The Revenge of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Mithadan]

Gravlox assembled his troops in the cortyard the next morning...very early...before either his wife or son awoke. He inspected the warriors with a scowl on his face, admonishing one for wearing a clean shirt and another for having brushed his teeth. Then he halted in shock. His second lieutenant, Kerplunck was wearing a pink mohawk and an insufferable grin. Gravlox took out a pad and pen and made a quick note. Then he addressed his troops.

"We go now afield again for our glory and profit!" he cried.

"Excuse me, sir" interrupted Kerplunck. "But just where precisely are we going and what is the nature of our mission?"
Gravlox whacked him upside the head, making his pink spikes wave in the breeze.

"We go...north...and west, yes!" resumed the Captain. "And our mission is to...pillage, yes, pillage...and...cause mayhem...and find treasure!"

The Uruk-Hai cheered feebly, though some yawned. Every mission began like this. At least, with the exception of that one little glitch a few years back, Gravlox had the reputation of generally returning with most of his troops. Then at a command from their Captain, they mounted their wolves and set out.

Oh, we are the Uruks, the mighty mighty Uruks...

Gravlox's eyes grew wide as they approached the ditch. "No singing!" he screamed.

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

A day later, they were passing through a forest. It was quiet. Too quiet. Suddenly, from up above many objects cam pelting down. The Uruks whined and whimpered as they tripped over one another in their quest for cover. Only Gravlox stood tall. "Fools," he muttered, picking up one of the objects by its grey bushy tail.

A soldier, wearing a red shirt, ran up to Gravlox. "Sir, what is it?" he cried.

Gravlox looked down on the Orc. "Skwerls," he replied. "Dead skwerls, and that means..."

The soldier gasped as he waited for the dramatic pause to end. Gravlox squinted as he looked about. "...puns," he concluded. "Bad ones..."

[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Birdland]

With a tail in his teeth,
the Fox let whirl,
and threw in the road his last dead skwerl.
"If that doesn't stop them,
I'll hurl a dead Zerl!"

But the Wargs stopped short,
when they saw it rained beasts,
and all licked their chops,
for the dead skwerl beast feast.

Then the Fox jump out
from a waggleberry bush,
and smiled at the Orcs,
while he waved his red tush.

"Good day, Gravlox!
I am a fox.
And I've come to snitch
on some Elven jocks."

"Right now they are stranded
on the Carnthardlee Pass.
With a dwarf, a dragon,
a Wizard, and his *** ."

"If you would like,
I can show you the way.
But tell me, pray tell!
What will you pay?"

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron gazed into the very heart of the fire as he mused over his companion's sad tale. It seemed to blend almost seamlessly with the deeply moving and evocative portrait of mortality that Vogonwë had painted for them earlier in the day, not to mention almost half a bottle of "Captain Strangereek's Harvest Haemorrhage" that he'd found in his saddlebag.

I looked down at the rotting centipede,
My heart went out to the poor little bug;
It was so dead it didn’t even bleed.

Some called it just puppy love, but to us it was full-grown.

Warning: Highly corrosive. Highly flammable. Do not exceed 2ml per 24 hour period. Stains like the devil. Keep out of reach of everyone. Do not expose to naked flames. Avoid contact with ferrous metals. This product may cause scrofula.

It was all true. No centipede should drink neat Strangereek's with girls called Lola and that was a fact. Clearly he was in the presence of great bardic genius. That was the only possible explanation. He returned briefly to his own oral tradition with a gentle glug.

"The woven shtavesh have yeth worth inthem for woeful heartsh." said Earnur wistfully. "O bards of passion and of mirth, ye have left your souls on earth. All at once I saw a stately pleasure-dome. Look on my works, ye mighty and quaff while thou canst..."

He trailed off into a sleep troubled by dark dreams, in which a mad old man accosted him en route to a wedding in order to tell him at great length about his holiday. His horse and sword were for once too preoccupied with other matters to comment.

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox leered at the fox, debating whether it might be tastier than grilled skwerl. Then, with a toothsome grin, he knelt by the animal and spoke.

"Oh, tell me do, mister fox, sir,
all about these Elven jocks, sir,
can we pelt them with grey rocks, sir,
and muss their pretty Elven smocks, sir?"

Behind him, Kerplunck sniggered as he fixed himself a breakfast of green eggs and ham. The Captain glanced back at his mohawked lieutenant, and in a momentary flash of insight, Gravlox knew what he could offer the fox in exchange for information...

[Birdland]

"Should we pelt them with some rocks?
Should we shove them in a box?
Should we eat them with bagels and lox?...

Oh, never mind all that!" screamed the fox. "Honestly, I don't know how the ancient Bards of Numenor managed to speak like that all the time. And that fourth stanza really didn't scan well."

At that moment the fox noticed that the Wargs had polished off the last of the skwerl meat, and were snuffling around looking for any last scraps. One curious fell beast stuck his nose in the frying pan of ham and eggs, (both green, since Orcs seldom worried about salmonella). But Kerplunkt batted his nose with a spatula, growling "No begging! You can lick the plate when I'm done."

But most of the Wargs had turned their hungry eyes on the fox, who was looking more and more like a red dead skwerl on the hoof. Wargs are not very bright, nor are they picky eaters.

Fox knew that his window for negotiation was closing fast, so he sidled up to Gravlox's wooden leg - controlling a nervous impulse to raise his own leg - and whispered:

"Listen. Can we talk?"

[Mithadan]

"Sure we can talk," said the wooden foot. "Love your coat. Seen any oak trees lately...ow!" The Captain stamped his faux foot on a rock and turned to more important things. Gravlox's belly had rumbled at the mention of bagels and lox and a fleeting thought passed through his mind. Fox in Gravlox? He shook his head to drive the thought out. This was business.

"All right, my little furry friend," he said as he idly slapped the snout of a warg that had crept too close. "Let's hear what you have to say and if I like it, you'll be rewarded, and if I don't, you'll make a fine pair of fox-socks. Where are the Elves off to? The pass is too far away."

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Birdland]

"Where are the Elves off to? The pass is too far away."

The fox's eyebrows raised in astonishment. "Too far"? But these were the Uruks, the mighty, mighty Uruks. They knew no pain, no fear, and they had no concept of distance, either. This did not sound like the Gravlok of old, who would fearlessly lead his men on missions that that would last months of a time, refusing to ask directions or check the maps.

And what about the wooden appendage that had addressed him so cheerfully? The only other time that the fox had heard a bit of lumber speak was...at the council! The poorly carved bow that the Elven maiden had carried. There had to be a connection. But where?

The fox desperately tried to think of some information that would satisfy Gravlok, and insure that he could leave this little pow-wow with some kind of reward, which at this point seemed to mean "in one piece." The fact that Gravlox's Warg was pacing slowly towards him did nothing for his state of mind.

eeerrrrr...sir...your Warg...would you mind terribly?..." The fox squeezed his eyes shut and crouched in the dirt as the dirt-colored steed stood over him, saliva dripping from his fangs onto the fox's head.

"Wha...? Oh. Here, Shagoff!" Gravlox pulled a yellow, rubber Zerl out of his pocket and squeezed the toy, which gave off an enticing
HU-WHEE-HUH! HU-WHEE-HUH!" sound that even made the fox's ears prick up.

The effect on Shagoff was immediate. The carnivorous beast of burden looked expectantly up at the toy in Gravlox's hand, prancing his front feet and offering an insane grin that would haunt the fox's nightmares for years to come. Gravlox held the rubber Zerl high over his head, cooing "Ya want it? Ya want yer squeeky-zerl? GO GET IT!" And with a mighty gesture, he flung his arm out towards the waggleberry bushes lining the road. The great Warg went bounding off into the undergrowth, and Gravlox returned the toy to his pocket.

"OK, you've got ten minutes. Spill yer guts. or Shagoff will spill 'em fer ya."

Now unfortunately, the little fox had not stuck around long enough to discover just where the plucky band of Elves, Men, Half-Elves, and Half-Halfings were heading. He had thought that just the fact that they were just out there, somewhere, would be enough to interest the Orcs. But apparently Gravlox had become more particular in his middle-age, and was actually attempting to come up with some kind of plan. The fox just hadn't counted on that.

But the little vulpes' much sharper mind had been coming up with a plan. The fact that Gravlox's prothesis could speak might be of some interest to the Elven-maid who bore the verbal bow. But he would have to mislead Gravlox and his minions in order for him to find the party first and offer them the information that he carried. How could he throw the Orcs off the scent?

The fox decided that he would have to send the Orcs off to the most unlikely destination. Someplace that was so disgusting, banal, and tedious, that no Elf of high standing would ever possibly want to go there. There was only one country that fit the bill, as far as the Fox was concerned.

"Topfloorien! The party of Elves is headed for Topfloorien! If you can lay-way them before they reach that country on the banks of the Pretty-Good River, you'll be sure to catch them!"

[ January 23, 2003: Message edited by: Birdland ]

[Rimbaud]

The Dumb Bell, or Halfullion's Dreme


Night had fallen upon them like a dark shroud, making things difficult to see. You couldn’t cut the air with a knife but Halfullion, who couldn’t sleep, was idly thinking of trying. He rubbed at his jaw anxiously. Having been so long without a proper bathroom or attendants, he was becoming rather stubbly and he dared not risk the sturdy but unpredictable blade he bore bravely, buckled with bright brass upon his black belt. Combining this with the definite cooling of his relationship with Meriswyniel recently, the fearful dangers of the quest, the lacklustre carriage of Tofu and the heady reek emanating from his boots was a strain for him, but he managed and promptly wished he had not for it cast him into a foul funk, replete with excess chest hair and brightly coloured flashing lights.

***

He blinked. Indeed he was not mistaken, coloured lights danced towards him, shimmering; an effervescence of lights fantastical; a phantasmagoric display of such ethereal other-worldliness that Halfullion’s normally acute wordplay became quite oblique, angling between hyperbole and purely weak semiotics like a darting salmon.

Unaware that he had fallen into a deep and embracing slumber, Halfullion bravely swished at the lights with his sword, muttering dire imprecations under his breath. Not used to enemies daring to face him in the field, he had to admit his swordplay was a bit rusty. This did not prevent him from serious pain and a stab of humiliation when he sliced open his own leg rather badly, warm blood gushing out upon his tunics. He ceased his frantic but ferocious fighting and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When he re-opened them he was in a world far removed from one that he knew.

Strange fish swam past his nose, peering inquisitively at him. He realised with a start that he was naked…but before he could take in the vivid colours, vivacious Pisceans and vapid muzak he was shifted again…he was a flower, opening, budding, petals akimbo, open to the sunlight. Colours swam…a heady raindrop fell…he span….turning in a circle of much turningness…he was a potato…a sailor…a warrior…a lover…a fighter…a candle-stick lighter…all the while he thought of you….all was confusion and….

SNAP!

He was in a cold grey chamber. Two large arched windows grudgingly let in light that rather reluctantly wandered in and for the most part popped back out again, with an excuse or two. “Left the gas on,” explained a lower-spectrum ray. “My mother’s sick,” confided an ultra-violet visitor. This visible hesitancy of the would-be light cast a fearful darkness upon the chamber…yet he could see. The reason was the fearsome glowing red figure before him, wreathed in flame and heat and raw, naked fear. He must have missed him on a first scan of the room.

SNAP!

He was running, in stark terror, rain lashing him to his knees. He was behind him.

SNAP!

Back in the room again, but now he was sitting. Sitting at a low grey stone table he had not noticed before, opposite a nondescript man who before, he was sure, had been a fearsome glowing red figure before him, wreathed in flame and heat and raw, naked fear. He could remember that line distinctly.

“Hello,” said the man, in a tone that could almost be inaccurately and haplessly described as bland.

“Salutations, old fruit,” gasped Halfullion, still pretty terrified of the whole caboodle.

“These changes in tone are quite off-putting,” said the man gruffly.

“Unusual shifts in tone in a famous work of fiction?” questioned Halfullion, cheekily. An impish idea had occurred to him. He shifted it to one side, just under his left ear. The man was prattling on about something. Perhaps he should listen. He’d deal with that idea later. Right now, he realised he was in a dream. So he could have fun! But first…the man was speaking…

“…will result in your eventual death, of course,” continued the man, rather genially, “and I’m sure you will observe that this will probably be immensely painful and undignified, as is my wont.”

“Yes, yes,” smirked Halfullion, with the look of a hungry man grasping a smoked kipper. “I’m sure, whatever.”

“So in that case, remember to straighten that all out for me, otherwise it would be the worse for you. I would suggest also that you pay heed to any and all poems you hear, since I tend to stick prophecies and the like within them. This one for instance will pay you well to heed…”

SNAP! CRACKLE! POP!

Halfullion awoke with a gasp and gripped his codpiece with gibbering fear. He was sweating and his stomach was roiling. For a moment he considered popping over the road to the overnight garage for a kebab from the van and seeing if Etecetron had any herbal remedies for his sleeplessness. But then, another thing caught his attention, snared as if he were a velcro rabbit running down an equally velcro-ed hill.

