If LotR had been written by someone else!?

[Lostgaeriel]

Oh Lalwendë!

I haven't laughed that hard in an Age!

When considered in a "real" and contemporary context, I'm absolutely amazed that the Council stuck the meeting out to reach any conclusion at all. The way steering committees get run, we should have expected inconclusive meetings going on for months or years - or at least until Sauron arrived to claim the Ring. My respect for Elrond has risen to great heights.

[Mithalwen]

Well, Elrond employed that wise tactic of not feeding them until they had decided (no sandwiches and fruit sent in). A catholic friend tells me they do similar things to the cardinals if they take too long choosing a new pope..

[Rimbaud]

~~~

In the beginning Eru, the Authority, who in the Elvish tongue is named BigNastyBoss, made the Ainur of his thought; and they made a great Music before him. In this Music the World was begun; for the Authority made visible the song of the Ainur, and used it to enslave what he considered the weak-minded fools of the world. And many among them became enamoured of its Dusty beauty, and of its history, which was presented to them through a series of propaganda films. Therefore the Authority gave to their vision the Worship, and set it amid the Void, and the Pomp and Ceremony was sent to burn at the heart of he World; and it was called Church.

~~~

I would say to read this in the Spirit it is intended, but I might be accused of punnery. The shame.

[Lalwendë]

Well, Elrond employed that wise tactic of not feeding them until they had decided (no sandwiches and fruit sent in). A catholic friend tells me they do similar things to the cardinals if they take too long choosing a new pope

I always laugh to myself when I read Bilbo's little plea for a lunch break which falls on stony ground. It reminds me of myself so much. I can imagine him sitting there fuming, drawing doodles on his notepad to alleviate the tedium of another lengthy meeting, waiting for the tray of drinks and 'luxury biscuits' to arrive, and wondering when he can pop out for a smoke...poor hobbit.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Well, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and George Orwell had already been done . . . Wait: I know he’s not a writer, but how about The Lord of the Rings by Peter Jackson?

Oh, brother.

Thought you wouldn’t like that. Oh, well . . .

The Voyage of Eärendil by Tom Clancy

“Talk to me, Randy,” said Eärendil to his sonarman.
“Possible contact bearing one-three-two,” Aerandir said quietly. His mind churned inside his cool demeanour. Who could be chasing them? “It sounds like a giant wave, or some disturbance on the surface of the water . . . ” They continued to look at the waterfall display, where the contact was displayed as a yellow dot slightly larger than the other specks in the black background. The dot grew to a splotch.
“Definite contact.” Aerandir pressed his earphones to his ears. “He just increased speed.”
The captain walked over to the intercom. “Mast room, all ahead full.”
“All ahead full, aye,” answered Erellont as he increased the sail’s surface area. Eärendil felt Vingilot surge as she accelerated to thirty knots.
“Target just increased speed! Range under one thousand yards!” the sonarman shouted.
“S***!” He walked back to the intercom. “Erellont! Increase to flank!”
“All ahead flank, aye.” It is not generally known that a ship sometimes exceeds its known maximum speed, due to unexpected engine efficiency or some other factor. In this case, the sails fully unfurled gave Vingilot an additional five knots of speed.
“Sir, the b****** just kicked full throttle! Estimate speed at forty knots.”
Eärendil rushed to the bridge. “Helsman, right full rudder!”
“Right full rudder, aye. No course given.” Falathar turned the control wheel all the way to the right. “Sir, my rudder is right full.”
“Bridge, sonar. Contact just turned to starboard . . . ” There was silence over the intercom for a few seconds. “New contact! Low frequency rumbling, bearing five degrees on either bow, three-five-five to zero-zero-five. Sounds like rocks crashing against each other.”
“That’s Helcaraxë. Ignore that for now. Tell me about our stalker.”
“Sir, range to target under five hundred yards.”
“Helm, left full rudder. Return to base course three-one-two.” He hoped to confuse their tail.
“Bridge, sonar. Contact matched our turn to port, and his speed increased to fifty knots. Range to target under one hundred yards!”
“Sound collision! Brace for impact!” shouted Eärendil as he left the bridge and rushed to the stern of the boat. He saw a giant wave bearing an illuminated figure. Before he could make out what it was, the wave crashed down on Vingilot, and Eärendil found the figure sitting atop him. It was Elwing, unconscious, with the Silmaril on her breast.

I'll be back with more, possibly an Alexandre Dumas fils.

Whatever. Just something we'd understand.

[Lobelia]

Lord of the Rings By Enid Blyton

"Oh, I do love the first day of the holidays!" said Aragorn. "What do you think we should do today, Boromir, old thing?"

Boromir looked thoughtful as the girls spread a blanket for their picnic. They were spending the holidays at Imladris and enjoying the view of the Rivendell Valley.

"We could investigate the Mystery of the Missing Ring," he suggested. "The police seem to think that horrid Sauron is after it."

"All right," agreed Aragorn. "We'll go down to the village after lunch. I say, Arwen, what's for lunch, by the way?"

Arwen opened the basket. "Lembas and boiled eggs," she said, "with tinned peaches from the Shire for dessert. And lashings of miruvor. I made the lembas myself."

"Mm, you'll make a wonderful housewife one day," Aragorn said happily. "Oh, I say, what a super blanket! Did you weave that?" It was black, with a white tree embroidered on it in diamonds. Arwen nodded shyly.

"Woof!" said Bill the pony.

Eowyn blushed. She'd always wanted a dog when she was growing up, but Uncle Theoden said they were too boyish. So she had to make do with a pony, but it was always embarrassing when he barked instead of neighing.

"Do be quiet, Bill!" she said. "I vote we go and save the world. Not today, though, it's going to rain."

