfing elbow planted squarely in the flesh just under his right ribcage.

Pimpi continued, "Where were you on the afternoon of June 4th, TA ----?"

"Dash dash dash dash?" Gravlox asked with a puzzled furrow in his brow.

"Shut up and answer the question!"

"I don't recall, it was a long time ago. Anyway, what I said before about the family, that doesn't prove anything, because I've attacked lots of—" He stopped again with a frustrated "D'oh!"

Merisuwyniel wore a look of horror (a feminine yet practical one, of course). "Tell me this is a bad dream!" she cried.

"It's a bad dream," Orogarn Two said helpfully.

"No it isn't, not this time," Pimpi declared. "My day of revenge has come, for here stands the very foul Orc who has haunted my dreams. Do not deny it!"

"Okay, all right, I'm sorry," Gravlox said. "I ask your forgiveness for slaying your parents. I swear that I will not do it again—"

"Well, duh!" Kuruharan rolled his eyes.

"I mean, I will never kill innocent folk again," Gravlox clarified.

"Like I give a monkey's larynx!" Pimpi yelled. "Many that live deserve death, and many that have died deserved to live. Can you give it back to them?"

"It sounded better the way the Not-White Wizard said it," Vogonwë said gently, and received another bruise to grace his midriff.

Gravlox looked stricken. "She's right," he said, looking in Merisuwyniel's eyes. "No matter how good I try to be now, it does not change the harm I've already done."

"You're damn right," Pimpi said, still looking cute in the midst of her anger and less than ladylike language. "Now, for revenge."

She paused, and looked at his towering frame. "All right. You do it, Vogonwë."

"Me? I hardly know the chap," Vogonwë declined.

"I gave up killing temporarily, for Lent," Orogarn Two said when her blue eyes turned to him.

"What on Middle-earth is Lent?" Pimpi asked.

"I may be willing to see what I can do, for a price," the mercenary dwarf spoke up.

"Wait!" Merisuwyniel interrupted. "Now wait just a minute! I...I'm sorry about your parents Pimpi, and horrified and all that, but I shall not let anyone kill Gravlox!”

Pimpi pouted. “Would you, could you, do it for me? Would you, could you, hear my plea?”

“No; I would not, could not do it for you. I would not, could not—no can do.”

“But why?” Pimpi whined, stomping her foot.

Merisuwyniel stood erect and took a deep breath. She explained; “Well, for one, he has repented and asked forgiveness for his past...um…youthful indiscretions. Does that not move you to pity? Pity, yes. Pity alone should stay your hand.

“Secondly, he is our guide, and if we kill him, we won't know where to find Earnur, and that should give you pause to think. Lord Etceteron was always kind to you; would you allow your thirst for revenge to prevent his rescue? And thirdly..."

There was another pregnant pause, etc., and then she finished, "And thirdly...I love him!"

Another pause. Not pregnant this time, just puzzled.

“Wait, do you mean Lord Etceteron, or that…that monster?” Pimpi finally asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“I’m sorry—dangling participial,” Merisuwyniel replied. Then she mustered what drama was left (with Grey Poupon) and clarified, “And thirdly…I love this Orc!”

*GAAAAAAAAAAAASP*

[ March 19, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[Kuruharan]

The Itship, or the Fellow/Galship, or the Gal/Fellowship, or the Gallows-ship stood in stunned silence for a moment.

Unfortunately, as shocked as they were by this revelation, everybody’s minds quickly drifted off the point.

Merisuwyniel was filled with hope that Gravlox was watching her in her moment of glory with her hair flying out behind her (with no breeze) standing so that her magnificent figure could be viewed to best advantage.

Vogonwë was wondering how in the world Merisuwyniel could get her hair to do that, and if Pimpi had broken a few of his ribs.

Orogarn Two was calculating how he could make another remark ending in "-ly" so that Merisuwyniel would fulfill her promise to spank him.

Chrysophylax briefly considered ending the debate by devouring everyone, but decided not to.

Kuruharan was still wondering what in the world had come over him to get him to actually volunteer to go on a rescue mission, FOR FREE.

Pimpi was wondering if she had written down O Lando’s phone number, and if there was any way that she could get in touch with him in the next five minutes.

