[Rimbaud]

As Halfullion Gormlessar awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in a strange bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armour-plated, back (he was tied to his shield) and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments, where fiercely tight ropes cut across his flesh and muscles, forcing him into ridges, on top of which his ragged cloak could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His two legs, which seemed pitifully far from the rest of his bulk, and out of sight, waved helplessly out of his view.

What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream.

And I look to my left
And I look to my right
And I’m looking for a man
I’m looking for a sign
I don’t wanna be the prisoner.

He was in a cell, and it reeked of orc. The pungency was so nefarious, that it threatened to send him into a vaporous swoon, as if of hemlock he had taken. Avoiding any real purpose to the third line of the paragraph, he left his action to the fourth. He studied his surroundings, with the keen senses of a blancmange at its most alert. Only a lightly salted kipper would have proven more observant.

Lurching into another paragraph of confinement, he realised he must be in the dread Fortress of the dark known to all and Sundry as Gol Dulldor. Just at that minute, Sundry came in. “Do you know What?” he asked, pre-empting any comment from the bound Hero.

“Eh, gsnuffle nibby-slimpy, rapsfragginglyslinityou hershanitzilitzu,” replied Halfullion succintly, through the gag.

“What, come in!” exclaimed Sundry. What entered. He was a stooped little Orc, much smaller than the rather innocuous Sundry.

“Hello old boy,” said What brightly. “I’m What, what?!”

“What?” asked Halfullion, the gag disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.

“Yes,” said What. The conversation seemed a little flat and rather forced.

“What, send for Water,” ordered Sundry.

What ran out of the door, and soon returned with Water, a tall Orc with an evil scar across his face. He was with his cousin Which.

Which, Water and What approached Halfullion with some trepidation, knowing of his legendary martial prowess. The great sword L’Envey Piennhas had been taken from him and was to be destroyed, once they got the disposal unit working again. The plumbing was just dreadful.

“Water, What, untie him!” ordered Sundry.

“Which?” chorused What and Water, tremulously.

“What?” asked Which, confused.

“What a confusion,” muttered Halfullion.

“What?” asked Water. “You said something, Prisoner?”

“Yes, Water, what is it?” said What, thoroughly bemused.

“LISTEN!” screamed Gormlessar, taking control, despite his indisposition. “Stop shouting to all and Sundry…”

“Eh?” interjected Sundry, but Halfullion talked over him.

“…and listen to me. You,” and he pointed to Water, “untie these ropes, before they suffocate me. And you, What, bring me some water.”

They looked a little confused but did as he ordered. Finally, he was watered and the bonds loosened and he ended up having quite a pleasant night, for the Orcs were amiable, if slow-witted, fellows, and Halfullion blended in well. They were very frightened of him, to be sure, but Orcs were scared of most things, especially their brethren with the letter ‘k’.

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

Far away, roaming loose in the Dark and Mysterious Forest, the great Steed Tofu was feeling rather listless. Despite his contempt for the Lord Gormlessar, he found himself missing the huge warrior more than he would care to admit. The chap had been blasted good at finding good grub, anyway, that was for sure. Many’s the good nose-bag they’d shared. Tofu was wasting away and malnourished. He didn’t know it, but he was scant feet from the others, blundering around in the Forest. Indeed, the Forest of Workmud was really only a copse. Its greatest magic was in persuading that it had more than seven trees, which it didn’t. Tofu, however, was unaware of this, and slipping dangerously into poesy. He, unlike his master, was rather good at it.

When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, quote the grand equine, in a low, sad tone. He recited all of the melancholy letters, until his soft voice faded away with. …Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.