[Diamond18]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More potent than Strangeeks?” Earnur asked doubtfully.

“Pfft. Child’s play,” Vogonwë said.

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

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

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

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