Carved into the ground beside him, as if by a black-handled dagger, with runes plastered liberally over the blade, were some lines of verse. When he first spotted them, they were carved in fire, but now they were simply black and smoking incisions, not half as interesting.

Quack, quack goes the duck, little Half,
And He Who Ducks never stands tall.
All that is shall soon be nought,
And your farm shall soon be bought.

Be it cucumber as it may,
Or a tomato you shall flay
But salad you must eat
Or your way shall be peat.

And last but never least,
Beware the final feast!
For when the job is done and dusted
By poison you will still be busted.

Lying adjacent to these fearsome letters was a black handled dagger, with mystic runes liberally plastered all over its handle and blade. Halfullion was wise enough to know he should watch what he ate, he understood poison well enough, and he even saw that there might be problems at the final feast, but that seemed a long way off. What the rest of it meant he had little idea. He looked over at Merisuwyniel, lying peacefully nearby. He sighed a sigh of deep sighing sadness, scratched his head irritably and lay down again, upon his blankets.

[ January 22, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two lay shivering in the darkness, bemoaning his current company and asking himself why he had chosen not to own a horse. Certainly, such a beast was unnecessary for speedy travel, for his own legs rivaled those of any mount he had yet seen, but even a sturdy mountain pony would have been wonderfully practical at the moment for storing blankets, food, extra clothing, and other such things. His bulky backpack contained a few useful items, but a warm and fuzzy sleeping bag would have been superbly superior to the frazzled bath towel he now had wrapped around his frozen feet. Perhaps he could talk the dragon into lighting it on fire.

The icy knight attempted to forget the dropping temperature by watching the peculiar twitchings of the frosted flake, Halfullion. The elf-smitten man had lain kicking and moaning for the better part of an hour until Orogarn Two had seriously considered setting him on fire, or at least lighting a match on his boot heel. With luck, the sleeping nitwit might ignite, and two problems would be solved at once. A new idea came to his mind, and he leaned forward to carve a mysterious message into the ground beside Halfullion, but someone had already beat him to it. Drats!

His thoughts then turned to the lovely Merisuwyniel. It was she that possessed the broken Ent, and it was she that could answer the riddle if only he could find a moment to speak with her. But competing suitors made approaching the elf-maiden nearly impossible, and Orogarn Two had been forced to glean information by eavesdropping on her conversations with the other travelers. He got mostly rambling soliloquies and meandering poems, but occasionally he heard bits of what he sought, clues to the mystery of his missing wallet.

A loud and explosive sneeze from the woefully over-hyped Lord Etceteron broke his reverie. The sotted windbag was moaning in his sleep again, no doubt dreaming of a tragic loss of bottle and brush, which might put him a half-step behind in the race for the darling maiden of the Hidden Farm. His armored feet fluttered as if he were running with the devil. “I do! I do!” he slurred without waking, either saying his vows to some dreamlike bride or admitting his undying love for himself.

Weary of his companions and finding no warmth in his towel, Orogarn Two stood and walked to the edge of the camp to stare at the moon. Away from the light of the heatless fire he became aware that the crystal around his neck was glowing with a faint light. That could only mean one of two things, the batteries were getting low or there were orcs about.

[ January 23, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel woke as if startled out of a restless dream, but she could remember none. Something significant hovered on the edge of her consciousness; suddenly she remembered. They had not been able to cross the mountains by way of the pass; they could not take the Interstate; there was now only one alternative. She stretched, and her fingers brushed the bow, lying close beside her as always. Amazed, she noticed that it was vibrating more strongly than usual – it was shaking!

What is amiss? she asked in concern.

You will be taking the secret path, the bow answered.

Yes, but what know you of that way? queried the Elf.

I have been there, and I fear to go again, came the reply. Yet if we must, I can lead you through the labyrinth.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

One after another, the companions awoke. When they assembled for breakfast, Merisuwyniel stood and announced, “We were not able to cross the mountains by way of the pass; we cannot take the Interstate. Only one way remains open to us.”

The others waited in breathless silence.

“We must take the sub!” she exclaimed.

“We’re going to get sandwiches?” Pimpi’s face lit up in anticipation.

“How can we take a sub? There is no sea here!” Halfullion was puzzled.

“Where is a pub?” Etceteron asked hopefully.

“Who is substituting for whom?” Orogarn Two questioned.

“How much will you subtract from what?” shouted Kuruharan.

“Quiet!” she exclaimed. “We must take the Subway; it is a dark and treacherous way, but it leads us through the mountains to the other side. I have a map which shows where the entrance is; follow me!”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

They reached the gate to the underground passageway before sundown and stood in wonder before a strange device that blocked the entry. Beside it was a sign, yet no writing could be seen upon it. They searched for a switch or button; Pettygast even pointed his staff in its direction, fortunately without results.

Finally, in exasperation, Halfullion kicked the pole on which the sign was mounted, and lo! A light shone forth and red runes became visible.

“Who can read the fiery letters?” Pimpiowyn inquired.

“I can,” Vogonwë volunteered. “It says, ‘Insert ticket in turnstile slot.’”

“What does that mean?” Earnur asked.

“It obviously means that we should have an object which opens the gate,” Merisuwyniel answered. “But who has a valid ticket?”

Each of the travellers dug in pockets and bags, producing various tokens, ticket stubs, credit cards and coins, which they tried to insert. Alas, none of them opened the turnstile.

Finally Merisuwyniel cried out, “I have it!” From her golden tresses she removed a small, exquisitely fashioned mithril hairpin, inserted it with a twist, and the turnstile gave way. She entered, motioning the next ones to follow her. Kuruharan and Chrysophylax were the last to come, for the dragon had serious doubts about his ability to enter through the small gateway. The dwarf, distracted by his business partner’s problem, was suddenly caught on the turning device by one of his many pockets and felt himself whirling around dizzily.

The heroes tried to slash at the metal staves with their swords, but to no avail. Finally Chrysophylax turned around and, with a mighty swish of his tail, destroyed the turnstile and tossed Kuruharan into the cavern. The group hardly had time to get inside with all of their mounts and packs, before the entryway crashed behind them. They were inside, but would they find the right train?

[Mithadan]

Gravlox considered the words of the furry snitch. "Topfloorien, eh?" he muttered. "The foul Elven land of overpriced shops and trendy eateries." He pondered distances, speed, strategy and the unpleasant effects of a day old bean burrito.

At last he gave the fox a smile, causing it to duck and look about for cover. "Very well," he said. "You have earned your payment. And if you get any more information, bring it to me."
--------------------
An hour later the fox trotted off happily, dragging a bag filled with grilled meat and wearing a new hat with a pink mohawk on it. The mighty Uruks are very efficient with knives if nothing else...

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The monstrous echoes of the turnstile's destruction echoed away into the distance, punctuated by the obligatory last trickle of debris to the floor. A great smoky miasma of dust blocked out most of the light that wasn't there, and the companions stood choking by the remains of the elaborate entrance to the Subways.

Suddenly there was a bout of coughing from a new set of lungs, which resounded hollowly in the confines of the tunnel. As this died away a voice spake thusly:

"Wot the bleedin' 'ell is goin' on 'ere? Wossappened to me turnstile eh? You bloody kids'll be the death o' me!"

Faster than thought, a lurid pink glow lit the tunnel, reacting with the clouds of dust in a way that would have been reminiscent of a cheap discotheque if any of the company had ever seen one. Pettygast's wand was once more their sole and rather tasteless source of light. Framed by neon-backlit billows of stone dust nobody could have failed to look impressive. Nobody, that is, apart from the figure who faced them, who clearly found looking shabby and superfluous as easy as our heroes and heroines found looking windswept and interesting.

The new arrival was about four feet tall, pale and grimy. Aside from two notable exceptions its garb was baggy, ragged and nondescript, but the exceptions are well worth our attention, as they are the reason why Earnur suddenly blanched, read the label on his bottle of Strangereek's and hurled the receptacle as far away from him as he could.

The dog-eared yet mysterious figure was wearing a brightly coloured clip-on tie and an official-looking hat with a shiny peak and a badge. The badge appeared to be some sort of religious symbol, consisting of a red circle bisected by a blue line, which bore the legend Lindon Underground in once-white runes. A badge pinned to its chest identified it as Errol and, more in hope than expectation, invited whomever might be reading it in the dark to solicit help of its wearer.

"That's destruction of Underground property, that is, mate", said Errol, picking a figure at random to be the ringleader. "I'll 'ave to charge you for that."

Two swords were instantly at his throat: Lord Gormlessar and Lord Etceteron had been unable to decide which of them was being addressed; although had they but known it the dusty aggressor had been talking to one of the horses. His eyes were never good at the best of times, and being full of grit and reliant on 1980s nightclub illumination they had given up the ghost entirely.

"Charge them?" said Kuruharan in a shocked voice. "I've never heard the like." There was a distinct possibility that this unimpressive official would bill him for the damage as well and this offended his sense of financial aesthetics. In Kuruharan's economic model the flow of money was strictly one way.

"I could sell you a nice pair of dust-removing spectacles for a once-in-a-lifetime bargain introductory price..." he added automatically, but without real hope. Their new acquaintance was clearly more down-at-heel than a man with no feet.

"He's not going to charge us for any damage," said Oragarn Two quietly. "Are you, friend?"

"Our business concerns you closely, little err.. man?..." ventured Earnur.

Bloody kill 'im! Wotcha waitin' fer? 'E's wearin' a bleedin' clip-on! That's wot people wot wear 'em was invented fer

"...and though I would fain hold civilised discourse with you, my blade desires to ... umm ... 'slit you up a treat'."

I didn't say that! I said...

"Peace, my blade!" thundered Earnur (in the shadows his horse snorted in scorn)

"He means we won't pay for your shoddy turnstile. And I can't control my weapon for long either; so you'd better scarper before l’En’viey gets the better of you." Halfullion interjected good-naturedly.

The little man looked panicky. His eyes darted this way and that, finding nothing but sharp weapons and steadfastly-closed wallets at every turn. Even Merisuwyniel, normally generous to a fault, could ill afford to replace an entire gate of Mithril, and there was no time to lose if they were to arrive in Topfloorien before the shops closed.

"It was an accident," she said sweetly. "Couldn't you just let us off?"

The little porter pounced on this opportunity like a domestic cat on an unwary piece of chicken. "Well, nobody uses that entrance anyway; and it does save me waterin' those flamin' trees. Go on with ye. But mind you don't so much as touch the fixtures."

"We'll be careful," assured the slender Elven-maiden, demonstrating her impeccable diplomatic skills.

"You'll be dead." replied the small figure disconcertingly, and before they could ask (or, for that matter, tell) him where to go he was gone.

You bugger! You never let me kill anyone! Ev'ry time we meet some little tit 'oo ain't a flippin' Orc you lets 'im cheek yer like a...

"Enough, noble brand." spake Earnur gravely. "Be not so eager to deal out death in judgement."

I wasn't judging 'im you toffee-nosed pillock! I just wanted ter kill 'im!

In the shadows, Baklava, bored as ever, had found a brightly-coloured yet dusty map. It was composed of a series of intersecting lines drawn in primary colours, and with circles at regular intervals. Not for the first time in his life, the horse felt very keenly his want of literacy. It would probably be hours before any of his idiotic two-legged companions noticed the plan, least of all his lush of a master. He sidled a little closer to Pasdedeux. Perhaps this delay wouldn't be a complete loss after all.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Rimbaud]

Halfullion stroked his chin, literally absent-mindedly. He enjoyed stroking his chin; not only did he find the contact soothing, but he felt that it lent to him an air of great wisdom and deep thought. Unfortunately, his last action had been to search through some of Tofu’s more recent deposits for a valued ring that the great steed had consumed earlier in the week. He had found the ring but neglected to clean his hands, making the chin-stroking line into a paragraph.

He was attempting to think through the events of the day and he felt an onus on him to take firm control of the group. These Questors are inept…they need guidance…I am epter than they, and with this level of eptitude I am surely the one to do it… he thought, in italics. His dreams of leadership were undermined only by his incomprehensible level of incompetency.

The journey through the long dark of the Subway filled them all with trepidation. Halfullion was also nursing a pint of gibbering fear, with a side-salad of mounting panic. His thoughts were rudely interrupting by the continuation of the story.

“How will we get our horses on the Tube?” asked Orogarn Two, somewhat understandably, being the only one unhorsed. Dehorsed. Horseless, rather.

“We’ll have to rely on the benevolence of the Porterog,” said Halfullion, amazed at his own knowledge. He countered their inquisitive stares with a slightly baffled expression and wished he were a waffle. “The Porterog is a fearsome guardian of the Subway, but he may well allow us to board with our horses. A bit hypocritical of him to accuse us of taking up space anyway,” Halfullion continued, “given the amount of room his great wings take up.”

“He can fly?” asked Pimpi, nervously.