"Good idea," said Aragorn. "It'll give me time to get Narsil re-forged. Pass the miruvor, Arwen old thing."

[Aldarion Elf-Friend]

This is a great thread. I'm glad I discovered it.

So, what if Terry Brooks wrote...

Oh, never mind...

[Lobelia]

Originally Posted by Aldarion Elf-Friend

This is a great thread. I'm glad I discovered it.

So, what if Terry Brooks wrote...

Oh, never mind...

LOL!
You cheeky person!

[Elven-Maiden]

This is my favourite book in all the world, though I have never read it.

How is such a thing possible? I'll do my best to explain.

The year that Bilbo Baggins left the shire, the most beautiful woman in the world was Gondorian scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked hard and in her spare time loved to play with the young prince Denethor. It did not escape the King's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter (only they didn't have pewter yet. More precisely, they had pewter, but it wasn't called "pewter"). The King's notice did not escape the notice of the Queen either, who was not very beautiful, not very rich, but plenty smart. The Queen set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.

Llemba bread.

[Elven-Maiden]

2941 of the Third Age
WHAT WAS THEN HOBBITON

The intruder came from beyond. A powerful, celestial being, almost as old as the universe itself, he had been born in a vast cloud of ice, rocks, dust, and gas a thousand years before.

Bilbo Baggins owned the prestigious hobbit-hole at the base of the hill. To an outsider it looked like a old, run-down, uninteresting hole. But that was merely a clever disguise to keep would-be thieves out. Inside this hobbit-hole were rooms and rooms filled with antique automobiles, and wine cellars stocked with Bourbon, Cabernet Sauvignon, Dom Perignon, Ferri-Carano Siena, Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Brut Champagne, Chardonnay, Sparr Pinot Noir and even Retsina, a fine old Greek wine.

Baggins was handsome, but not in the movie-star sense. He was tall for a hobbit, dark-haired and well-built, with deep green eyes and hairy feet. An urgent knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He downed his tequila and cocked his trusty old .45 caliber automatic Colt pistol.

He opened the door to his hobbit-hole and grinned as he recognised his old childhood pal, Gandalf the Gray.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The Maia of Mt. Caradhras by Alexandre Dumas fils

Gandalf had returned to his house on the sixth level of Minas Tirith with Pippin, and was sitting alone wrapt in thought when the door suddenly opened. The Istar frowned.
“Ah, my Lord Denethor,” said Gandalf calmly.
“Yes, it is I,” said the Steward, with a dreadful contraction of the lips which prevented him from articulating clearly.
“I only seek to know now to what I owe the pleasure of seeing the Steward of Gondor at such an early hour,” continued Gandalf.
“You had a meeting with my son this morning, monsieur?”
“You knew about it?”
“I also know that my son had a very good reason to take the Ring, and to do his utmost to bring it to me.”
“He had, but you see that, notwithstanding these reasons, the Ring is still headed for Mt. Doom.”
“Yet he looked upon it as a weapon for our aid, and as a gift to win my heart.”
“That is true, monsieur,” said Gandalf, with dreadful calmness, “the secondary cause, but not the principal one.”
“No doubt the Halflings escaped his custody.”
“The Halflings he set free, and he even gave gifts before they left.”
“But to what do you attribute such conduct?”
“To conviction; probably he discovered there was more to it than taking the love you gave to a son whom you sent to death.”
“That may be, but you know that I would not have you stir the cup I have stirred for myself.”
“I know, and I expected all this.”
“You expected my son to be a coward?”
“Monsieur Faramir is not a coward!”
“A man who has a great weapon within his grasp is a coward if he does not take it. Oh, that my son Boromir may be there! He would have sent me a mighty gift.”
“I presume you have not come here to tell me your little family affairs,” replied Gandalf coldly. “Go and say that to Monsieur Faramir, perhaps he will know what answer to give you.”
“No, no, I have not come for that!” replied the Steward, with a smile which disappeared immediately. “I came to tell you that I know of your plans. Did you think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind?”
“Bah!” said Gandalf with exasperating coolness. “Are you not the son of Ecthelion who rejoiced at Thorongil’s departure? Are you not the Steward of the King of Gondor who used the palantír in his pride? Are you not the Lord of Minas Tirith who sent both his sons to danger? And have not all of these driven you to madness and despair, falling before your city is taken?”
“Villain! to reproach me thus!” cried the Steward. “I know well, demon that you are, that your hope is to rule in my stead, to stand behind every throne. I have read your mind and its policies. With the left hand you would use me for a while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me.
“But I say to you, Gandalf, I will not be your tool! I am a Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not bow to the last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity. Now it is the name of this upstart I wish to know, so that I may pronounce it before the men of Gondor when I reject his claim.”
One cloaked in grey came behind the Steward, and with his arms crossed, walked up to Denethor, who had wondered at this man wearing a green stone. On seeing him his teeth chattered, his legs gave way under him, and he stepped back until he found a table against which to lay his clenched hand for support.
“Denethor!” he cried, “I need but mention one of my many names to strike terror into your heart. But you guess this name, or rather you remember it, in the visions you received from the Seeing Stone, do you not? For in spite of all the hardships I endured, I show you to-day a man about to come into his own.”
With head thrown back and arms stretched out, the Steward stared against this terrible apparition in silence; then leaning against the wall for support he glided slowly along to the door through which he went out backwards, uttering but one distressing and piercing cry:
“Elessar!”
Just then two people were coming towards the house, and he had only just time to hide himself behind the open door. It was Faramir, leaning on Beregond’s arm. Beregond said:
“Come, my lord! The King is here.”
The words died away and the steps were lost in the distance. The Steward drew himself up, clinging to the walls with clenched hands, and the most terrible sob escaped him that ever came from the bosom of a father and a lord abandoned at the same time by his son and his subjects.
He went up to the seventh level of the City, and there he cast himself down the walls of the White Tower.