Merisuwyniel’s hopes at least were fulfilled. Gravlox was standing there enraptured with his mouth hanging down (and drooling on the ground). He had completely forgotten that his life was in danger. He had also forgotten to breathe.

Suddenly, Vogonwë broke the silence.

*HARACK* *HARRRWCK* *GACKKCKH* *HOURCK* *SPITOOOIE*

A massive hairball crashed down into the middle of the group.

"Eeeeewwww!" went everyone.

*UK* went Gravlox as he collapsed on the ground. The act of expressing his disgust at the hairy monstrosity had used up the last of his oxygen.

"My darling!" screamed Merisuwyniel, as she rushed to his aid.

"What happened?!" yelled everybody else.

"He’s passed out!" cried Merisuwyniel. "There is nothing else for it! I’ll have to do mouth-to-mouth!"

So saying she scooped Gravlox up into her arms and performed mouth-to-mouth on him, even though it looked more like the climatic kiss of a particularly nauseating romance movie.

"I say, this is going atrociously…abominably…disgustingly…repulsively…" Orogarn Two bawled, hoping that Merisuwyniel would drop what she was doing and come over and "punish" him.

Gravlox eventually started showing signs of life.

"He’s coming to," said Merisuwyniel. "I’ll have to take him off into the brush to find some special herbs to cure him."

"What?" asked Orogarn Two.

"But I have some…" said Kuruharan.

"No, no," said Merisuwyniel. "I have to get him out in the bushes to heal him."

With that she picked Gravlox up and carried him off into the underbrush.

"Uhhh…" said Vogonwë

Orogarn Two collapsed on the ground and started crying.

"Anybody up for a game of cards?" asked Kuruharan, desperately trying to find some way of salvaging this deplorable situation.

Nobody had anything better to suggest so within moments they were sitting around a table that Kuruharan thoughtfully provided, each with a pile of chips in front of them.

"What are we playing?" asked Vogonwë.

"I thought that we could play some stud poker…oh…wait, NO!" said Kuruharan, suddenly remembering the rather awkward situation that had brought them to this pass.

"Draw poker, I meant to say draw poker!" corrected Kuruharan hastily. "Everybody ante up!"

"I can’t!" wailed Pimpi. "That monster that is off cavorting with Merisuwyniel killed my auntie!"

"Oh dear," moaned Chrysophylax. "This is going to be a long game."

Suddenly revived by the three aces that he held in his hand Orogarn Two abruptly remembered something important.

"I call!" he said, "By the way, isn’t there somebody that we are supposed to be rescuing?"

"Four kings," said Kuruharan. "I win, and I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. Rescuing somebody, as if anyone could be bothered with rescuing somebody when an important poker game is going on."

"Indeed!" said Vogonwë. It was his turn to deal and he hoped that he could improve his luck in the next hand.

"Indeed!" said Pimpi as she munched on her latest snackin’. She had only one pair in the previous hand and was certain that she had gotten her bad luck out of her system.

"Indeed!" said Orogarn Two. He had to get his money back.

"Indeed!" said Chrysophylax. He knew 101 ways to stack the deck and was certain that he would come out on top in the card game. And even if he didn’t, he and Kuruharan had an arrangement to split their profits so he would not end up being the loser.

[ March 16, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The Druid Time began to recover from whatever metaphysical mushroom binge it had been on while Lord Etceteron slept at some point in the middle of a day of blazing heat. Awaking he heard, saw and, unfortunately, smelt a large company of gaudy scarlet warriors, whose chains currently bound him about so completely that, surrounded by scarlet ranks as he was, to the observing modern eye (not that there was any such thing, since this account was penned by Deeproot the Ent and not, for example, a long-haired weirdo in a roleplay) he would most have resembled a cannon ball at the battle of Isandhlwana. The sun was bright and hot, and he couldn't move his hands to get his flask but he was being carried, which made matters simpler. Consciousness wasn't worth it so he gave it a miss.

When next he came to himself it was a disappointing visit. He was chained up in a standard-issue dank cell and it was the middle of the night. Reaching for his flask, he found that it had moved to another pocket, and that it now had a note attached to it. The note simply read "Do we look stupid?" It wasn't the first time that his night-cap had been taken for nightshade, so not for the first time he began to polish it off.