“Not to my knowledge,” interjected Orogarn Two. “To my knowledge, his co-guards are trolls, there to protect him. Unlikely his guards would not be able to fly if he could. I think the wings are decorative.”

“That’s a shadowy subject,” argued Merisuwyniel. “You can’t be so positive.”

“I have my sources,” replied Orogarn, politely.

Kuruharan felt a stab of fear at the thought that someone might cut into his profitable condiment market share. It turned out that it was simply a stab of his fea, and somewhat more troubling. He mused briefly upon corporeality and wondered why Halfullion’s face appeared to be covered in chocolate.

“Look, Orogarn’s point seems fair enough to me,” said Halfullion. “This is not getting us anywhere. We need to decide which line we need and which stop.”

“White City?” asked Etceteron, feeling a bit left out.

“Near Acton? Not where we want to be,” replied Merisuwyniel. “To get nearer to Topfloorien, we should try for Shepherd’s Bush.”

“Why would a shepherd want a bush?” thought Halfullion noisily.

A bush can be useful, thought Tofu, but said nothing.

“You wouldn’t,” began Halfullion, warming to his theme as a ferret warms in a ferret-warming device. “For instance, let any of your decisions be made by a bush would you?”

Orogarn grimaced. “Come Halfullion, take these weighty matters from your broad and ever so muscular shoulders, and let us make haste! From my knowledge, gleaned from the annals of Hero weekly, we need the red line for Shepherd’s Bush!”

“Ah, the thin red line,” murmured Halfullion. “Sweet words have been said of the thin red line.” He stood some three steps from the remainder of the party and quoth:

”Oh Subway of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Oh red line of joy and despair!
Whenever we are destinationless,
You seem to get us there.
Passengers you must surely hate
Being as you are, ever late –
But no grudge do I bear thee, o Central, my dear
No other line do I hold so near
For when all hope is lost
And men in the mirk go out
You are there to take us home,
Slowly and at great expense.

The Subways are dark and subversive
Some can only talk in cursive
Awkward rhymes are hard to find –
But ‘tis good to take the time,
For when your praises must be sung
And in the tunnels your sweet bell rung
I’ll be there, the first in line
Timepiece in my pocket hung!

Beware the frumious Porterog!
Outgrabing in the coach class cabin.
Take thee thy vorpal ticket,
And payest thou the manxome fare,
Or else galumph will you not
But in your grave, you shall rot.”

Merisuwyniel breathed a sigh of deep shuddering relief when it was over.

“Seems we still need a ticket!” said Tofu, suddenly, confusing all of them, especially Halfullion, who had been unaware of the horse’s hitherto unseen loquacity.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Diamond18]

Pimpiowyn was feeling hungry. Not just merely hungry, but terribly hungry. It had been an hour since first breakfast, so under normal circumstances she would have been in the mood for a little snack, perhaps a sausage with a helping of golden, fluffy scrambled eggs. But due to the events of the morning her hunger was spurred on not by appetite, but by stress. Things had seemed to take a decidedly bizarre turn ever since they passed through the turnstile. The dusty darkness was not something she was fond of, and having never been in a Subway before, it can be safely said that she didn’t have really the slightest idea of what was going on.

In the silence following Tofu’s sudden declaration, she whispered, “Vogonwë?”

“Shhh, I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Lord Halfullion’s excellent poem. It was so...inspiring...really quite excellent.”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Pimpi said, thinking that it was just as well, if Vogonwë found it excellent. “Anyway, I’m hungry.”

“Hungry...” he muttered absently, and it was obvious he was contemplating a rhyme for it.

Pimpi sighed and sat down on a bench. By the pink glow of Pettygast’s staff, she could see graffiti scrawled across it, and decided to occupy her mind by reading it. She would leave the matter about tickets and Porterogs and talking horses to the others. She found it slightly disconcerting, however, that the first line of graffiti she read, went Fish are nice, and so juicy-sweet. Her stomach rumbled. She looked at another spot and read the curious message.

Tickets grow in thickets under the thickest wickets. All one need do is pick it from the thicket, and you’ll have a ticket.

“Have you ever been here before, Vogonwë?” she asked in a moment of suspicion.

But the others were not paying any attention to her, as they were deeply engrossed in the problem of what they were going to do next.

“So what are we going to do?” asked Tofu.

“I don't know, what'cha wanna do?” replied Halfullion, his mind thrown into confusion by the sudden effusion of speech from his hitherto mute horse.

“You’re the ept one. What do you want to do?” Tofu said.

“I don’t know...what’cha wanna do?”

“Look Halfie, first I say ‘what are were going to do?’ then you say ‘I don't know, what'cha wanna do?’ then I say ‘what are we going to do’ then you say ‘what'cha wanna do’. Let's do something!” Tofu neighed.

“Ok. What'cha wanna do?” Halfullion said, feeling a bit foolish, but unable to stop himself.

“Don’t start that again!” Merisuwyniel interrupted, feeling her head spin. “We’re going to Shepherd’s Bush, but what we need is a ticket.”

“How do we get a ticket without paying for one?” Kuruharan wondered. “I really want to know.”

“Don’t we need eight tickets? Or, if we are allowed to take the horses, fourteen?” inquired Orogarn Two, who was good with numbers.

“I resent being counted among the horses,” said Chrysophylax huffily.

“Whatever,” Merisuwyniel waved her pale hands dismissively. “We need tickets, and we need to find this Porterog, and this thin red line to Shepherd’s Bush.”

She looked around at her companions and felt acutely frustrated. She was half inclined to join Pimpiowyn on the bench and forget about the whole matter, but she had more gumption than that, and was determined to move this hopeless band of laggers on.

“Does anyone have a suggestion about the ticket problem?” she asked.

“What’s a wicket?” Pimpiowyn asked.

“She said ticket,” Tofu said.

“But do tickets grow under wickets?”

They looked at the young quarterling curiously.

“Thick ones?” Pimpi ventured.

Silence.

“What I’m asking, is do tickets grow in thickets under thick wickets, like it says on the bench?” Pimpi said, pointing to the inscription beside her.

“Of course!” Earnur said. “A ticket garden! We need to find a ticket garden, and pick tickets. How amazing that I didn’t think of it before. Any master of herblore can tell you that tickets grow in dark and rocky places underground, commonly known as wickets. If we can find a ticket garden, we shall have an abundance of tickets at our fingertips.”

Inexplicably, everyone turned their eyes to Pettygast. Wizards were supposed to know things, and some inner prompting made them assume he would have something wise to say on the matter. He gazed back at them silently, and he didn’t look all that wise in the pinkish glow of his staff, so they turned away.

“Right, that’s sounds as good as anything,” Merisuwyniel sighed. “Let’s look for a ticket garden, then, and we shall be on our way to Shepherd’s Bush.”

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two, Duke of Earl and heir to the porcelain throne of Grundor (for the real throne had sat empty for countless generations due to the untimely demise of the ‘Pincushion King’), doubted very much that a garden of any kind might be coaxed to grow in such a lightless plot of rock as the Subway. Ticket farming was so old-fashioned and outdated that only the most provincial clodbusters would be rustic enough to plant such seeds. Being no longer a natural commodity, the only place likely to sprout such produce was a ticket booth.

Far in the distance, in a corner far, far away, he saw a new hope. A pane of glass faintly reflected the wan light of whichever character or creature was giving off a wan light (who could keep track?). He quickly adventured toward the mirrored rays, leaving his companions behind. As he advanced, the proximity to the glass revealed a window thickly smeared with orcish fingerprints, behind which sat a bespectacled goblin of the most geekish sort. Orogarn Two’s crystal sparked an odd orange flash and went dead.

“Goblin, ho!” he shouted, and rushed the glass-protected orc-nerd with a deadly spinning kick designed to shatter the clear shield before him. He flew through the air in a vicious arc of spittle and metal, but his mailed foot, which should have easily shattered the dirty window, stopped dead as if it had met a wall of tempered steel. From his lengthy foot to his pearly teeth, Orogarn Two, Earl of Jones, quivered like a loosely held softball bat meeting a 96MPH fastpitch. He fell to the ground, numb and twitching.

“Ha, ha!” screamed the creature behind the glass in an irritatingly high pitch voice like a herd of clumsy reindeer sliding down a tilting iceberg . “This booth is protected by powers stronger than you – the Subway Transit Authority!”

“The what?” asked Orogarn Two, shaking uncontrollably as he stood. The collision with the ticket booth had stunned him and he was having a hard time thinking.

“The Subway Transit Authority, you stinking twit of a tarkish turnip!” screeched the dorkisk ork. “They control all tolls and tickets. You gotta be on the ball to reach the First Hall.”

“Huh?”

“You can’t be cheap if you wanna see the First Deep!” grunted the goblin dipstick.

“What?”

“Don’t look for a sale to reach the Dimwit Dale?” sang the orc-spaz.

“What on Middle-earth are you talking about?”

The ticket booth orc threw his hands up in exasperation. “12 silver pennies for a ticket to Shepherd’s Bush! What are you? Stupid?”

“No!” shouted Orogarn Two. “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of …”

“Shut up!!!!” shouted his companions as they came up to pay for their tickets.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]

[Kuruharan]

The Very Secret Diary of Chrysophylax Dives

Day: Lost count.

Wandering through the ancient Khazad Subway. Ever since it fell into evil, service has been a little slack. After everyone else bought their tickets, I had a snack of a goblin ticket agent. Alas, he was a little stringy. After smashing the gate I figured that I was already on the STA’s hit list, so why hold back. The little goblin seemed quite surprised that somebody would think to go around to the back of his booth.

Since everyone else was in a hurry to get to the train, Kuruharan slipped back to plunder the register. Said something about the contents belonging to his people anyway.

Had an embarrassing moment when we boarded the train. My wings would not fit through the door! Not amused! I had to be tied to the top of the train. This is very humiliating for one of ancient and imperial lineage.

Merisuwyniel has been very friendly of late. Especially since she was saying all those not nice things about me earlier. I told her that she reminded me of a beautiful princess of long ago. I said that princess had touched my heart. I neglected to mention that said princess also eventually touched my mouth, throat, gullet, gizzard, stomach... I probably won’t mention it to her. Merisuwyniel has such lovely eyes, and such delightful laughter, especially when she is killing things.

Halfullion is pining away since he seems to have lost the attention of Merisuwyniel. He’s been moping about and singing songs and doing all that other stuff that Elves and half-Elves do when they don’t get their way. I almost expect that he will toss himself into the next available chasm. That seems to be something that they do.

It is funny the way that Orogarn Two’s lineage continues to grow higher and higher as we go along. He was telling me as we were going to the train about his rightful place as Duke of Earl. He even sang the ritual song of his family.

Got very nervous when he said that I could be his Duchess of Earl! Almost had to roast him!

Earnur is about twelve sheets to the wind right now. Or twelve branches to the tree. I can see him in the car babbling and stammering to Merisuwyniel about his undying lust, or something like that. Halfullion looks like he is about to kill our good Etceteron.

The dread blade Wylkynsion seems to be jumping about in its scabbard! *shudder* Reminds me of *gulp*...

Pimpi seems to be engaged in robbing the supply bags, again. I should probably tell somebody about that disagreeable habit of hers.

Vorgonwë is in his own little world with the Hair off the Cat that Bit Him.

If he suddenly keels over and bursts into flames we’ll know what did it.

Kuruharan is rather jittery because he is afraid of being accosted by a certain someone about a sale of defective products a few years back...
----------
As Chrysophylax was placidly writing in his diary, he did not see that they were coming to a rather small tunnel. He did not notice nor comprehend the unfortunate consequences that could ensue from his being on the top of the train when they entered the tunnel. He did not realize that it would be difficult for him to....

*KA-BANG!!! CRUNCH!!!*

[flop]

Kuruharan noticing that his pet, business associate, ruffian, and porter was lying plopped on the ground, he jumped off the train and went back to investigate...investigate the possibilities of a future law-suit.

[ January 25, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Birdland]

Kuruharan started running back down the tracks - in that funny way dwarves have when they run - towards his supine friend, who was flat on his back and wheezing puffs of flame as he tried to catch his breath.

Merisuwyniel, immediately assessing the situation, leapt for the emergency brake cord of the subway car - which broke off and flopped loosely in her hands. Flinging aside the useless brakeline, she swiftly ran for the next car, as the train pulled farther and farther away from our fallen heroes on the track.

Suddenly through the gloom, Kuruharan noticed the red gleam of sneaky little eyes peering out and him and his reptilian compadre. He gasped in disbelief as hundreds of shining, metal-clad rodents started advancing slowly upon our plucky duo. A hideous squeaking noise was issuing not just from the mouths of the trackside vermin, but from their very joints, as well.

"Mice!" screamed Kuruharan. "Mithril-Munching Moria Mice!!!!"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel ran through the subway cars to the back of the train, ruthlessly tearing the connecting doors apart, since the automatic openers were not fast enough for her. The others, realizing that something had happened, though not all knew what, followed, with Halfullion immediately behind the Elf and Vogonwë at the end, being pulled by Pimpiowyn. Merisuwyniel reached the last door together with Halfullion, who (secretly pleased about having an opportunity to demonstrate his strength and importance for their mission) broke it open with sheer brute force.