Wow. Movie ending.
Denethor is not like that!

[Lalwendë]

Gandalf’s Letter to Frodo from Book 1, Chapter 10 - as written by an ‘official’.

The Department of Istari
North Western District Field Office
C/O The Prancing Pony
Bree

23 June 1418

Dear Mr Baggins,

I was concerned to hear of your current problems concerning the situation with the One Ring, and I would like to recommend that you consider leaving The Shire as soon as it is convenient. Rivendell has been recommended as one of many strategic centres which you may find to be of benefit to you in your current situation.

In the meantime you may also wish to contact Mr Strider at the Lean, Dark & Tall Agency as we have been very much engaged in joined-up working. Further details can be found on their website; to enter the password protected directory area of the site you will require the password “Aragorn“.

Finally I would like to reiterate our policy that Hobbits should desist from utilising One Rings due to the overwhelming evidence that they can have a deleterious effect upon the well-being of members of the public.

If you have any concerns please do not hesitate to contact me at the above address, and I look forward to hearing from you soon,

Yours sincerely


Mr G the Grey.

[Kuruharan]

Caesar’s De Bello Hobbito

The Hobbits are a whole divided into three parts, the Stoors, the Harfoots, and the Fallowhides, though we call them all Shorties. All these have practically the same languages, customs and laws. The Stoors dwell primarily in the South and West, the Harfoots and Fallowhides dwell everywhere else. The Hobbits are divided from each other by their innate suspicion of anyone who dwells more than five miles away. The Fallowhides are the leaders of these peoples, being more adventuresome they are also more apt to vanish without warning into the Blue. This last trait is considered most alarming by the Hobbits as it tends to take one more than five miles away from home. Those Hobbits dwelling in the area known as Buckland are braver than the rest of the Hobbits because of the nearness of the Old Forest, into which they will occasionally sally forth to engage in some deforestation.
….
The foremost Hobbit of the Marish, in rank and wealth, was Gorhendad Oldbuck. In the consulship of Marcus Messala and Marcus Piso (more or less) he was induced by the extreme dreariness of his habitat (and an impulse to chop lumber) to move across the Brandwine River and set up his own little kingdom. He changed his name to Brandybuck to confuse the authorities and granted himself the title “Master of Brandy Hall” without the permission of the Senate and Roman People. This was the foundation of Buckland.

[HerenIstarion]

Once upon a midnight dreary, Fatty pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of the cookery lore,
While he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," he muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly he wished the morrow - vainly had he sought to borrow
From his books surcease of sorrow- wish to be the lone no more-
For the rare quest he was enthrusted and the Nazgul at the door -
Nameless here for ever more!

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled him and filled with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of his heart, he stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said he, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here he opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long he stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Mordor!"
This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Mordor!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all his soul within him burning,
Soon again he heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said he, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here he flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately warrior of the ghastly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, stood afore his chamber door-
Stood into the Crick of Hollow just afore his chamber door-
Glint of eye, and nothing more.

Then his ebony hood beguiling Bolger’s fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," said he, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient warrior wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Sauronian shore!"
Quoth the warrior, "To Mordor."

Much he marvelled this ungainly lord to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing Wraith afore his chamber door-
Live or Dead upon the dusty porch afore his chamber door,
With such name as "Tomordor."

But the warrior, standing lonely on the dusty porch, spoke only
These two words, as if his soul in these words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a garment then he fluttered-
Till the hobbit merely muttered, "other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my mates have flown before."
Then the lord said, "To Mordor."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Fatty pondered, "what he utters must be only stock and store,
Learnt from some cartography Master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of this olden- old Mordor."

But the Nazgul still beguiling all his fancy into smiling,
Straight he wheeled a cushioned seat in front of lord, and porch and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, Fatty took himself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous lord of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous lord of yore
Meant in croaking "To Mordor."

This he sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the lord whose fiery eyes now burned into his bosom's core;
This and more he sat divining, with his head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
Baggins shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then he thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," He cried, "Dark Lord hath lent thee- by these roads he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Mordor!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this old Mordor!"
Quoth the warrior, "To Mordor."

"Prophet!" said he, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if man or
devil!-
Whether Dark Lord sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there way to Havens?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Warrior, "To Mordor."

"Be that word our sign in parting, man or fiend," he shrieked,
upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Sauronian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the porch afore my door!
Take thy claw from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Warrior, "To Mordor."

Than the Bolger, suddenly flitting, in the air his fists a-beating
To the pallid road to Buckland just in time has hit the door;
And his yells had all the hearing of great fear expressed in screaming
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throwed his shadow on the
moor;
And his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the moor
Was not taken to Mordor!

[HerenIstarion]

"There are Rings in Middle-Earth,
Horatio, Man was not meant to wear."

HAMLET


One of the few redeeming facets of tutors, I thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was true when Bilbo taught me to read Elvish, it was true when he tried to teach me to be a poet, and it's true now when I'm learning Ring-handling.

"You haven't been practicing!" Gandalf's harsh admonishment interrupted my musings.

"I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exercise."

As if in response, the Ring I was trying hard not to put on but throw into the hearth began to tremble and wobble in midair.

"You aren't concentrating!" he accused.

"It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons Gandalf had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for cheeky Ring-Bearers.

"The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like this, dolt!"

My mental contact with the object of my concentration was interrupted as the Ring darted suddenly toward the fire. It jarred to a halt as if it had become imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from
the grating, then slowly rotated to a horizontal plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a leaf caught in an eddy.

I risked a glance at Gandalf. He was draped over his chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently devoted to devouring a leg of roast mutton, a mutton I had cooked, I might add. Concentration indeed!