Topfloorien had been a bad idea. Now his thoughts were mostly of Vinaigrettiel the Fair, the Col-i-Flaur of Careless Gardenhon. He bewailed their parting, he cursed the sword Wylkynsion (which had spent three hours trying to persuade the MoreScenarios' leader to kill him with it), and his own decision to take the job. As it was he had drunk the proceeds of the trip within six months, and had to put up with the sword for long and bitter years of bickering and dirty jokes. Somebody else was enduring the constant niggles of the Black Sword now, and Earnur found himself regretting only the need to drop one of his heroic soubriquets. His last waking thoughts before the extra belladonna, placed in his drink by the guards, lulled him into his usual gentle nocturnal coma were of Vinaigrettiel, but delicacy forbids that I give any details.

He awoke to the sensation of being dragged roughly to his feet, and as usual it was someone in uniform who was doing the uplifting. The guard was scruffy, short and flabby, and a dog-eared roll-up hung from the corner of his mouth. "'Er ladyship will see yew naow," announced the hopeless excuse for a figure of authority, exhaling a foul smoke into Lord Etceteron's face and receiving the toxic fumes of his unconventional tipple in return. Both men blanched visibly, an impasse of machismo.

Earnur was led from his cell (two much more competent guards met him at the door and chained his arms to his sides before allowing him to proceed), along countless stairs, up myriad gratuitously steep and narrow staircases from the hell of the cells to the bizarre purgatorial splendour of the fortress above. He was shoved and chivvied past murals depicting scenes of questionable moral content and, to Etceteron's eye at least, even more questionable anatomical accuracy. He passed furniture made from human bones standing before works of art of astonishing beauty; he saw heavy red velvet draping iron engines in which spikes and blades featured prominently and he winced at the open braziers and racks of weapons that festooned the rooms. The Great Hall, however, surpassed all the others in its aggressive opulence: it was like a diamond-studded hammer.

The massive chamber filled most of this wing of the fortress. Its exquisite roof of wrought iron and stained glass split the light into weirdly dancing colours that reminded Etceteron uncomfortably of the time he'd eaten the wrong mushrooms and woken up in Khand dressed as a belly dancer. Iron candlesticks bore huge cylinders of guttering tallow that were no more candles than a sabre-toothed tiger is a domestic cat. At the far end, beneath a gigantic tapestry of the fall of Valvoline, a massive flight of stone steps led up to a large dias carpeted in silks and satins, on which was a throne from one of Edgar Allan Poe's nastier nightmares, before which Earnur was flung unceremoniously.

It was made of solid iron, which had been wrought into tortured and grotesque swirls that sprouted spikes at every conceivable angle; the apex of the canopy was set with an axe blade: this was not a throne in which one would sit who deserved to be known as Good Queen anything. Its current occupant had been born to sit there. She: all-powerful, all-knowing, and disturbingly handy with a whip.

Her outfit looked more like an instrument of torture even than some of the things he'd been tortured with. It was all straps and buckles, with strangely unnecessary leather and metal accoutrements and an enormous fan of a collar that reached above the crown of Her head. The spike theme was carried on with gusto throughout. The Lord of Dun Sóbrin, however, was no longer looking at the uncomfortable outfit, the nightmarish hall or the Throne: he was gazing in astonishment at She, and She, in an unexpected move, was looking at him with no less amazement.

"You." They both said, competing in the badly-hidden shock stakes without a clear winner being declared. For each looked upon the owner of the most embarrassing nickname they had ever invented (no I'm not going to repeat them. You can enjoy hours of fruitless speculation about what they were) and for the first time in many years Earnur and Vinaigrettiel were (almost) face to face.

"I've got some of your things in a box somewhere..." she ventured.

"I had some of yours, but I was mugged in Ozfestiath." he replied brilliantly.

"Don't worry about that," she answered sweetly. "I got them."

"So... umm... what are you doing with yourself these days?" he inquired with almost non-existent suavity.

"I am a Queen. Beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night. Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain. Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning. Strong as the foundations of the earth. You remember; I told you that time when you gave me that ring."

Somewhere in Lord Etceteron's ragged brain a few exhausted synapses perked up in recognition before succumbing to some residual alcohol. "That's right," he mused. "I took you to that old battlefield and I found it in the river. Whatever happened to it?"