Without hesitating, Merisuwyniel jumped, landing lightly and gracefully. She ran back toward Chrysophylax while the others were struggling to their feet – except for Vogonwë, who had executed a double somersault, throwing in a cartwheel for good measure before catching Pimpi. No one saw how Pettygast had managed to persuade his donkey to jump, but the two of them were even ahead of the noble steeds, who followed their masters and mistress. Soon they had reached the prostrate Dragon and the concerned Dwarf.

The pale pink light of the Wizard’s staff was reflected most eerily by the myriad moving mice. The company stood spellbound, aghast at the sight of the metallic menace approaching from all sides. Swords were of no avail here, even Etceteron recognized. What were they to do?

Merisuwyniel felt more than heard a humming behind her back. Sing! the Bow urged. And sing she did, the melody rising ever higher, climbing sheer precipices and lifting the hearts of those who heard it with its beauty. The heroes took courage hearing those notes, Chrysophylax lifted his head and arose, Kuruharan felt an emotion that had nothing to do with profit, and Pimpiowyn forgot all thoughts of food. The light of Pettygast’s staff grew clear and strong, reflecting in all colours of the rainbow from Orogarn Two’s crystal, brilliant sparks of light that blinded the miniature foes surrounding them.

The sound grew louder and louder; suddenly, they realized that it was not merely the echoes of the Elven melody that they heard, but the resonating of metal, like unto the vibrating of a thousand tuning forks. The walls began to shake, the ground rumbled, and after a moment of petrified motionlessness, the Questers and their creature companions dashed back toward the centre of the labyrinthine tunnels from whence they had come.

They escaped just in time; the ceiling of the tunnel behind them crashed, burying the ruffian rodents under tons of rubble.

“Now what?” Pimpi, practical as always, was the first to ask. “Is there another way to this Shepherd’s Bush we are trying to find?”

“Seek for the map that was posted,” Pettygast proclaimed.

“What do you mean by that?” Halfullion demanded.

“I do not know – I can only say what I divine, the interpretation is up to you,” the Wizard answered.

Baklava neighed suddenly, and Tofu spoke up: “There was a map near the entrance, says my equine colleague. Let us seek it and hope to find help there.”

“Stay on the left track,” warned Merisuwyniel. “No trains can come from that direction anymore.”

“You mean the right track, dear,” Halfullion admonished. “Traffic comes from that side here.”

“Whatever,” said Orogarn Two. “Let’s just get moving!”

Baklava led the way proudly, and soon they stood in front of a plan with brightly coloured lines. Whither should they go?

[ January 27, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Diamond18]

“Here we are, back at the beginning…back at the beginning where we began…” Vogonwë observed. “I think I may get dizzy…” He shook his head gracefully and uncorked his trusty bottle of hairball treatment as the others studied the map. He tilted his head back and anticipated the delicious taste of the minty hazelnut liquid. A few moments later, his head was still tilted back and he was still anticipating it. He began to feel a crick in his neck, and lowered the bottle with a puzzled frown. He peered into the mouth of the bottle and saw with horror that the bottle…was…not…full. In fact, it was so not full that it could be called empty.

He was stupefied, and for a moment did nothing but stand there and stare. Then, with a wild look in his grey-brown eyes, he accosted Kuruharan. “A bottle! A bottle! My country for a bottle!” he cried, forgetting for a moment that he didn’t have a country of his own to bargain with.

Kuruharan drew back in surprise and said, “What on Middle-earth is your problem?”

“It’s empty!” Vogonwë shrieked, waving the small glass bottle in front of the dwarf’s face. “Do you have another? I’ll pay you double what I gave for the first one!”

“Oh…but you see, that was my last bottle,” Kuruharan said regretfully, his mind racing for an alternative item to sell to the distraught elf. “I have some heartburn medicine that may interest you…”

Vogonwë was quivering, so that even his hair bow shook like a leaf. “No…more?” he stammered.

“Or some eye drops…” Kuruharan said, rifling through his bags. “And I think I saw some allergy medication in here somewhere…”

“No, no, no! I want more of this!” Vogonwë insisted. “You must have another…don’t keep it from me!”

“I assure you, I would not hesitate to sell you another if I had one,” Kuruharan said helplessly, spreading his arms apart and shrugging. “There’s no need to get angry.”

“Well if I’m angry it’s your fault! Mnraaa!” Vogonwë said, with an uncharacteristically contorted facial expression, which made him look somewhat like an angry Baskerwarg.

Everyone jumped in surprise, even the manly men who were usually immune to fear of any kind. Halfullion, Etceteron and Orogarn Two instinctively drew their swords, but as soon as the hideous mien had come, it departed again. Vogonwë started to whimper, and mutter something about being sorry.

Pimpi turned on the dwarf and demanded, “What on Middle-earth was in that bottle?”

“Well…I’m not sure…I won it in a card game with a troll,” Kuruharan said, shrugging.

Vogonwë turned and unhappily threw the empty bottle into a nearby drain hole, and in the minutes that followed it could be heard shattering with an echo that reverberated throughout the entire subway system.

“Imbecile of an Elf!” Pettygast exclaimed. “This isn’t a drunken bottle smashing riot! Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your fluidity!”

“Huh?” Vogonwë blinked at him in confusion.

“Don’t look at me, I was channeling someone else,” Pettygast shrugged.

“Do you feel better now, Master Brownbark?” Merisuwyniel asked thoughtfully, as was her nature.

“A little,” Vogonwë admitted. “The sound of shattering glass is a good stress reliever...this gives me an idea for a poem...”

“Unfortunately, every Orc in Moria will be aware of our presence, now,” Halfullion pointed out.

“All the more chance for valor and glorious deeds in battle,” Earnur said optimistically.

“That’s nice,” Merisuwyniel said, “because Tofu and I have decided on a route.”

“It certainly will be a rout,” Halfullion said, patting the hilt of his sword.

“I could eat some roots, myself,” voiced Pimpi.

“No, no, I mean, we have decided on a path to take through the system,” Merisuwyniel explained. She tore the map from the wall and said, “Follow me.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Whatevery path Merisuwyniel had decided, Pettygast could make neither head nor tail of it. It all looked the same to the wizard. The subway car continued hurtling through the bowels of darkness, roaring and clanging like a great dragon of the night. Pettygast found himself crammed into one midget-sized corner of the compartment, wedged in between three super-sized heroes who were inexcusably taking up all the space, and making no bones about their right to do so.

The wizard grumbled something unintelligible from beneath his breath, and reflected that this iron beast seemed a most unpleasant way to travel. Moreover, the thing too closely resembled those mechanical monstors that had been described in great detail within the early drafts of the fall of Gondolin, but which had then been rejected by authorities as standing clearly ouside canon. Since Pettygast had no wish to stand on canon, either inside or out, he sincerely hoped this entire trip would end soon.

His donkey had been luckier than most, and was actually able to squat down on his rear in one of the few empty seats, which had recently been vacated by a suspicious-looking Troll. This passenger had thoughtfully left his daily tabloid behind, somewhat crumpled and smelling of fried fish, but still eminently readable. Hummus was now intently perusing the latest edition of the "Mordor Daily News"

Suddenly, the donkey reared up from his seat and began hee-hawing loudly into the air, begging his master Pettygast to come quick and have a look.

"Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw!" The donkey's braying rang insistently through the car.

Vogonwe covered his ears and glared back at Pettygast, sticking out his tongue, "Now, who's making the noise, old pinktoes? Can't you control your beast?"

Hummus lifted up his hoof and banged on the nearest pole to silence everyone in the compartment. Then he pointed triumphantly to a small notice that appeared on the very bottom of page 32 of the pictorial section within the Sunday Supplement.

This advert read as follows:

Notice of the Fraternal Order of Balfrogs

You are hereby invited to join us for a rumble sale that will take place this coming Wednesday at 2:00 p.m. in the vicinity of the underground station at Golder's Green. Among the treasures offered for your consideration are several cheap replicas of the One Ring, complete with broken chain; a used suit of mithril with several holes poked in the side, reputedly the former possession of Messieurs Frodo and Bilbo who have since departed for greener shores; and, of particular note, several chairs and tables which are said to be crafted from the wood of an Ent.

"By Jove," muttered Lord Etceteron. "That could be a find. I have long wanted a used suit of mithril."

Pettygast glared pointedly towards Lord Etceteron to shush him up and then, without warning, leapt forward in mid-air and, executing a double somersault of his own with surprising ease, yanked down on a cord that had red letters beside it spelling out the word "Emergency". The iron beast on which they were riding abruptly halted with a great grinding noise. Through the windows the fellow-gal-ship could clearly see a sign labelled "Golder's Green."

All about were cloaked figures with pointed teeth and horns who all carried whips and thongs. They were all scurrying down a long alley way which had a hand scrawled note beside it that read, "This way to the Rumble Sale." Orogorn II craned his neck out the open door to see whether the Balfrogs did or didn't...., but as they were all wearing voluminous cloaks, it was impossible to say for sure.

Pettygast authoritativly grabbed up his pink staff in one hand and his donkey in the other and charged out onto the station platform to the astonishment of the assembled throng of balfrogs. Realizing that a diversion was definitely called for, he grabbed hold of a nearby loudspeaker and announced at the top of his lungs, "If anyone wants to have a go at the greatest heroes in the universe, just follow that train right there, now departing from platform #5."

Then, as all the balfrogs began racing in the opposite direction, Pettygast sauntered forward towards the rumble sale. Just as the doors to the train were about to slam shut, he turned around to shout encouragement to his former companions, "Fly, you fools!" and was instantly gone.

[ January 28, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Slightly subdued after the departure of the wizard, the company left the subway car at the next station. They had arrived at Shepherd’s Bush.

“This is not the same station we intended to arrive at, though it bears the same name,” Merisuwyniel explained. “We can walk to our destination from here. To reach the exit, we must needs take the Escalator of Ka-Boom! Stay together so that no one is lost.”

They took several turns and found themselves in a tunnel that ended abruptly ahead of them. There was no passageway to the right or left, so they turned to go back. Suddenly they were approached by ragged, menacing-looking creatures, all stretching their hands out and saying, “Do you have a buck for me?”

“We have only horses, no deer,” Pimpiowyn said, puzzled over the unusual request.

“Yes, dear?” Vogonwë responded, thinking that he was meant.

The heroes brandished their swords, and Halfullion roared, “That’s my two pieces of mithril!”

The creatures fled in fear, and Kuruharan followed, picking up the coins that they dropped.

Merisuwyniel shouted, “We must have mistaken right for left – follow me!”

They raced through the passageway, and there it was – the mighty Escalator of Ka-Boom! Out of breath, they stepped onto the mechanical transportation device that took them upwards. At the top, far away, they saw a faint flickering light that came ever nearer. Something huge and fiery was approaching them, coming downwards on the opposite side of the escalator.

“Ai!” wailed Vogonwë. “Ai! A Balfrog is come!” Pimpi didn’t know what he was talking about, but grasped his hand instinctively.

Kuruharan’s Pain! the Dwarf thought.

“Jolly good opportunity for a battle!” Etceteron exclaimed, but Wylkynsion, who was more learned in lore than his master, cowered silently in his sheath.

Halfullion blanched. Too well did he know this foe and recognize its danger.

Orogarn Two held up his crystal, but it had gone dark and dull.

Merisuwyniel could feel the Bow trembling at her back and shuddered to think of the potentially destructive effect of fire upon it.

Only Chrysophylax was undaunted. After all, he knew a bit about fighting fire with fire. He pushed the others aside and strode up the moving stairway to reach the oncoming threat faster.

From below, the company heard drums, drums in the deep. Merisuwyniel saw graffiti scrawled on the wall: They are coming!

“Dratted buskers!” muttered Halfullion.

Then their doom was upon them. Chrysophylax breathed a mighty flame at the Balfrog, but the foe replied by lashing at him with his long, fiery tongue. The dragon was pulled onto the downward escalator and about to disappear from their sight when Kuruharan shouted, “Fly, you fool!”

And fly he did! For the dragon indeed had wings, and he could use them as well. The Balfrog fell into the deep, whether alive or dead, this story does not tell.

There was the exit ahead of them. Chrysophylax destroyed the turnstile with a playful swish of his tail, and the company jumped onto their noble steeds and raced out of the subway. They had escaped!

Thankful for the light and the fresh air, they galloped toward the Park of Topfloorien. Merisuwyniel’s golden tresses flowed behind her in the wind, her deep purple eyes glowed with excitement, and she shouted a triumphant cry of joy.

Little did any of them realize that they were observed…

[Mithadan]

Gravlox and his band had ridden hard and long to reach Topfloorien before the Elves. The Uruks crossed the river at the shallows and were moving south, hoping to intercept their prey as the Elves exited Carnthardlee Pass. They camped on a hill overlooking the pass and waited...and waited...and waited.