He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too late to look away so I simply looked back at him.

"Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show me how much you've been practicing."

It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then I looked up desperately. The Ring was tumbling floorward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my hand . . . gently . . . don't knock it away....

I caught it a scant two hand-spans from the floor.

I heard Gandalf's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to break my concentration. I hadn't let the Ring touch the floor for three evenings already, and it wasn't going to touch now.

Slowly I raised it to eye level. Wrapping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then turned it. As I led it through the exercise, its movement was not as smooth or sure as when Gandalf set his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its assigned course.

Although I had not been practicing with the Ring, I had been practicing. When Gandalf was not about or preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my time to throwing pieces of metal—old mathoms, to be specific, into the hearth. Each type of throwing had its own inherent problems. Not rounded metal was not hard to work with because it was an inert material. The Ring, having once been part of a living Dark Lord, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To throw metal took effort, to maneuver a Ring required subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I could see a more direct application of that skill in my chosen profession. After all, why not put a Ring on and cast sword or something into the Crack?

"Good enough, lad. Now put it back into your pocket"

I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not because of its potential applications, but because it was fun.

[Bungo Baggins]

LOL. Those are great! I'll have to try to think of some later!

[Son of Númenor]

Frodo awoke with a pounding headache. Standing up, he felt a searing pain shoot down his spine, and realized he had been sleeping on a root. He cursed, and walked drowsily over to where Sam was making a pot of coffee.

"You look like hell," said Sam, pouring him a cup.

"It's the Ring," said Frodo.

In 1976, Mordor Technology Management & Services Inc. had conceived of the One Ring: an electronical manifestation of a fraction of the Dark Lord's being, encoded digitally into a golden band with microconductive properties. The idea of making an evil spirit physically manifest was not new; years before, MelkCom engineers had used type IIb boron-coated diamonds to disseminate their CEO's EVIL (Electronically Viable Inherent Loathsomeness) into the fabric of earth's lithosphere. But MTMS Inc. was taking it to a new level, with sophisticated doping techniques allowing engineers to procure an infinitesimally small electronic encoding of EVIL. In another ten years, dissemination techniques would become obsolete, replaced with extreme concentrations of structurally pure EVIL. The ramifications were huge if this technology became commercially and -- more importantly -- militarily viable.

Frodo knew all of this, of course, being the one who had been hired by Riven Dell Electronics to 'devalue' the Ring -- an industry euphemism for the destruction of a superior technology by a rival company, amounting essentially to corporate hijacking.

Frodo shouldered his pack as he downed the last swig of hot coffee. "Let's get moving," he said. "We should make camp in Bree by 1900 hours."

[Anguirel]

THE RETURN OF THE KING by Evelyn Waugh


"So the ruffians were allowed to surrender, as you promised me?" Frodo Crouchback asked.

Merry De Souza shook his head. "Awfully sorry, old chap. The partisans up at the Smials insisted we shoot them all. After all, they were traitors against the Communist state."

"They'd done nothing wrong," Frodo replied. "The woman in charge of them insisted they were displaced factory workers, nothing more."

"They were a danger to the sovereign power of the Party in the Shire," De Souza replied curtly. "The price they paid was appropriate. Oh, and by the way, there's a telegram...two, actually..."

Frodo took them from De Souza uneasily. The first read:

Crouch End. Rosie has had a son stop. Best wishes sir Sam Gamgee stop.

The second:

Michel Delving War Office. We regret to inform you that a bomb landed on your residence at Bag End yesterday evening, killing all inside except one newborn infant stop.

***

Frodo looked at the baby in horror. "It's...ah..."

"Doesn't look anything like Sam, does it?" the Gaffer growled. "No, everyone knew that girl was carrying Ted Sandyman's child."

"It doesn't matter whose son it is," Frodo answered. "I must bring it up."

"It'll need a mother," the Gaffer observed. At that moment, Pervinca Took walked by. Frodo hung his head in quiet resignation.

Later in the day, he remembered Arwen's jewel, and how it had fallen into a quagmire on the way home. He had feared then for his path to the West. Now, saddled with wife and child, he knew the journey could no longer occur. He only hoped he wouldn't be forced to act as Mayor, now Sam was dead. His shoulder was aching.

***

In Gondor, two gloomy, armoured men sat in a pub. Faramir had lost his seat as Steward of Gondor at the election, to a young Labour candidate. Aragorn had found himself unemployed after the postwar abolition of the Gondorian monarchy.

"Any news from Frodo Crouchback?" he asked.

"Married," Faramir said bitterly. "He's got a grand new house up in Buckland, and a son and heir. He's been appointed Mayor of the Shire in perpetuity for the rest of his life."

"Yes, all in all," Aragorn concluded, "things have turned out very well for Frodo."

[Kuruharan]

And Tuor stood upon the shore, and the sun was like a smoky fire behind the menace of the sky; and it seemed to him that a great wave rose far off and rolled towards the land, but wonder held him, and he remained there unmoved. And the wave came towards him, and upon it lay a mist of shadow. Then suddenly as it drew near it curled, and broke, and rushed forward in long arms of foam; but where it had broken there stood dark against the rising storm a living shape of great height and majesty.

Then Tuor bowed in reverence, for it seemed to him that he beheld a mighty king. A tall crown he wore like silver, from which his hair fell down as foam glimmering in the dusk; and as he cast back the gray mantle that hung about him like a mist, behold! he was clad in a gleaming coat, close-fitted as the mail of a mighty fish, and in a kirtle of deep green that flashed and flickered with sea-fire as he strode slowly towards the land. In this manner the Dweller of the Deep, whom the Noldor name Ulmo, Lord of Waters, showed himself to Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador beneath Vinyamar.