She raised Her right hand languidly, displaying a gold ring. He could not read the fiery letters through his hangover, but he knew what they said, near enough: Earnur 4 Vinaigrettiel; he had taken it to be inscribed himself.

A guard - clearly an unwilling emissary from the others - sidled in, holding in his hand a piece of paper. Probably another declaration of war for her signature, She considered. "What do you mean, minion, by interrupting my interrogation?" She demanded icily, and Etceteron winced on the servitor's behalf. He had heard that tone before.

"Message for you, Milady." squeaked the unknown soldier.

"Bring it to me." She commanded, and the lily-liveried guard ascended the great staircase with timid tread. She took the message from his petrified grasp and read it impatiently. When She had finished she stabbed him off-handedly with a detachable spike designed for that purpose. "Why do they waste my time with trivialities?" She fumed. "Any fool can pay a gas bill!"

Two more guards were summoned to carry away their luckless companion, at which point She continued: "How's your famous sword?" in a tone that suggested to the listener that the best answer would be 'it fell into a volcano.' "It fell into a volcano." he replied.

"What a shame," said Vinaigrettiel brightly, her eyes brimming with utter indifference. "It rather suited you."

"Not really. Bloody thing drove me up the wall most of the time, and the rest of the time I was dru... asleep." Etceteron flannelled cheerfully.

"Be that as it may," said the Fair One, and her voice changed to one more suited to her surroundings. "You are my prisoner. What, I wonder, shall I do with you while I ponder what use you will be?" She rose as she said this, and left the question hanging for a tension-ridden age while She climbed down from Her throne and allowed one elegantly-manicured finger to glide briefly along one of Earnur's manly biceps. Suddenly she stopped, her face inches from Earnur's own. "I think," she declared huskily, "that for now I shall put you back in your cell. It's what Mr. Fluffy would have wanted."

With that She called Her guards, who dragged Earnur back to his stinking cell, although by the sickeningly dopy smile on his face one would have thought it was a suite at the Regency. He drank a cheerful toast to his guards to thank them for the more-than-usually gentle shove to the floor, and settled down to enjoy the warm, pink coma of the annoying lover, in which I shall leave him to avoid any gastric upheavals it may cause.

[ March 18, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Bêthberry]

And She, the mighty mighty She, what had She done? Bitten her lips until they bled and retreated to her tower room (of course it had to be a tower) in dizzying frenzy of thought, her finger tingling with memories from the single brief touch of the manly biceps of the Lord of Dun Sóbrin come back from the past. Reaching finally her private quarters, she opportunely swooned (it was a long, steep climb) upon the purple velvet covers of her massive four-poster bed, not rising again until the moonlight shed its pale pewter glow through the slit in the window designed not for moonlight but for arrows. Ergo, it was still rather dark. But you get the picture.

Sternly She rose to consult the cell-antir, which positively glowed with the intensity of a high intensity beam light. "It's a small, small world after all," it intoned, even it, too, betraying her feelings. Here in all its splendour hear the song. And she fell into a breathless, lung-trembling, panting sort of memory in which all her pain departed from her. And Etceteron danced under the moonrise in the forest glade and she came upon him and was enchanted. And his person was lit with the light of the leaves of the not-magic bushes and his voice rang with the clear waters of a good scotch distillery and he was in his full howl and she strayed long in the woods. And as they looked upon each other doom fell upon them (There was a dark, dank mist that night and both risked pneumonia in their bare feet.) and they loved each other and came the daylight she slipped from his arms before she would have to explain to him the intricacies of elven vows. That came later when they faced the wrath of Daddy and Mummy Dearest.

A sudden knock at the door, however, ensured that she would not succumb to hyperventilation. She was ready to slaughter the intruder but denied herself that satisfaction, delivering instead a simple brief cuff to the right side of the head. When She saw what was being delivered up to her, the very sword Wylkynsion itself, which was the cause of so much of her lovelornness (the pieces of the Ent which she had sundered not mattering to her at this delicate moment in her psychic drama), her wrath was wrought up to its worst and most wretched pitch.

" 'Ere, wotcha, cutie. Yew looks like a right little tickler," sang Wylkynsion at his most insouciant.

"You! You, who took him from me!" She keened, having been very keen upon his owner once upon a time.

"Yew got a problem wif 'at?" he retorted.