"I will wring that fox's neck if I ever come across that beast again," growled Gravlox. The Uruks were hungry and bored and had taken to shoving one another into the river and playing duck-duck-goose to while away the time. If they waited much longer, they would have to barbeque...Gravlox flipped through his note book to check his list of demerits...ah, Fatblob, who had been singing Ricky Martin songs all day.

Gravlox flipped his notebook shut just as Shagoff, his faithful Warg, came trotting up. He was growling and pointing his snout to the south. When his master merely scowled, the Warg snatched Gravlox's cloak in his teeth and began dragging him. "All right, all right, what's gotten into you?" muttered the Captain as he followed his beast away from the camp.

They climbed the next rise and looked down. There was the exit from the underground, and there was his prey stepping off from the escalator! Gravlox threw himself down and watched as the band of Elves and Men mounted their horses.

He was about to summon his Uruks when he froze and squinted down at a uniquely feminine creature leading her company towards Topfloorien. His jaw dropped, followed by a steady stream of drool as he watched her bounce on the back of her steed, up and down, up and down, as if in slow motion. Her hair trailed behind her...hair even his son Gravy would envy. And there was music. The music of violins and harps and those silver thingies that you blow into. And her radiant face seemed to glow in the sun as if...

"Whazzup sir? Do yer see sumting over here?" Gravlox reached out absent-mindedly and tore out the throat of Fatblob who had apparently followed him from the camp. He wiped the blood from his hands and picked at his claws with the point of his knife to dislodge the flesh that clung there. Now, where was I? Oh yes.

He turned back to face the south and watched the maiden splash into the river on her horse. The drops of water shone like diamonds as they dripped along her cheeks and her bare throat. He saw that she lifted her chin and gasped as she entered the flowing water and arched her back as her mighty horse carried her through to the other side. Sweat poured along his forehead as she shook her tresses from side to side sending a sparkling spray shooting into the air to form a rainbow over her head.

Then the company passed into the forest of Topfloorien and disappeared. It seemed as if his vision grew dark and he was unable to move for a long time. But at length, he stirred, and rose to stand looking at the nearby Elven realm. "Oh wow!" he said.

Then he cut up Fatblob and began cooking him.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Blissfully unaware of the danger they had so narrowly escaped, the company entered the Park, slowing only slightly as the trees grew closer. They looked in amazement upon the golden leaves, a gold that caused even Merisuwyniel’s golden locks to pale. It did, however, make a lovely backdrop for Pimpiowyn’s reddish golden curls, a fact that she noted with only the slightest bit of smugness.

“Here in the Park of Topfloorien lie the fairest and most expensive dwellings of my people,” Merisuwyniel said. “Here rules the mother-in-law of Lord Roneld with her consort; they are wise and will give us aid for our quest.”

“Holdit!” shouted Halfullion, who had regained the position next to her. All the horses stopped suddenly; Orogarn Two almost collided with Tofu, and Baklava took advantage of the situation to throw Etceteron. Pimpi held onto Vogonwë for dear life and was thankful for his riding skill. It was fortunate that Chrysophylax, with Kuruharan astride, was tailing along well behind the others, so that his startled hiccup singed only a few nearby trees rather than the backsides of his companions and their horses.

“What is amiss?” asked Merisuwyniel. “Why do we halt?”

“I did not call us to halt,” he replied. “I was merely greeting my old friend whom I see in the trees ahead of us, Holdit, the security guard of Topfloorien.”

Indeed, an Elf, clad in an official-looking cape with insignia and his name embroidered on it, approached them. “You cannot pass!” he declaimed.

Lord Gormlessar sprang from Tofu’s back and strode toward the guard. He embraced Holdit, who rather reluctantly embraced him back.

“Do you have an appointment?” the Elven security guard asked.

“Lord Roneld promised to send an O-mail [For non-Elven readers, this term refers to the Elven communication by Osanwe.] about our coming,” Halfullion answered.

Holdit paged through his appointment book. “Ah yes, here we have it. You’re late!”

“A heroine is never late,” said Merisuwyniel with her most charming smile. “She merely wishes to make a grand entrance! Please lettuce in!”

“You may enter the romaine of Topfloorien,” he replied, “but the dragon will have to be muzzled, lest he destroy the trees that house our dwellings.”

“I am of ancient and imperial lineage,” Chrysophylax protested. “One does not simply muzzle me like a dog. Just you come here and try it!”

“I will guarantee that he does not harm anything,” Kuruharan hastened to reply. He had realized that a people of this much wealth would not hesitate to press lawsuits on anyone causing damage to their property. He whispered something into the dragon’s ear; Chrysophylax blanched, swallowed hard and kept his jaws tightly shut.

“Then I will lead you to our head,” Holdit responded.

They followed him to the very centre of the Park, where the trees were tallest and thickest. There, attached to the most magnificent tree, was a staircase and next to it, a golden cage. “Stairs or elevator?” Holdit asked.

Vogonwë was already bounding nimbly up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Halfullion, Earnur and Orogarn Two, not to be outdone, followed him. The horses turned their backs to the trees and began nibbling grass nonchalantly, showing no interest in the lofty destination. Pimpiowyn paled at the sight of the staircase, leading up to dizzying heights. Merisuwyniel noticed, and being of a compassionate heart, took her hand and entered the golden cage, though she feared it more than any other fate.

The dragon did not fit into the lifting device; other races were never considerate of his needs as a member of a minority. “He can stay with the horses,” Holdit suggested. But Chrysophylax’ eyes filled with tears and he shook his head, though he did not open his mouth.

“He is a full-fledged member of our company,” Kuruharan insisted. “I will fly up with him to be sure that he does no harm.”

And so they progressed upwards, wondering who and what awaited them.

[ February 11, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Bêthberry]

Truly this was the most splendidly and luxuriously and uxoriously appointed city in Topfloorien. The members of the fellow/ galship became awed as they rose up to the great penthouse flet in the great city of Careless Gardenhon, rising 3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds whether by running up the elegant staircase or rising in the guilded cage.

They entered a chamber illuminated by roving strobe lights and lava lamps, decorated with many couches and pillows and attended by many handbunnies who Holdit whispered were the White Hares, attired in strange fluffs of white with black bows around their necks. Truly, this was another side of life.

There, on great pillows, sat the Lady of Careless Gardenhon and her consort, Celery. She rose to greet the fellow/ galship, tall and stately, robed gloriously in what might have resembled a white peignoir if some were so inclined towards that persuasion. Celery rose immediately after her and one handbunny, Aliciel, hopped up to measure that he followed the requisite two paces behind the not-Queen Saladriel. He stood smilingly to accept her ministrations and then walked behind Saladriel, his hands held behind his back. Both the Lord and Lady looked ageless, as if D'orien Grey had designed their mirror, although in the depth of their eyes were lances and wells of deep meaning that could signify only coming and knowing and getting and spending all those years in the finest pentflet shops of Topfloorien.

Holdit brought Merisuwyniel and Pimpiowyn forward to meet the couple. "Come beside me," said Celery eagerly, "and when all have come we will speak together."

"You are rash indeed to say that thing, Celery, however long you have longed for this long feat," said Saladriel, speaking for the first time. Her voice was enticing and mesmerizing, weaving images and ideas which fed everyone's head. But perhaps that was the effect of the herbal lembrownies which the handrabbits were passing around. Or the sudden strange heat which accompanied the arrival of Chrysophylax. Then she greeted each of the companions courteously by name.

"Halfullion, by your name, one might expect half so much as I have found, although the ways of your sword and hair were hidden from me until you entered Topfloorien."

"Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, son of Garn Eight, son of Garn Seven, son of Kevin, son of Garn Six, and several more generations, where do you buy your vestments and lovely attire? We have none like that although we have the finest shops here in Topfloorien. Surely you will rest here awhile and share your wardrobe secrets with me."

"Lord Earnur Etceteron, your manly manners and habits are most welcome here. Perhaps we can later discuss recipes for salad ingredients." So saying, Saladriel helped herself to one of the lembrownies and offerred him another.

"Vogonwë, airhead poet, it's no secret that you will enjoy the Airplane music which wafts through our trees. I'm sure you will find somebody to love your poetry here."

"Pimpiowyn, half-halfling darling, we have plastic fantastic food here for your delight should you become tired of the more vegetative comestibles we have here."

Saladriel then looked at the surly pectoral delver, Kuruharan. "I do not repent of our welcome to the Dwarf." And the dwarf, hearing the name given him in the ancient tongue, immediately began calculating what profitable exchanges could be made from the commerce here.

"One is not here who set out with you. He has fallen into the lower end of the rag trade. I did not know that his plight was so secondhand. Perhaps it is just as well, though, for those who rummage cannot be said to appreciate our high end transactions in Careless Gardenhon."

Finally, Saladriel faced Merisuwyniel. "Your quest is known to us here, and by your bow and your best arrows with the golden heads, I will speak with you, but not here so openly. Your quest stands on the rim of your quivers but I will speak not as a counsellor to you, but only as one who knows how the garden may be tended."

Then Saladriel held them all with her eyes and in silence looked knowingly at them. None save Kuruharan and Pimpiowyn could endure her glance without blushing and then at length she released them from her eyes.

"Let not your hearts be troubled. Here, you shall find a peace. You will rest amid the soft couches while the stars begin to prick through the sky and the moon gropes her way through the night's charms and our sweet verse tantalize the air."

With those remarks Saladriel and her consort removed to their pillows to admire the living quality of the bole of the tree upon which the pentflet stood. In the background could be heard a puckish voice proclaiming with all mock solemnity:

The not-queen holds her revels here
For they who work must also play.
So hold your tongue you who would jeer
And let the purist look away.
A merry prankster of the night
Shall come and be a teasing wight
And to that special, perilous sight
Shall play a game of mixed delight.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Mithadan]

Gravlox returned to his troops bearing various cuts and chops of grilled Fatblob. The Uruks and Wargs set upon the feast hungrily washing their not so dainty bites down with liberal slugs of Orc Draught. Soon, most were collapsed on the ground in a stupor. But Gravlox had eaten little and more often than not, his eyes strayed to the east to look at the golden trees and billboards of Topfloorien.
One of his soldiers approached him with concern. "Is there something wrong, Captain?" said Buzzcut, wiping his greasy hands on his red shirt. "Is it that lying fox? Shall we hunt it down for you?"

Gravlox sighed. "No, Buzzcut," he replied. "The fox didn't lie. The Elves, I...we missed them. I found their tracks. They are in Topfloorien."

"Well, that's that," said Buzzcut. "We can't attack Topfloorien. We'd need at least three or four more Uruks."

"No, we cannot attack Topfloorien. But..." the Captain said, the beginnings of a plan falling into place. "Maybe we can do something." He stretched lazily and plucked a beetle out of the air. It crunched noisily as he popped it into his mouth. "We will cross the river, you, I and three others. The rest will make camp in the pass. Maybe they'll intercept some other careless travellers. But we will...scout out the area. Maybe there is something we can do..."

[Kuruharan]

Kuruharan looked approvingly at the luxurious accommodations of Saladriel and Celery. Even if they were a bit strange, Elves and all...

The Questers were being entertained by the bunnies with food and drink. In Earnur's case a lot of drink. Halfullion kept to his usual food fussiness and would not eat the offered dainties. However, the rest of the Questers were most indecent in their pigging out, particularly Pimpi and Chrysophylax. Those two seemed to be engaged in a spirited competition to see just who could eat whom under the table. Although what Chrysophylax meant by "eating Pimpi under the table" might be open to speculation.

The not-Queen Saladriel was rather put out.

"*Sigh!* I am feeling slightly depressed because I had hoped to gain the advice of the wise Pettygast on my next shopping rampage, because of the rudeness of my guests, and because of the insufferable boringness of my clodish husband. I feel that I need to have my spirits lifted by some gratuitous adoration on the part of my bunnies, toadies, roadies, and flatterers!"

With that she snapped her imperious, yet lovely, fingers.

Instantly the room flooded with more bunnies, and Elf roadies and hangers-on than had ever been assembled since the last Led Silmarils concert.

"Speak words of adoration unto me!" commanded Saladriel. "Behold, I am the Keeper of the Great Salad Bowl of Saladriel!"

"Yes!" intoned the rabble of admirers.

"Perform the great chant of adoring me!" said Saladriel as she lay down on a couch, on the opposite side of the room from her husband.

The whole crowd started bowing and chanting in unison...

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,

The chant began slowly and melodiously.

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,

Then gradually it began to pick up speed.

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,

"Ahh-ha-ha-ha!" sighed Saladriel. "This always makes me feel better! More my minions!"

Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam,
Ohwha-ta-goo-siam!

The chanting was starting to take on a note of frenzy that was making Kuruharan a bit nervous.

Halfullion on the other hand stared wistfully at the pandemonium being unleashed around him.

"I wish that somebody would Ohwha-ta-goo-siam me." Halfullion said rather petulantly.