He set no foot upon the shore, but standing knee-deep in the shadowy sea he spoke to Tuor, and then for the light of his eyes and for the sound of his deep voice that came as it seemed from the foundations of the world, fear fell upon Tuor and he cast himself down upon the sand.

“Tuor, son of Huor,” said Ulmo, “OH DON’T GROVEL!!! If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people groveling!!”

“Sorry,” said Tuor, very much crushed.

“AND DON’T APOLOGIZE!!!” roared Ulmo. “Every time I try to talk to somebody it’s always ‘Sorry this’ and ‘Forgive me that’ and ‘I’m not worthy.’ WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?!”

“I’m averting my eyes, O Lord,” replied Tuor.

“WELL DON’T!!” boomed Ulmo. “It’s like that miserable Narn it’s going to be so depressing. NOW KNOCK IT OFF!!!”

“Yes Lord,” said Tuor.

“Right,” said Ulmo. “Tuor, son of Huor, you shall have a task to make yourself an example in these dark times.”

“Good idea, Lord,” interrupted Tuor.

“OF COURSE IT’S A GOOD IDEA!!!” roared Ulmo. Tuor was shown a vision of a shining city upon a hill. “Behold, Tuor,” said Ulmo, “this is Gondolin. Look well Tuor for it is your sacred task to seek this city. This is your purpose, Tuor, the Quest to tell Turgon its time to get out of Dodge!”

The waves rolled and it seemed to Tuor that they formed two great curtains. These curtains swept together with a crash and took Ulmo from Tuor’s sight.

“A blessing,” said Arminas, “a blessing from the Lord of Waters!”

“Ulmo be praised!” said Gelmir.

“Aren’t the two of you supposed to be headed south?” asked Tuor. “This is my blessing!!”

[Folwren]

This has been very humorous to glance through, and, alas, that's all I've had time to do - glance. I have read only one or two in full. (I like the Alexandre Dumas one, by the way.)

I did, however, decide to try my own hand at it and after looking at what authors have been used I didn't find anything written by him. So, off we go.

The Steep Stairway
By Lemony Snicket (author of A Series of Unfortunate Events)

When you think of a stair way you probably have a picture in your mind of a stair way at your home, or perhaps at school, or maybe even at church, and possibly a hotel. The stairway at home leads to a pleasant place if you're going to the kitchen to get a snack or to your room to get some sleep. The stairway at school can take you pleasant places if you like your art teacher, or liturature class, and the stairs at church often lead you to no worse place than a little bathtub that the pastor dunks you in and you get a little wet. Or the stairs at a hotel are handy if the elevator is broken, or you can't use them because your enemy is using them you have to leave by the back door. Of course, no harm can come of these stairs and no one is afraid of them. The stairway that this book is about is nothing like the stairs in your house, school, church, or hotel. They don't lead to a pleasant place, and they're not pleasant in themselves at all. They climb up and up the virtical cliff face as though they meant to go right up into the clouds and continue on, and they did, as far as Frodo and Sam could see from the bottom.

It was quite a gloomy outlook for the hobbits and they could not help but feel discouraged, a word which here means "feeling too tired to climb all those stairs to do something as nasty as throw a ring into a blazing hot fire that might kill them anyway."

"I feel quite discouraged," Frodo said. "Almost too tired to climb all those stairs and all we get to do when we get to the top is throw this ring into a blazing hot fire that might kill us anyway."

Sam looked at his master sadly and took his hand.

"It's alright, Mr. Frodo," he said quietly. He often wanted to bear the burden his master had to take, but sometimes you can't take other people's things from them and this was one of the times. "We won't think about the fire just now. Let's concentrate on going up. Look, Gollum's waiting for us up and he seems in an awful hurry. Come on."

They started the climb up and Gollum went on before them. But I don't think you want to read about their horrible climb up the slippery, slimy stairs. It was such an uncomfortable journey that you would probably throw the book down in digust if I even mentioned the mud that came off on their hands and knees and feet as they climbed, and how tired their knees became as they continued to bend and straighten, and how hungry and thirsty they became as they went. Not that it would be bad if you threw down the book, but you have chosen to read it. But you don't have to finish the account of their horribly long journey upwards into darkness, but it would leave you in such complete misery and a state of weeping that you would never want to read about Frodo and Sam again. But because I have sworn to research and write everything I learn of Frodo and Sam's journey up these stairs and into Mordor, I must faithfully pen all that I know. You, however, have not sworn to read it and so may put down the book at once before I begin.

It is not enough merely to write that "Frodo and Sam climbed up and up so long that it is not enough merely to write that 'Frodo and Sam climbed up and up so long that it is not enough merely to write that "Frodo and Sam climbed up and up so long that it is not enough merely to write that...

Dear Elrond,

I take the liberty to write you while I have a chance. My reader has hopefully taken my advise and abandoned this book and put it somewhre else, in which case it will be safe to write you without much worry of being discovered. If the reader did not stop then we are safe because he is brave enough to read whatever I have to say to you.

I would like to accept your invitation to tea, it sounded quite wonderful. But what we have to do and what we would like to do are often quite two different things, so I am afraid that I have to say that I can not make it.

With all due respect,

Lemony Snicket

[daeron]

" Ah Sir!It seems you have hurt my Lord! ",cried Eowyn

" I am extremely sorry. But I am in a terrible hurry, please excuse me!", said the witchking.

" Excuse you! Why you come barging through on that abominable steed, throw a horse over my lord, crush him under its weight and you think you can run off. Undeceive yourself comrade.You are not the Dark Lord."

"Well I did say I was sorry. But I really am in the greatest haste. I have a war to win. I did not do it on purpose.Nevertheless I apologize once again though at this time it seems an excess of courtesy."