"You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought."

"Wot are yew on, Moonshine?" he retorted. "Sheaths interfere wif me business."

"Here is She, daughter of Dunfartin, Dreaded Dark Lady of Minus Moreghoul, Queen of the Host of the Nasties, Bearer of Grievous Hurt, Victorious in Battle, Foresaken in Love, whose hands bring hurt, the once and future Vinaigrettiel, etc. etc. etc. You shall be unforged."

"Yew gonna make summat of that?" the sword proclaimed, with a touch of worry to his bravadoccio.

And She fell upon the sword and had her way with it.

"So this is love," Here in all its splendour hear the song. Wylkynsion cried out with his final breath.

She jumped upon him, smashing him and bashing him worse than a fabled musician of the Seventh Age would ever treat any of his guitars until the light was gone from the great sword and it was pounded into a hundred and one shards. Here in all its splendour hear the song. .

"When you wish upon a star," Here in all its splendour hear the song. she said to the sundered pieces, you might be reforged."

Then, suddenly bereft of her hatred, She took herself to her mirror and saw there an image whose like she had not known for many a year. Yes, there She saw once again Vinaigrettiel, the Col-i-Flaur of Careless Gardenhon, the younger twin sister of Saladriel, doomed ever to remain in her sister's shadow until she had decided to become the Aredhel of the royal elven family.

And Vinaigrettiel rang for Friday and told him to bring the prisoner--that word which once would so have thrilled her--to the courtyard.

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

The moonlight shed its pewter, silver, lead and other metallic reflections over the similarly grey and washed out flagstone. She stood nervously watching the Lord of Dun Sóbrin walk towards her, a sheepish, dopy grin overtaking his face as if of some romantic poem he had drunk.

"Erm, hi," he said eloquently. "Waiting up for your daughter to come home from the prom?"

"My daughter was lost to me many years ago. She was taken from me after you departed."

"What! How dare they! You were her mother and the finest, most thoughtful and loving and selfless mother that ever a child could desire," said Earnur with cliched sincerity.

"They called me unfit."

"How so?"

"They said I was a bad role model, loving outside my race and class, loving you instead of forsaking all others for her dead elven father. And they thought that was more merciful than throwing me on top of his funeral pyre."

"Would that I had been there to defend your honour," he spoke valiantly.

"You could have been but you choose Wylkynsion."

"Oh, right. Sorry about that."

Lord Etceteron coughed and rattled his chains.

She walked up to him and ran her fingers up and down his restraints, testing for the weakest link, but there would never be one with this first of her best manly men. With a sigh and heart-rendering sob, which wracked her bosom so that it rose high to majestic proportions, which he would have noticed had he not been so abashed at their reunion, she released him. And the chains were no longer upon his limbs. Nor upon hers. And they danced together in the moonlight oblivious to the hour until suddenly the clock struck twelve and she ran from his grasp.

Before his very bloodshot eyes, she changed. The straps and buckles, with strangely unnecessary leather and metal accoutrements, fell from her. Her enormous fan of a collar that reached above the crown of her head came loose. The gel and hairspray betrayed their brand promises and her raven locks tumbled down upon her neck and shoulders. The nightmarish vision was gone and Earnur was gazing in astonishment once again at Vinaigrettiel and Vinaigrettiel was herself amazed.

She slipped from his arms (this cannot be said too often) and ran away.

"Wait, wait, I want to save you. Or something," he called plaintively.

"You already have," she called back. "I must see to Minus Moreghoul now. I shall go sign a contract with Disney Enterprises. We shall build a Tolkien World here to rival EuroDisney. I must do it before Kuruharan beats me to it. We can have a real outing." (Yes, Virginia, there are miracles in marketing.)

"Wait, wait, come back. Come back."

Too late!

A screech of tires, the busting glass, the painful sound that Earnur heard last.

"Hold me now for a little while."

He held her close and kissed their last kiss and he found a love that he knew he had missed. And her lover's fea went not to Mandos for she shared his doom.

And Lord Etceteron, somewhat more sobrely, gathered to him the pieces of the Ent that had been sundered, the Bow and the Great Foozle, and the shards of Wylkynsion, and walked out of the gates of Minus Moreghoul no wiser than when he had gone in. For he would really need a drink now.

[ March 23, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]