"Oh believe me," said Kuruharan with deep conviction, "I have rarely met anyone in my life that chant fits better!"

"Really?" asked Halfullion eagerly.

"Really!" said Kuruharan sincerely.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Kuruharan ]

[Birdland]

The little fox had been searching for days on either side of the Pretty Good River, hoping beyond hope that he would encounter the fey wanderers before Gravlox and his fellow berserkers caught up with them. It was as if the earth had swallowed them! Which was very likely. No one in the history of Middle Earth took the subway and lived to tell the tale. The Balfrogs would have seen to that.

The diminutive canid was now headed for New Osgiliath, where everyone wound up eventually, whether it was canon or not. But in order to get there, he would have to go around Topfloorien. The fox quickened his pace in order to make good time before the traffic got bad. He turned on to the Outer Belt of trees that surrounded the overpriced, overdeveloped Elven sprawl like a bad case of ring worm. Though he was hungry, he sped by the beckoning light of the T.G.I. Thrimidge, and in short order left behind the Radagast Shack, Bath and Bodice Works, Bards and Nolder, and the Nienna Marchos anchor store.

He was almost past Topfloorien! The fox ran on as if he lay in a dark and troubled dream; it seemed that he could hear his own small voice echoing in black tunnels, calling If you lived here, you’d be home by now! Then the fox breasted a hill, and instead of a cozy fox condo, a good dozen or so hideous orc-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, and twenty-four hideous arms grasped at him from every side. Where was Meri?

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Lord Etceteron the Quite Well Dressed was listening enraptured to the chanting drones of Saladriel the Verdant. It was an ancient piece, timeless and deep, and it resonated with the use of centuries.

"They sing the Lay of Lús-scrú, which is in our tongue 'The Statement of Mission'" he said quietly. "It tells of the great vow of the Gnomes of Dun Rómin that was their undoing long ages past."

"Ah! The Fisher-elves! Exclaimed a trembling Vogonwë. "Many are the tales told of their mighty vow."

"Aye." said the rosy-cheeked warrior sadly. "The folk of Dun Rómin, excelling all in their manufacture of patio sets, swore a mighty oath so binding that they writ it, lest error turn awry their plans; and for a scribe they chose Taepo the Swift, who knew better than any the Elder Tongues. But they were all deceived; for Taepo had mistaken his letters in his haste, so that they vowed not to be the best at lawn ornaments, but to be the best as lawn ornaments. Still they stand around the pools and swards of Dun Rómin, plying hookless rods to snare fish that will never bite, moving never. Such is the folly of oaths."

You useless ponce! Right! That's yer last stupid poem until I get ter kill sumthin'! I'm sure there's Orcs rahnd 'ere sumwear.

Etceteron's hand had moved unbidden to the hilts of the Sable Sword, Wylkynsion. More and more of late, his mind had been drawn to the glimmering black blade, and no amount of goodly tincture seemed fit to prevent it. Still, one more try couldn't hurt: he took out his flask and drank deeply, noticing as he did so that Vogonwë's haunted eyes followed each move of his drinking hand.

"Sir Poet:" he announced generously. "Mayhap thou desirest of me a draught of this spirit. Drink thou well, for there is yet a deal more."

And with this he passed the strongest liquor within thirty miles to the weakest head in forty, recking little what he did in his merriment. Vogonwë grabbed the bottle greedily, drinking the remainder dry, at which Lord Etceteron decided to hide the leathern bottle containing the rest of his supply. The Elf spoke again:

"Poor Elvesh. Poor ikkle Dun Róminsh. Fissshing furrever. Just likhe me with rhymes. Shlave tomyart."

"I must've drunk a bit," thought Earnur. "I wonder where the toilets are around here."

"No hairofthedog for Voghonwee. Notevena hairoftherabbit"

"It's a pressing need now. Where do they hide them?"

"O oft-besplatterèd Brock on ground,
What goes around must come around.
Soon all things must leave their road,
Or else fall in it and get squashèd too:
Many, many, many, many, many,
Many, many, many, many times.
Lo! Until they are as flat as they can be
From the passing of a thousand, thousand heavy things
That their intestines make to Eccles cakes
All stuck around with little bits of grit
That look a bit like currants. So do flies
That weave around the way the soft annoyance
Of their hellos and goodbyes, and sometime must-be-dashing-nows.
Such befalls all things, even ploughs, but never me:
I shall not go all nasty and squashed,
And start to smell horrid, like a rotten
Tomato. I'm immortal, you see.
Good for me."

"This is really getting too much," said Etceteron, sorry to leave off the viewless wings of poesy but feeling acutely the results of Bacchus' driving. He got up, and a few seconds later an enraged shout from the base of the tree indicated that he had found the edge of the platform. He returned.
"A bard of great cunning hast thou become, Master Brownbark," he said. "I wonder now what the dormouse says, for in sooth it must needs be dictation."

"...And all the vales and hills around
Became like little spots of jam
That stick to things like who knows what
And will not come off whatever you do..."

"Verily these hares of Saladriel art fair" observed Earnur. "What companions one of those would make."

"All stained with jam... just like a careless sandwich. Half a loaf, half a loaf, half a loaf onward."

"I'll see if I can find out how light they are..." thought Etceteron manfully, and resolved to ask if they could take a bunny with them. Something seemed very right about asking for a hare from Saladriel.

As the poet became as drunk as a lord, and the lord faded from consciousness entirely they failed to notice the gleam of financial inspiration in the eyes of their Dwarven companion. Someone else might well be asking for something very similar before the night was done.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

[Mithadan]

The Uruks carried the fox proudly back to their Captain who smiled at the animal. The fox shuddered. Gravlox had a fine set of fangs notwithstanding a serious need for some whitening toothpaste.

"We meet again," Gravlox said pleasantly as he nonchalantly sharpened the point of his spear. "The information you provided earlier proved accurate."

The fox's heart fell. The Elves had been waylaid by the Uruks and slain or otherwise roughed up! He had lost his opportunity to double-cross the Uruks and make an additional profit. His pink mohawk hat slipped down over one eye as he bowed his head.

"Unfortunately," he continued with a sly look on his face. "We did not arrive in time and they have entered Topfloorien. I caught a glimpse of them before they entered that foul Elven land."

"I thought you said that you found their tracks," interrupted Buzzcut. He spent the next ten minutes lying dazed on the ground and marveling at his Captain's hand speed.

Gravlox cleared his throat. "We cannot attack Topfloorien," he said while rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "We must therefore make other plans. That is where you come in. You know of their leader? The female?"

"That would be Merisu," the fox replied.

"Merisu," answered the Captain in an odd voice. He seemed to be savoring the name in some way. Again the fox shuddered at a sudden mental image of barbequed Merisu with a side of stewed Halfullion. "Take this note to this Merisu. Do not say who sent it. We will reward you for your assistance." Gravlox shook a pouch which jangled promisingly and held the envelope out to the fox.

Glad at the opportunity for further profit (and the chance to betray the Uruks) the fox took the note in his teeth and trotted off toward Topfloorien...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel gazed with shining eyes at the wonders surrounding her. Never in all the peaceful, quiet, …boring days on the Elven Farm had she dreamt of such refined beauty and urban sophistication. The women wore such clothing as she had never before seen, and she found herself wondering if her divided skirt, though practical and feminine, was not positively dowdy compared to see-through dresses and sheer stockings. Merisuwyniel thought the head of this realm to be rather an iceberg, but she was stunning, no denying that! She thought about the possibility of buying such clothes for herself in the city shops; would her dear Halfie like to see her in something like that?

She looked over to the couch on which he lounged. Judging by his rapt gaze as he watched Saladriel and her handmaid- no, handbunnies, she corrected herself – he apparently approved of the current fashion. She felt Celery’s eyes on her and turned to speak to her host – well, at least the spouse of the hostess.

“Pray tell me of the wondrous boutiques in your fair city, Lord Celery,” she said.

“It’s ‘Kelery’, not ‘Selery’, m’dear,” he answered with an indulgent smile. This young, unspoiled natural beauty was a welcome change for his jaded eyes.

Mortified, she blushed profusely and stammered an apology. Even the accent was different here, and she had just blundered.

“Do not be concerned about such trifles,” Celery consoled her, laying his arm about her shoulder in a fatherly way. “You are intelligent, I can see, and will quickly learn the ways of the city. I will be happy to show you the finest shops and advise you in all matters of wardrobe choice.”

She smiled wanly and was relieved when he turned his attention to Pimpiowyn, seated on his other side. She again observed Saladriel, wondering whether the not-Queen would give her the name of her hairdresser and saw that she was looking intently at Chrysophylax. The dragon had been looking rather forlorn and dejected, having been ignored by all others after he had finished off the buffet. Merisuwyniel thought she had seen a tear in his eye, but
now he was focusing his attention on the Elven ruler, who seemed to be communicating with him. What might they be saying to one another?

Tired after the adventures of the past days, overwhelmed from too many new impressions to handle at once, and drowsy with whatever the drink had been that Celery had brought her, she dozed off.

[ January 30, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Rimbaud]

Yet the sound of Lord Celery’s nasal voice brought her reluctantly back to her senses. She felt decidedly befuddled. She wished brave, strong Halfie, he of the catastrophically awe-inspiring hair-cut and only marginally poorer manicure, would be there to comfort her, but currently he appeared to be employed as an inspector of the waiting staff, who were lined before him, ears pricked, as he looked them over.

“I did not know your flight was so evil,” said Celery. “Let you all forget my poor welcome; I spoke having just returned from The White Hart (a fine establishment). I will do what I can to aid you, each according to his wish and need, but especially those of the folk who carry the biggest burdens.”

His eye roamed from the fair Merisuwyniel to the strappingly strapping Lord Gormlessar as he said this last.

“Your thirst is known to us,” said Saladriel, looking at Etceteron. “But we will not speak of it more openly. Yet not in vain will it prove, maybe, that you came to this mall seeking maids, as Pettygast himself plainly purposed.” A resigned look of eye-rolling proportions came over here, and her tone became droll. “For the Lord Celery is accounted the wisest of the Elves of Muddle-Mud, and a giver of fabulous gift certificates beyond the power of Fifth Avenue or Oxford Street.” Seeing that Celery had abruptly fallen asleep (a little known condition of the altitude and homogenous diet of lembas was a disproportionate affliction of narcolepsy) and was drooling listlessly upon Merisuwyniel’s leg, she gave up the droll tone and spake fiercely. “He has dwelt here for bloody ages, and I have dwelt with him years uncounted ; for ere the fall of Nogarter-on or Grindulin I passed out at the wedding, and together through the ages of the world I have fought the long defeat of the reluctant bride.”

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

That night the non-gender specific Questors slept in comfortable beds, separately, much to the dissatisfaction of Halfullion. The Elves spread for them a large amount of jam upon toast near the kitchen, and in it they laid sweet lembas; then speaking words of really poor quality pop songs they left them.

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë awoke in the morning with the worst hangover of his life. It was, actually, the only hangover he’d ever had in his life, so that isn’t saying much. But, hypothetically speaking, if he had ever been so unfortunate as to have had a hangover before, this one would have topped that one easily. It was so terribly painful and unpleasant, that he wrote a poem about it.

My head is splitting,
The world is spinning,
I’m not winning,
Anything.
My heart is sinking,
I ought never to be drinking,
What was that stuff?
I had enough.
Or too much.
It’s hard to tell.

Fortunately for the rest of the It-ship, he was the last to awake, and found himself all alone, so that he couldn’t share his poem with anyone. This did not bother him, since he was in the midst of working on the continuation of his epic poem; The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs: Fit the Second, Confusion and Angst in Dark Places. He hoped to be able to recite it before leaving Topfloorien, so that the Not-Queen Saladriel could hear a sample of his endless wit.

Meanwhile, the two fair and winsome members of the Whatever-ship, Merisuwyniel and Pimpiowyn, had set off hours earlier for a girl’s day out, to the chagrin of the manly men and half-elf, who were left to their own devices for the duration of the shopping spree. Indeed, one can only imagine how dull life must have been for them without fair Merisuwyniel around to impress with their unmatched manliness, elveness, and idiocy.

Yet it must be so, their day must be darkened, for the She-elf and the Half-halfling-half-thing-quaterling-thing, were bent on pillaging the high-class stores of Topfloorien for all the delights to be found therein. Merisuwyniel had visions of newer and more fashionable clothes dancing in her head, whilst Pimpiowyn was eager to discover if the Elven café’s were all they were purported to be. She wondered briefly if any of the shops would have red clothes in them, but despaired of the idea in a remarkably overdramatic mood swing. Elves never wore red, so surely she would not find what her heart desired in an Elven boutique: a dress of black velvet with flowing, gauzy, fluid, filmy, flimsy, diaphanous, gossamer, sheer, tiffany, ethereal, preternaturally gosh darn beautiful red sleeves. And a mushroom sandwich.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Only the discipline of many years of adventurous journeys enabled Merisuwyniel to contain her excitement while she dressed for the shopping trip. Pimpi’s eagerness equalled hers; she managed only one breakfast before they were ready to leave! Celery met them with more alacrity than he usually felt at this early hour of the day; he took their hands reassuringly as they entered the golden elevator.