"Well your apology is not accepted. You are by no means polite.You look like a gentleman from your clothing. I would expect a little more courtesy from you. "

" You are no one to instruct me in manners."

"Perhaps I am."

"Well then, draw your sword. And who shall you call for seconds. I have eight to choose from, you observe."

" Well, as I have no one, we shall have to settle this between ourselves, unless you are such a coward as to call for seconds when I have none"

" I am more than a match for you. Let me warn you that I never require a second shot at my opponents."

" Neither will you this time, lord for I shall thrust this blade into you before you even take your stroke."

" We shall see. it has been said no man can kill me. But before we start, I would like to know with whom I have the honour of fighting."

" I am Eowyn de Edoras, Lady de Rohan and the niece of the Lord Theoden de Rohan. As you see, I am no man."

[Folwren]

Excellent Muskateer style!! Yes! Another Dumas. That is sweet.

[HerenIstarion]

Following How would it be thread

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

DAVID BRIN

NATULIFE

I know, things taste better fresh, not packaged. Lembas clots your arteries
and hurts the rain forest. We should eat like our stone age ancestors, who dug
roots, got lots of exercise, and always stayed a little hungry. So they say.

Still, I balked when Sam served me termites.

"Come on, Master Frodo. Try one. They're delicious."

Sam already had the hive uncrated and set up by the time I woke up. Putting
down my cloak and walking staff Faramir gave me, I stared at hundreds of the pasty-colored critters scrabbling in grubbed up hive, tending their fat queen,
making themselves right at home again.

Sam offered me a stick to serve as a probe.

"See? You use this stick to fish after nice plump ones, like apes do in the wild!"

"How do you know apes do that? Oh, all right, don't recite any other verses... oliphaunt was enough...

I gaped at the insect habitat, filling the last free space between our
little fire and the sacks to the right.

"But . . . we agreed, we still have dried apples. . . and lembas too..."

"Oh, Master Frodo, I know you'll just love them. Anyway, don't I need protein and
vitamins for helping you to carry It to that land?"

Putting my hand over his swelling belly normally softened any objections he might
have. Only this time my own stomach was in rebellion.

"I thought you already got all that stuff from the nest back there... and the hollow too"

I pointed to the pieces of shell and bits of fur occupying half of Sam's pans, venting nutritious vapors from racks of tissue-grown cutlets.

"That stuff's not natural," Sam complained with a moue. "Come on, try the real thing. It's just like Gollum said, and he knows his staff, living in the Wild and all!"

"I . . . don't think . . . "

"Watch, I'll show you!"

Sam passed the stick-probe through a hole in the left side of the hive to delve after six-legged prey, his tongue popping out as he concentrated, quivering with excitement from his square nose down to his rounded belly.


"Got one!" he cried, drawing a twitching insect out the hatch and to his lips.

"You're not seriously . . . "

My throat stopped as the termite vanished, head first.

Bliss crossed Sam's face. "M-m-m, crunchy!" He smacked, revealing a still-twitching tail.

I found enough manly dignity to raggedly chastise him.

"Don't . . . talk with your mouth full."

Turning away, I added -- "If you need me, I'll be on the other side of that rook there.

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

(to think dear Mr. Brin writes articles about Tolkien )

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Hope this is allowed.

What if The Slmarillion was a Werewolves game?
(Or What if The Silmarillion was written by a Werewolves mod?)

Ainulindalë: The Saga of the Village of Ardaland.

Eru: Hey, everyone! I’ve found a new game, and it’s called ‘Werewolves.’ Wanna play it?

Ainur: Ooh, we want to join!

Ulmo: Maybe we should have jobs in the village so we’ll have more fun. I’ll be the plumber.

Melkor: I’ll be the king* of the village.

Manwë: No, you can’t! Eru made me king!

Varda: I’ll play a lamp-maker.

Aulë: I wanna be the blacksmith!

Melkor: I’ll be king, Manwë, so just cry home to momma!

Yavanna: I wanna be a gardener!

Mandos: I shall be a judge.

Manwë: If you want to play, Melkor, then you’ll have to play by the rules. Since Eru made me king already you can’t be king.

Nessa: I’m a dancer!

Lórien: I’ll be selling sleeping pills.

Melkor: Rules, schmules! I’m the most powerful, so I’ll be king!

Vairë: I shall be a weaver.

Oromë: I’ll be a furrier.

Manwë: Stop it, Melkor, or I’ll tell on you!

Nienna: I’m the village psychiatrist.

Melkor: You can’t be a psychiatrist! You can’t have other jobs! You’re all my slaves!

Ainur: SHUT UP!

Melkor: Why you . . .

Tulkas: I wanna be a wrestler!

Eru: OK, let’s start the game now. Eä!

Illuin and Ormal: Sorry, we’re late! Can we still join?

Valar: Sure!

NIGHT 1

Melkor: ++Illuin and Ormal Because they’re too bright for their own good.

Illuin and Ormal were killed.

DAY 1

Aulë: Melkor did it, I tell you!

Flames from Illuin and Ormal: Due to a random formula, we have decided to lynch ++Almaren

Almaren was lynched.

NIGHT 2

Balrogs (mythomaniac): Hey, Melkor. Can we join you?

Melkor: Yeah. Sure.

DAY 2

Yavanna: What do we do? We need known innocents!

Laurelin and Telperion: We are the Shiriffs!

Aulë: Maybe we need new players.

Dwarves: Can we join?

Eru: Sorry, you’ll have to wait for the next game.

Oromë: Hey, other players want to join the next game!

Tulkas: Then let’s end this game already! Lynch Melkor!

Valar: ++Utumno

Utumno was lynched. VILLAGERS WIN!

Mandos: Eru said I’ll be mod for the new game.

