[Diamond18]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ditto.

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

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

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

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

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