Mallorn Mall was like nothing they had ever seen before. A dizzying procession of elegant shops paraded past them as they walked, filled with the most dainty accessories and the most astonishingly elegant gowns. The heady scent of perfumes from Peris-edhil intoxicated their senses and Pimpi noticed with satisfaction that there were lipsticks of a red bright enough even for her taste. When she discovered that they were flavoured as well, she bought several. She was getting hungry now, and as she joined Merisuwyniel, who was gazing raptly at the jewellery displayed in a large showcase, she wished that she had brought sandwiches, so that they could have had second breakfast at Tintallë’s.

Celery, accustomed to anticipating female whims after so many ages of marriage, led them to a nearby café. To Pimpi’s complete and utter gratification, they were served sandwiches, scones and cakes on a triple-layered tray along with an invigorating hot beverage. Since Merisuwyniel merely nibbled at the dainties and Celery sipped only a glass of Kiril Royale, she was able to still her appetite quite satisfactorily.

“Now that you have regained your strength,” their host said, “we shall seek out the boutiques that cater to young misses sizes and tastes.” He added, “Follow me!”

That was my line on the journey, Merisuwyniel mused. It was rather nice to let another make the decisions now, especially since Celery could find his way through the labyrinth of hallways that had caused her to lose her orientation. Purposefully, their host strode toward a lighted sign that said ‘Halfway to Valinor’. “Here we shall find clothes suited for our Half-Halfling,” he explained.

And there, in the window, was a dress – the dress of Pimpiowyn’s dreams. Black velvet, cut low at the neck, adorned with ribbons of golden embroidery, and above all, the sleeves – falling gracefully to the ground and of a width and length that made any practical action of the wearer nearly impossible. Her eyes grew round and large as saucers; breathlessly, she turned to Celery and asked, “May I try that one on?” He smiled in answer and entered the shop with her. Neither noticed that Merisuwyniel had stayed outside, looking at the beautiful dress with yearning eyes.

Even from outside she could see that the gown was not her size – the hem looked as though it would come just below her knees, a shockingly immodest and unbecoming length. And she knew how little its colour would flatter her; Elves never wear red, her godmother had told her. Yet its beauty touched her heart so profoundly that she was moved to a highly unusual poetic utterance.

Oh beautiful for spacious sleeves,
for ‘broidered bands of gold,
for deep, dark velvet majesties,
for colours bright and bold.

She was shaken out of her reverie by Celery’s gentle voice, calling her to come inside. Reluctantly, she acquiesced.

In the shop, Pimpiowyn had disappeared into a fitting room with the garment. Celery motioned Merisuwyniel to follow him to another small room. There hung a dress, midnight blue and encrusted with shining white gems and threads of gold and mithril, so ingeniously embroidered that they seemed to be the stars and constellations of the heavens. It too had the voluminous sleeves that were obviously in fashion this season, diaphanous layers of various shades of blue, like unto clouds in the night sky. She gazed at it in wonder, touching its soft folds reverently before carefully putting it on.

When she came out of the fitting room, Pimpi was already turning excitedly to let the skirt and sleeves of the dress swirl around her. Merisuwyniel wished that there would have been a mirror in which she could see herself in the dress, but when she asked, Celery only said, “You need no mirror but the admiring eyes of a man, my dear. You both look wonderful.” Timidly, she inquired what the price of these fabulous garments would be, but the Elven ruler shook his head and said, “Roneld and I have made advance arrangements for all such matters. You need not trouble your pretty heads with them. As the saying goes, Oh, I can buy with a little help from my friends. Now we must go to Manwëolos for shoes.”

‘Shoes’ seemed much too prosaic a word for the creations of soles, high heels and a few leather straps that they looked at in astonishment. Such impractical, certainly uncomfortable, wholly unsuitable for normal life footwear – and soooo sexy! Even Pimpi, who hated to wear shoes and had never even tried on high heels, couldn’t resist the magic appeal and slipped into a pair that made her sturdy feet look irresistibly feminine. Celery chose a pair of silver sandals for Merisuwyniel to try on, with equally admirable results.

Hours later, laden with the spoils of the most unusual hunt both maidens had ever experienced, they arrived back at the pentflet in time to rest before preparing for the evening’s big party.

Saladriel was feeling quite magnanimous after the admiration of newly come males. In a fit of unwonted generosity, she sent her hairdresser to arrange their coiffures in a festive style. Crowned with curls and braids and adorned with their new evening gowns, they made their appearance at the door to the ballroom, shyly awaiting the reactions of the others. Celery saw them first and strode to welcome them. He handed each of them an ornamented case and said, “Please do an old man the favour of accepting these small trinkets. I know that Silmarils are a girl’s best friends, yet these poor substitutes can only serve to reflect the brilliance of your eyes.”

Astonished, they opened the cases to find a golden necklace with red jewels for Pimpiowyn and a mithril band with a single white star to adorn Merisuwyniel’s brow. Their host helped them to fasten the clasps, since their fingers were trembling with the unaccustomed excitement of the occasion.

As the admiring eyes of the company rested upon the maidens, it appeared that fire and night stood together. Pimpiowyn glowed with an earthy, warm beauty that seemed to spread to all who saw her. Even Vogonwë, who thought he knew her well, stood thunderstruck and for once, absolutely wordless before her.

When they turned their eyes to Merisuwyniel, many of the assembled throng gasped in astonishment, for it seemed to them that Varda herself had appeared in Middle-Earth. Tall and slender she stood, and the Valacirca, Wilwarin, Remmirath, and other constellations shimmered from her raiment as the star shone on her brow. More than one of the company felt an urge to kneel before her, and Celery bowed his head reverently. Then the spell was broken, and the festivities began.

[ February 01, 2003: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two stood gaping at the lusciouly gowned Merisuwyniel, wicked thoughts flittering through his mind in a constellation of bright lights and dark intentions. Never had the sight of a woman so moved him, and he had to force himself to stand motionless, to fight the almost uncontrollable urge to either drop to one knee or to plunge forward with a reckless oath of lustful devotion. Her eyes met his and his senses reeled. He must have her!

He leaned forward in preparation for a sudden lunge, but an obligatory inanity from Celery broke the spell.

“Dearly beloved,” began the vapid elven lord, “we are gathered here today to join these …”

Realizing her husband was reading from the wrong cheat sheet again, Saladriel gave him a quick, sharp punch to the kidney and finished his sentence loudly enough to mask his groaning decent to the flet floor.

“… to join these wonderful travelers in a toast.”

Everyone raised their glasses, and Saladriel turned to Orogarn Two, smiling.

“Lead us in a toast, lord of Grundor,” she said. “It is fitting that a guest of such noble lineage, high bearing, and remarkable apparel should inaugurate our celebration. Surely one who has so long guarded the Porcelain Throne will have words of wisdom for a gathering such as this. Perhaps a tribute to your missing comrade?”

Finally free of the amatory enchantment of Merisuwyniel’s shapely pair of sandals, Orogarn Two turned to the angelic Careless Lady with a proud look in his eye. Many times had he stood in the Citibank of Minus Teeth and orated before just such a crowd. Lords and ladies from the districts of Ethyline, Listerine, and even Dol Amstel had sat amazed by his extemporaneous deliveries. Raising his right hand, he began to speak.

“Friends, Romaines, countryelves, lend me your pointy ears; I come to praise Pettygast, not to marry him,” he gave a quick look to the still-confused Celery. “The mathoms of Balfrogs live after them oft strewn among their victim’s bones. Such items sought Pettygast, at bargain prices. The noble Saldriel has told you that Pettygast was a trader in rags, that his hard-sought bargains were secondhand. Perhaps it was so, and perhaps Pettygast paid the ultimate price for his last rummaging. My heart is in the Subway there with Pettygast, and I must say no more of him till it come back to me.”

Lowering his right hand and elevating his left, he continued.

“Fourscore and another fewscore days ago my father set me forth on a journey across this continent, dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal, except for those of Grundor who are more equal than others. Also, elves are created equal, only more so, but in a different way. Dwarves are, obviously about half as equal, and half-halflings are a quarter equal under most circumstances.”

Unsure of what he had just said and embarrased at his own confusion, Orogarn Two raised both hands and shouted a traditional toast of Grundor.

“Here’s to a long life and a merry one
A quick death and an easy one
A pretty girl and an honest one
A cold beer and another one!

Here's to us all, Eru bless us every one!”

[Diamond18]

Vogonwë was better at controlling his hormones than Orogarn Two, and felt no urge to pounce on either Merisuwyniel or Pimpiowyn (though, being like a cat, he would have done a very good job of pouncing had he been so inclined). He did feel moved to compose a poem in honor of their luscious beauty, and if he knew what was good for him he’d write more lines for Pimpi than for Merisuwyniel. But though Vogonwë had good control of his hormones, his brain was a different matter, and he seldom knew what was good for him.

That poem would have to wait, however, as his mind was filled with the second fit of the epic lay, and as is flitted fittishly through his grey matter, he stood and lifted his goblet for a toast once Orogarn Two was finished babbling.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “I would now like to recite for you a poem, or the second fit of a poem, to be precise. The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs: Fit the Second, Confusion and Angst in Dark Places, to be precisely precise.”

“What about the first fit?” Celery asked unwittingly, as was his wont.

“Oh, quite true, thou of the Topfloorien persuasion did not hear the first fit of the bit!” Vogonwë exclaimed. “I shall have to repeat it—”

Pimpi gave him a meaningful look and winked in an odd manner, uttering a noise somewhat akin to, “Mmmmm! Uh-uh.”

Vogonwë heeded her judgement, and said, “On second thought, it doesn’t matter much either way, you can hear the first fit second or first, and the second fit first or second, or the second fit second or first or the first fit first or second, or the fit first second—”

“Mmmmm!”

“Anyway, here it is— Confusion and Angst in Dark Places—

They left the Elven Farm,
They left the Farm to face harm,
The day was warm.
And sunny.

They walked for days, or weeks,
And ate leeks,
Every night for dinner.
They came to the mountains,
So far from the fountains,
Of the Elven Farm.

After a time,
They sought to climb a pass,
They clumb Canthardlee,
But did not get over, not hardly.
So they found a cave,
With rocks it was paved,
And through the pinkish gloom they went,
Their bravery and energy not yet spent.

That night they camped again,
They camped again, all of them.
They had gone there and back again,
And were in a sore mood when,
Out in the dark they heard a bark,
And then another.

“The Baskerwargs!” Gormlessar cried,
“They’ve come to eat our scrawny hides!
To rip our flesh and chew on our bones,
Oh I wish we’d never left home!”

(Halfullion muttered, “I never said that at all,” but Vogonwë had up a head of steam and puffed on.)

It seemed for a while that all was lost,
For fire came at an awful cost,
Which they didn’t want to pay.
But they had to do something, anyway.

Then all at once, the world was silent,
The leaves whispered in the air,
For they were pliant.
“They’re gone, they’re gone!” the Questers cried,
“They’ve gone and ‘twas Master Brownbark who did the deed!
He the barking did not heed,
And sent them running with his words and punning!”

(“That’s my department!” Halfullion huffed, but Merisuwyniel laid a reassuring pale hand on his arm, and he began to drool like a slavering Baskerwarg.)

“Praise him, praise him,
With great praise!
Gosh darn golliwog,
Give that boy a raise!”
But the hero demurred,
And they went to sleep.

The next day,
They opted to take the Subway,
And so they did,
Even though the dragon was really big.

Days it seemed they wandered,
While poetic thoughts they pondered,
As they wandered, and wandered, and wandered.
Up one tunnel and down another,
On wheels that rattled like thunder.
Maps they read, and tickets they sought,
The garden idea was all for naught,
But they found them one way or another.

As they were rolling merrily along,
The Dragon fell off, and broke his crown.
Then they heard, to their chagrin,
An awful, clinking, noisy din.
“Mithril-Munching Moria Mice!” cried the Dwarf.
“Mice aren’t nice when they’ve got a mouthful of mithril,
Especially if you’re wearing said mithril.”
But Merisuwyniel sang a note,
And everything was okey-doke.

They neared the end of their dark journey,
When the Wizard left them in a hurry,
Saying “Fly, you fools!” in a flurry.

A massive Balfrog followed them at a jog,
And scared them like spoiled grog,
And smoggy fog.
But the Dragon flew (who knew!)
And the Balfrog didn’t,
So that was the end of that little incident.

So the dauntless heroes left the zeroes,
Of the dark empty pits of nothingness,
That are wont to be in places of darkness.
The fearless friskers felt far brisker and crisper,
Once they were in fresh air again.
And they set their sites for fair Topfloorien.