Eldar: Yay! We can join now!

Mandos: So it is doomed.

DAY 1

Melkor (to Noldor): Look, I’m telling you. The Valar are the werewolves. They want this game to end so they can let the newbies join. And those newbies are easy to manipulate.

Noldor: Murmurmurmur.

Fëanor: We need to start another game! No Valar, Elves only!

Mandos: That is not allowed.

Tulkas: Grrr, that Melkor! He tricked us into thinking he’s an innocent villager! Lynch him!

NIGHT 1

Melkor (to Ungoliant): So, you’re the Beorning, huh? We should help each other.

Ungoliant: Deal, but let’s kill the Shiriffs first.

Laurelin, Telperion and Finwë were killed.

DAY 2

Fëanor: I told you something bad would happen! New game, I say! No Valar!

Noldor: YEAH!

Olwë: The Valar can help you, let them join!

Noldor: NO!

Fëanor: Traitors! ++Teleri

The Teleri were lynched. They were innocent.

NIGHT 2

Mandos: Because you have lynched innocent blood, you shall fear the Cobbler role.

Fëanor: We don’t care! We’ll still lynch Morgoth!

Finarfin: That’s it, I quit this game!

DAY 3

Fëanor: Haha! Look at me! I’ll finally lynch Morgoth!

Gothmog: No, you won’t. ++Fëanor

Fëanor: Farewell, fellow villagers! Lynch Morgoth! I won’t be joining another game for a very long time!

Fëanor is lynched.

To be continued?

__________________
* The role of ‘mayor’ has been changed into ‘king’ to avoid turning this into an allegory.

(For an explanation of roles, see here and here.)
__________________

I tried turning the entire Silm into a Werewolves game, but I got stuck at Of Túrin Turambar.

[Anguirel]

I certainly hope so...this is brilliant. I wish I'd thought of it...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Back up for your reading pleasure - and hopefully for new contributions!

[Alfirin]

[ Just who or what was 'Pitman's model', anyway?

It's "Pickman's model" and as for waht it is its a Ghoul. the point of the story is that Pickam has been tempting ghouls into the basemnt of the house (though the tunnel to the burying grounds) and has been painting them and conversing with them. (In the later "Dream Quest of Unkown Kadath", we find out that after his death/dissaperance Pickman became a Ghoul himself. to quot the old Lovecraftian limerick (apolgies to whoever wrote it,),

"Pickman used models exotic,
well versed in matters necrotic.
They're burrowing still,
out under Copp's Hill,
and all those who know are psychotic.

Anywhoo
While I (regrettably) lack the skill to do so I think that a funny rewrite migh be LOTR in the style of Terry Prachett's Discworld novels (though this might get a little cyclical) also how about LOTR a la Red Dwarf? I am working on finalzing a LOTR as done by L. Frank Baum (theoretic title "The Wizard of Arda")

[Milady Revenwyn]

I am no good at doing any of this type, but they are freakin' hilarious!

[Estelyn Telcontar]

If lolcats had written LotR: (idea generated by Lush's signature)

Book 1, The Itti Bitti Fellowkitti Committi

Bilbo: Oh hai - I haz berfday, can haz partee?

Gandalf: I r seryus wizard, ring iz evul, you no can keep.

Frodo: I must leeve Shire, destroi Basement Cat's ring.

Sam, Pippin, Merry: Itti bitti kitti committi goes wif u.

Tom Bombadil: I kill hooman who dressed me in blue jackit an yello boots.

Strider: I iz Aracat, son of Arapaw, I goes wif u.

Bill the Pony: Where ma bukkit?

Ringwraiths: We comez from Morrdorr, Basement Cat says mwa-ha-ha!

Frodo: I can haz horsie, 'scape evul riderz?! Kthxbai.


(to be continued - perhaps by others?)

[Aiwendil]

One wonders if that's what LotR would've looked like if Sauron had remained Tevildo Prince of Cats.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

footnote:

Glorfindel: I r 'portant Elf wif vital role - Arwen no can haz!

[Pitchwife]

I wonder if any of you will recognize this...

LotR by Patti Smith (Horses):

The hobbit was sitting in his hole drinking a cup of tea
On the other end of the hole the wizard was uncloaking
The wizard looked at Frodo
Frodo wanted to run
but the movie kept moving as Peter Jackson had planned
The wizard took the Ring
he threw it into the fire
threw it deep into the fire
started explaining the fiery letters
started sermonizing ominously
when
suddenly
Frodo
gets a feeling
he's being surrounded by
Nazgûl
Nazgûl
Nazgûl
Nazgûl
black, eery, creepy wraiths with their swords in flames
he saw
Nazgûl
Nazgûl

(etc.; goes on for about ten minutes, covering the story by wild associative jumps, and ends with something like: )

No one saw
that sail
No one saw
the elven ship
sailing west
on a simple
straight
path

[Gordis]

what a great thread!

Here is my little contribution:

LOTR by RL Stevenson

At the Sign of the Admiral Took

King Aragorn Elessar, Gandalf the Wizard, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about the Ring Quest, from the beginning to the end, I, Frodo Baggins, take up my pen in the year of the Shire Reconing 1420 and go back to the time when my uncle Bilbo kept the Admiral Took inn and the haggard old hobbit with greenish skin and bulging pale eyes first took up his lodging under our roof.

I remember as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door. I remember him looking round and whistling to himself as he did so, and then in his high, old hissing voice breaking out in that strange song that he sang so often afterwards:

"We only wish
to catch a fish,
so juicy-sweet!"

"This is a handy hole," hissed he at length; "Much company, fat hobbitses?" My uncle Bilbo told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.

