[Kuruharan]

Under normal circumstances Kuruharan would have been mightily hacked off at being summarily told what to do. Normally, he would have thrown a tantrum complete with kicking and screaming. But not this time. This time he had an ulterior motive.

He strode purposefully through the woods with a map in one hand and a bag over his shoulder. He was on a Quest of his own.

There was a Great Foozle, as if straight out of some hackneyed adventure story, buried somewhere in the area. At least, that’s what the treasure map that he bought for $1.80 in a little rat-eaten antique shop in Topfloorien said. According to legend, a Grand Oom-pa-pa of legend and song had buried his Great Foozle in Workmud to hide it from his enemies.

Now, Kuruharan was not sure what this Great Foozle was. However, all great stories had a quest for some mystically, magical Foozle of some sort and said Foozles could usually grow giant beanstalks, cause mountain ranges to spring up, or at least put on a sparkly light show. Whatever it did, Kuruharan was sure that it would sell for a hefty profit.

As he trudged through the trees he suddenly came upon an old wood woman woolgathering.

"Hail and fair weather good dame!" said Kuruharan. "Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Kuruharan the son of Khoreth, a renowned Dwarf of immense wealth and outstanding reputation!" Kuruharan bowed low in proper dwarf fashion.

"A dwarf!" said the old woman with a voice that sounded like an old branch breaking. "We don’t see many of your kind ‘round these parts."

"Allow me to introduce my pet," said Kuruharan. "This is Chrysophylax Dives, a dragon of ancient and imperial lineage."

"Where?" said the woman.

"Right behind me," replied Kuruharan.

"Where?" repeated the woman.

"Right ther-whoops!" said Kuruharan, turning around and noticing for the first time that his business associate was not keeping station. "I thought that the sounds of rampaging dragon were noticeably absent," Kuruharan muttered to himself. "Now I wonder where he’s gone off to. I hope he doesn’t damage anything that I’ll be expected to pay for."

"Well, I’m very pleased to meet you and your imaginary friend," said the old woman graciously, evidently concluding that she had a lunatic on her hands.

"Oh, Chrysophylax is not imaginary, he’s just not here right now. Off chasing rabbits, I fancy," said Kuruharan.

The old woman gave him an odd look.

Realizing that the metaphorical ground was rapidly sinking under his feet, Kuruharan changed the subject.

"Perhaps you could aid me. I’m engaged on a glorious quest in search of a Great Foozle. Do you by any chance know of one buried around here?"

"A whoozle?" asked the old woman.

"A Foozle," explained Kuruharan. "The Grand Oom-pa-pa’s mystically, magical Foozle."

"I’ve never heard of a foozle," said the old woman.

"Well, I’m totally bamboozled!" exclaimed Kuruharan. "According to my map, this is the site of the Foozle."

"Let me see that thing," said the old woman taking hold of the map.

"Ohh, right! The Foozle!" cried the old woman. "How could I forget?! I must have been out of my noodle!"

"If you’ll tell me where it is, then I will say ‘toodles!’"

"Nobody knows where it is," said the old woman. "If I did do you think that I would be out woolgathering in the forest?"

"It’s a possibility," said Kuruharan.

"Tell you what," said the old woman. "I’ll take you back to my village. We’ll have a nice heap of chitlins, and we can discuss your little problems."

"That’s okay," said Kuruharan. "I’d better get on with my quest."

He turned to go.

*WHACK*

------

Kuruharan came to in a little wooden hut. He could hear voices outside.

"And he was looking for the Foozle?" asked one voice.

"Yes, and he had an imaginary pet dragon," said the old woman.

"Hand me another flagon," came the first voice. "Now, we’d better re-hide the Foozle underneath the floor."

"But we’ve already hidden it there before."

"Be careful, he might be listening on the other side of the door."

"Not him, just this moment I heard him snore."

Another voice asked, "Do you think he sells sea-shells down by the sea-shore?"

At that point Kuruharan had heard more than enough. This was like listening to Vogonwë, only worse!

He pulled an axe out of his myriad of robes and started chopping a hole in the back of the hut.

"Hark!" cried the first voice.

"It is only a lark!" said the old woman.

Cried the first voice, "The hut seems to be emitting pieces of bark!"

Kuruharan suppressed a scream and continued chopping.

"I see what you mean," said the old woman. "Call out the troops."

"But the troops are engaged in a brisk game of hoops!"

"Who cares?" cried the woman. "Make haste and fetch me those dupes!"

As the footsteps of the first voice receded, Kuruharan could take it no more.

He burst through the door of the hut and found another man with the old woman.

"Ooops!"

Kuruharan dispatched the man with a blow to the noggin with the flat of his axe. He seized the old woman.

"No more bad rhyming!" said Kuruharan, making threatening motions toward her head with his axe. "Take me to the Foozle or I’ll split open your melon!"

The old woman snarled at him, "You’re nothing more than a common, ill-meaning felon!"

Kuruharan screamed in agony.

"Just give me the Foozle!" howled Kuruharan.

"Oh, very well," said the old woman. "One of our farmers is keeping it down in the dell."

She led Kuruharan down a path. Looking back Kuruharan saw a large number of very angry woodsmen converging on the hut.

"Why did you hit me?" asked Kuruharan.

"Because you came for the Foozle," replied the old woman. "It has been ours from time long forgotten."

"That may very well be, but you treated me rotten," said Kuruharan. "Oh-no!! Now you’ve got me doing it!"

The old woman cackled as she led him into a barn. She went to a corner and pulled something out of a pile of straw.

It was a shortish, longish, roundish, squareish, thinish, fattish, shapely, shapeless piece of wood. It was secured in a leather harness.

"This is the Foozle?" asked Kuruharan puzzled.

The old woman started taking off the leather harness. "It looks so strange because it’s currently muzzled."

She handed him the Foozle.

"Help me, help me!" cried the Foozle. "These nasty woodfolk chop down the trees and keep me locked up to impress passing traders."

"Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-orc!" exclaimed Kuruharan. "It’s the Ent that was Broken!"

"The what?!" asked the old woman.

"Never mind," said Kuruharan. "I’m afraid that this will have to come with me. I know where the rest of it is. I’m sure that the Oom-pa-pa would want it this way."

The old woman grabbed a pitchfork. "You’ll not take that so long as I’m alive!"

"That can be fixed," said Kuruharan airily, pulling a multi-shot crossbow out of his boot.

The old woman dropped her pitchfork. "You would not kill an old woman would you?" she asked piteously.

"Not out of hand," replied Kuruharan cheerfully. "But I would bop her on the head, tie her up, and toss her in a horse stall if she gave me any trouble."

"I’ll sit right here," said the old woman.

"I’ll bet," said Kuruharan. "You never did tell me your name."

"Lenore," replied the old woman. "Do you ever plan on coming back to our vale?"

"Nevermore," replied Kuruharan.

He abruptly smacked Lenore on the head with the Foozle. She flopped down unconscious.

"Thank you! I feel cleansed!" said the Foozle.

Kuruharan then went plowing through the barn to see if there were any other prizes to be found. There were a few other wondrous artifacts of majesty and splendor, but they don’t come into this tale. Suffice it to say they eventually fetched a hefty profit.

When Kuruharan judged that there was nothing else worth taking, and that the sounds of the approaching lynch mob were getting too close for comfort, he theatrically bowed to the insensate Lenore. Then with a skip and a hop, he darted off into the woods, back to share with the Questers all of his good news.