[Bêthberry]

The chant of adoration had had no lasting effect and the great, magnificent, stupendous not-Queen was mightily miffed about last night's Ball. Oh, the words had rung mighty enough, particularly those of the Lord of Grundor. Frankly, however, she hoped never to hear the shank end of Vogonwë's epic. And it wasn't the lamentable loss of the lovely-haired swordsmen to the undertable that she despaired of, however disappointingly deplorable that had been. No.

The not-Queen had received no bauble of the night sky with which to adorn her unsurpassed brow. And she quite jealously envied the gorgeous red and sultry blue gowns which Celery had heaped upon Pimpiowyn and Merisuwyniel--perpetual white at her age was such a frightful bore. At any age, in fact. Obviously, Saladriel was becoming frightfully bored of everything. This was more than a post-partium depression.

She stifled a yawn but still sighed with the ennui of ages. It was depressingly quiet in Topfloorien. Nothing seemed to be going on and nobody seemed to want it. Was this all that ruling a realm with her own will meant? Of course, she had thrown over Morget. It seemed hardly worth that little spot of resistance back in her salad days--not that she really did resist. Good thing she had been able to find that historical revisionist writer to set things straight.

Saladriel yawned again, not bothering to stifle it this time. She was beginning to regret her actions with the SnowWhite Council as well; maybe things would have been a spot more lively if she had liaised with SoAman rather than Dandruff the Fey. She shrugged. There was little to do in Topfloorien but eat and drink and walk among the tumtum trees and borogroves, and even still it was not all mimsy enough. They were simply vegetating. And to top it all off, Celery was being difficult again.

Celery himself was not amused. He had enjoyed stalking certain members during the Fellow/Galshop til they drop spree. They had sought commerce everywhere from Sûl of Firith Avenue to Far Harrod's to that lovely lunch at Forgoil and Mathoms. It had been gratifying to see the results at last night's splendid. Ball. Smashed a few pumpkins they did. But there was no beamish to be had with the old girl. He was in fact rather put out that Saladriel apparently had not appreciated his tireless efforts at hospitality. Speaking of put out, what could she expect after all these years? Still to carrot all for her? He saw her tossing around on the greenery and approached her.

"I say, Saladriel old girl, what say we have a spot more fun with our guests?"

"Even the very wise cannot see all ends, Celery, so why should you try? But you have a cunning plan?"

"Well, I had so much fun with that Baton Relay game for our Golden Jubilee that I thought we might hold other batons. Er, have another Baton Relay Run."

"We are we, Celery, not you."

"Aye."

"No, you not we. Me we."

"O. . . . U."

"Celery, you old fruit, we shall have to tighten your purse strings. We have devised a clever plan. Yes, we beleaf we have the very thing," the not-Queen intoned. "We shall peep into the Looking Glass of my Salad Bowl to see what is mirrored there."

At that point, Saladriel's gaze was oiled as some of the handbunnies came romping through the rabbit patch with the Fellow/Gal ship. Celery could sense the idea that tore into her ripe head. "O'live to see this game turned around," thought Celery to himself. He signaled to Aliciel to come forward for he had a plan to make Saladriel render up her page to him.

To the handmaiden he whispered, "There is a little Westron flower, before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, called 'Love in Elvenness.' Fetch that flower and prepare the Salad Bowl of Galadriel with it." With a wink the puckish Aliciel ran off to do his bidding.

Saladriel spoke no word but beckoned to the guests. She led them toward the southern slopes of the hill of Careless Gardenhon, and passing through the verdant bush they all hedged their bets as they entered the Bower of Elven Delights. No tumtum trees grew there and all lay open to the sky where the Light of the Evening Star pierced down. Down a flight of long fanciful steps into a deep green mossy hollow through which ran a murmuring stream that issued forth and tumbled into a silver fountain did the Lady of Topfloorien lead them. There, a low pedestal which spread like a branching tree held a wooden bowl, wide and shallow, the great Salad Bowl of Saladriel. The not-Queen kneeled reverently and took in her lovely hands a silver ewer which she dipped into the wonderous waters and then poured forth into the bowl itself after Aliciel had rubbed the burnished wood with garlic--or that other substance. Saladriel inhaled deeply before blowing over the bowl and then waited for the water to settle.

"Many things I can command the Bowl to reveal, and to some what they most desire. But the Bowl will also mirror things stranger (here she glanced at Merisuwyniel) and more profitable (here she glanced at Kuruharan the Dwarf, with a wink). Do you wish to take a peep? Look only but do not touch."

So saying, Saladriel herself looked deep into the bowl and therein came to dote madly upon the next live creature that she saw and she was forthwith smitten with one of the children of Aule, Kuruharan.

Then, indeed, long while all the Itship stood there, and one by one each assayed to gaze upon the Salad Bowl and many wonders there were seen, which they then did choose to tell, or spell or sell.

And once again the girl chorus in the background could be heard singing:

Come now a rondel and a fairy song,
Of wishes vain and love gone wrong.
What thou seest when thou dost peep
Take it for thy true-love's keep.
In thy eye what shall appear,
it is that thing shall you hold dear.

[ February 02, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Birdland]

The little fox stood at the very edge of Topfloorien, Gravlox’s billet deux held gingerly in his teeth. Orcish paper was made from the coarsest of wood pulps (with blue solid and dashed lines to aid in penmanship), and to clutch it too tightly could lead to rather painful splinters below the gum line.

Looking back, the fox could just see a faint line of Orc-heads, grinning helpfully and waving him on with many snickers and poking of ribs. Looking ahead he could only see shops of innumerable sizes and shapes; straight or bent, twisted, leaning, squat or slender. The Elvish mega mall seem to go on forever, with paths leading off in all directions. With many a look back, and a heavy heart, the fox set out.

There were, of course, Elves everywhere. Elves here, and Elves there. Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children. All shopping, their faces proud and fair, clutching their shopping sacks, with receipts in their silver hair. The fox shuddered as he dodged amongst the bustling shoppers, trying his best not to touch them.

Suddenly a lithe Elf maiden leapt in front of him, holding an atomizer and flashing an ageless, cavity-free smile. “White Simarils, Sir?” she asked brightly as she fogged the air between them with a blast of elanor scented spray.

The little canine ducked and dodged, muttering “No thanks. Allergies”. The Elf-maiden gave a sad, puzzled look - the Immortal Folk having no concept of runny noses or itchy, watery eyes. Then a tall, slender Elf Lord appeared in front of the four-legged messenger, sweeping a tray of broken bakery goods in front of his nose. “Would you care to try a sample of our Chocolate-Chocolate Chip Macadamia Lembas today? We’re having a special!” The fox backpedaled furiously, stammering “No, really! No thank you! I’m…I’m low-carbing!” The Elf Lord gave him a withering look, hand on hip, and sniffed ”Looks like you could use it, honey”, before he turned to seek another victim.

The fox scanned a near-by map, glowing with its own internal Elven light; marked with a bright “X” and runes reading “Welcome, Friend. You have traveled far, and are now here.” But the map was of little help. In all this mass of Elf-manity, all scrambling in a frenzy of buying and browsing, selling and pitching, how was he ever to find the Fellow/Gal-ship?

Suddenly the Fox found himself in a grove of trees filled with ancient statuary, all infinitely beautiful and impossibly thin, draped in the very height of Elven fashions. He was surrounded by a herd of Elven-teens, all fingering the finery with squeals of delight, checking the tags and swooping down upon the racks of ready-to-wear dotted amongst the trees. The trendiness of Topfloorien seemed to bear down upon the fox, and he felt that he could bear it no longer, and without warning he let out a shout: “Oi! Oi! I don’t want to buy anything! Just let me pass through, will you?”

The silence surrounding him was deafening. All eyes were upon the cowering little creature in the middle of the sales floor. Then the silence was broken by a lanky Elf-teen wearing a carefully distressed, faux Rohanian riding jacket. “Nice topknot, dude!“ he sneered, and the bevy of Elf-maids around him snickered.

The fox drooped even farther, realizing for the first time that pink probably really wasn’t his color. He had never felt so alone and out of it. Why had he ever come here?

But suddenly he raised his head. There was an answer, or so he thought. He turned round to listen, and soon there could be no doubt; someone was singing a song; a deep glad voice was singing happily, but it was singing nonsense:

Hey Dol! Half-Off! Ring it up! I’ll take it!
Here’s my card! Box it up!
You have to buy if you break it!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel stepped up to the Salad Bowl as the first of the Fellow/Galship. “I will look,” she said bravely. “But what shall I see? Things that were, or things that are, or things that yet may be?”

“Even the wisest cannot tell,” Saladriel answered. “It may be that you will see something of each.”

She gazed into the Bowl and saw at first only leafy greens speckled with croutons as if they were stars upon a verdant sky. Then the shapes changed, light reflected on the salad dressing, and she beheld a forest. Therein strode an Ent, vigorous and strong, only to be attacked by a horde of orcs. She saw a person giving signs to hew the Ent down and peered more closely. The figure looked familiar and yet strange, but turned away before she could see its face.

The image faded, and another face appeared only to disappear again. I wish it wouldn’t appear and vanish so suddenly, Merisuwyniel thought, it makes me quite giddy! Slowly, a sharp-toothed grin became visible, a grin without a face, a sight that was considerably stranger than a face without a grin. She shuddered, yet looked fascinated into the pair of burning eyes that appeared, feeling strangely attracted and repulsed at the same time. Her compassionate heart was touched by the haunted look in those eyes, though her sensitivity for beauty caused her to recoil from the uncouth features.

Then the face slowly vanished, ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. A great darkness took its place and the black outline of a tower loomed large before her eyes. She seemed to be flying closer till she could look into an open window. There stood a woman, both beautiful and terrible to behold. Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain and dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning she appeared. She was tall beyond measurement and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful. Merisuwyniel could not decide whether to love her or despair. Her head drew closer to the surface; Saladriel warned, “Do not touch the dressing!” Then the image diminished, and she saw only salad greens again.

“I know who it is that you last saw,” Saladriel said, “for she is also in my mind. It is not permitted to speak of her, yet perhaps you shall know more anon.”

Dazed and bewildered by the images she had seen, the Elven maiden withdrew from the rest of the company to ponder the purport of the vision.

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

[Birdland]

The fox made his escape just as the fat, jolly Elf dressed in a spangled yellow and green jumpsuit made his way into the plaza.

"Bombi! Bombi!" the teens were screeching and flocking around their idol. The Fox slunk away with his message, not understanding the huge popularity of the Elf Minstral Tom Bomba-bloom-O. It was an enigma.

The fox crossed the Banquet Court, taking the escalator to the top of a high, round hill in the very heart of Topfloorien. And there, at last, he spied she whom he had sought for so long. "About time." he muttered.

**********************
Merisuiniel stood alone in the Elvish twilight, the neon of the distant plaza gleaming in her golden hair, the basic little black and red Elven gown making a classic fashion statement, hardly needing accessories at all. She gave a heavy sigh, puzzled by all that the Salad Bowel had shown her, and idly flicked a stray crouton from her sleeve.

Suddenly before her appeared the strangest creature: it bore a striking resemblence to a fox she had seen, shortly after it had been run down by stampeding wain team. Except no fox she had ever seen ever sported a bright pink top knot, nor reeked of "White Simarils".

The little creature sat before her, and spat a slobber-coated, crinkled piece of coarse manila paper at her feet. He then shook his head, grimaced, pawed at his mouth and spat two more times. Then, without a word, he faded into the undergrowth.

"Well, I've got that little nuisance out of the way. Now to find that dwarf and conduct some real business, then get out of town without those Orcs seeing me again. I wonder which way the parking lots are?" And with that, the fox trotted off, in entirely the wrong direction.

[Mithadan]

Gravlox sent all but three of his Uruks back across the river to hide near the Pass. He winced as a water-fight erupted among his troops which escalated until one suffered a broken claw while trying the fighting technique known as the Way-Ji. Chagrined by their fellow's whines of pain, the troop completed the river-crossing and disappeared into the mouth of the Pass.

Buzzcut and the remaining two accompanied Gravlox to a billboard which they slipped behind to set up a campsite. When the sun began to set, Gravlox took up his mighty spear, Henry, and buckled on the mighty Zig-Zag sword along with a number of knives. He tugged at the sword's hilts, but as always it remained firmly stuck in its sheath. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should carry a blade of lesser name but greater utility. No matter. The spear was his weapon of choice.

Then he turned to his companions and spoke. "I go now on a daring mission, seeking to spring the trap I have set with the note I gave the fox. Stay hidden. I shall return by morning."

Buzzcut, clapped his Captain on the shoulder. "Good luck sir! Bring back some booty!" Gravlox smiled. "I'll keep my eyes open for booty," he responded to the Uruk.

Gravlox walked off to the north until a bend in the river brought its stream into the shadows of the trees. He did off his weapons and armour and leaped into the river. From his pocket, he romoved a bottle which his son Gravy had once given him. It bore runes which spelled the magic words invigorating bath and shower gel.

An hour later, he crept into the trees of Topfloorien...