"Well, then," said he, "this is the hole for me. I'll stay here a bit, among nice hobitses. I'm a plain customer; water and eggses and sweet juicy fissh is what I want…" Here he made a strange noise in his throat: gollum gollum! "What you mought call me? You mought call me Preciousss. Oh, I see what you're at — there"; and he threw down three or four silver pennies on the threshold.

All days he spent fishing in the river; all evenings he sat in a corner of the parlour furthest from the fire, his gnarled fingers constantly fiddling with a plain golden ring. Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce with greenish light in his eyes and make this sound in his throat "Gollum!"; and we and the people who came about our house soon learned to let him be. Between us we called him Gollum.

Every day when he came back from his fishing he would ask if any Big Men had gone by along the road. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter, for I was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if I would only keep my "eye open for a tall half-blind Big Man in a black cloak" and let him know the moment he appeared. "Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they pierce my heart by the black knife, mind you, it's my Ring they're after; you get on a pony, and go to — well, yes, I will! — to the Sheriff, and tell him to call all magistrates and such. But not unless you see a Big Black Man." How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, I would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. And altogether I paid pretty dear for my monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.

There were nights when he took a deal more brandy than his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house shaking with " to catch a fish, so juicy-sweet! " all the neighbours joining in for dear life, and each singing louder than the other to avoid remark.

His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories they were — about evil Big Men and Orcs and Spiders, and walking in the wilderness, and deep caves under the Mountains, and the dread Land of Mordor, and wild deeds and places in the Wide world. Uncle Bilbo was always saying the inn would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his presence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there was even a party of the younger hobbits who pretended to admire him, calling him a "true fearless adventurer" and such like names.

[Morthoron]

ELROND'S SOLILOQUOY
By Will Shakespeare after a night of drinking port

An Elf or not an Elf...that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to be mortal and suffer
The twinges and hair-loss of mankind's fortune,
Or to take up Elfdom and unlimited potential,
and by inference become immortal. An Elf -- to sleep no more --
Because Elves rarely sleep given their high metabolism.
But there is heartburn -- a thousand years of eating lembas --
Does not aid in my digestion. 'Tis not a bowel movement
One would wish on an enemy. And sheep -- the sheep that yearn to dream --
Ah, I've lost count. For in that count of sheep no dreams may come,
While snuggly mortals coil soundly 'neath comforters and nap without pause,
There's only insomnia that makes a calamity of so long a life....

[Morthoron]

Part of an aborted Rock Opera by Deep Purple (this section refers to the Battle of Laketown):

When Smaug came out to Laketown,
He flew up and down the shoreline.
The baked wreckage burnt in profile --
He ate a troop of mimes.

Rank sacks and broken rudders
Floated to the shore from town,
Cos’ some monster like Godzilla
Burned the place to the ground.

Smaug on the water --
A dragon in the sky!
Smaug on the water...

He burned down the Master’s house,
Who cried as it toppled down.
A fool named Bard was running in and out,
Trying to save the stunned crowd.
When they ran for cover,
They couldn't find a safer place.
In boats they paddled out,
And rowed like they were in a race.

Smaug on the water --
A dragon in the sky!
Smaug on the water...

Bard ended up all alone as well --
The town was empty burnt despair.
But a flitting blue thrush flew from outside.
Whisp'ring to Bowman there.
Bard took his aim for just a bit
His bowstring thrummed with sweat.
Slow motion shot -- the arrow hissed --
And Smaug, and Smaug was finally dead.

Smaug on the water --
A dragon in the sky!
Smaug on the water.

[Pitchwife]

Morth, that was gorgeous!

[mark12_30]

Originally Posted by Nilpaurion Felagund

The Voyage of Eärendil by Tom Clancy

“Talk to me, Randy,” said Eärendil to his sonarman.

Nilp: Brilliant. Three cheers.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

There have been some really nice things on this thread (also in its very beginnings ). I have been thinking about several like this as well, but this far I've written down just one - because it was the easiest (And I also know that at least some 'Downers around here might appreciate it...)

THE BRIDGE OF KHAZAD-DUM by Masashi Kishimoto

"Gandalf?"
"Huh? Oh..."
"..."
"...What is this feeling?"
This feeling... Could it be...
"Byakugan!
- Ai! Ai!!!"
"What - ?"
"Legolas! What do you see?"
"What an immense chakra..."
"What is that thing?"
"It's a Balrog!"
"Uh, Gandalf... a Bal... what?"
"A Balrog, Pippin. In ages long past, the Valar have destroyed the fortress of Angband in the country of ice far north. Among its denizens, there were demon beasts called Balrogs. One of them had escaped and hid here... he was sealed inside Moria. But the greedy Dwarves released him..."
"Uh... I see, Gandalf..."

"Roarrrrrrrrrrr!"
"Oh no! It's coming!"
"Run! Fly! Over the bridge!!!"
"No! I won't leave you here, Gandalf!"
"No, run, Aragorn!"
"I will not leave my comrades, Gandalf! Not any more! Not this time!"
"No, Aragorn! You must go!!!
...Take care of Frodo."
"... A-all right, Gandalf..."
"Roarrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"
"Gandalf!!!"
"You cannot pass!"
"Roarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!"
I will not last long. He is too powerful.
At this rate...
I have no choice. I have to use THAT...
"KATON: ANOR NO KOUEN!!! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!"

[Lobelia]

I love it! And I've read many of the authors mimicked here.

For the record, in reply to a question part way down: Bagenders" is a reference to long-running British soap "Eastenders". The name "Bagenders", by the way, was used in a LOTR fanzine some years ago, so someone had the idea back in the 80s, I think.

[Lobelia]

Originally Posted by SlinkerStinker

sorry that story isn't all that good, but you try to write in that dialect. It's mind bogling. [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]

Hey, it's great! The language is just right. I had a huge laugh, me little droog!