[The Barrow-Wight]

“As a representative of the Porcelain Throne of Grundor and the oldest and most agile son of Ororgarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of The Orogarn, etc. etc…”

“What. Ho?”

“Etcetera, not Etecteron. my good Earnur. Ahem. As I was saying, being what I am, that makes me an official Park Ranger. Welcome to Park Galore.”

“I thought you said your father was Denimthor,” said the ever vigilant Chrysophylax.

“Yes, indeed. You heard me correctly, dragon. Orogarn One is my father's name and rightly reflects his noble lineage, but his official title is Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor. The title comes, of course, from his position as honorary chairman of the Levite Clothiers Society. Their fantastically woven clothing, of which my breeches are but a tight and attractive example, are the linchpin of the wealth of Grundor.”

Smiling broadly, he dug into his backpack and produced several colorfully printed brochures, which he handed out to everyone.

“The Park is a wonderful place. As you’ll notice on the map on page three...”

Pages rustled as everyone turned to the appropriate section.

“… we are now standing at the main entrance of the great and very renowned Grundorian amusement park known throughout Muddled Berth as Park Galore. Sadly, the establishment has been closed for several centuries for maintenance, but we are hoping to open it again as soon as the upcoming unpleasantness with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is over.”

He pointed southward to where the lake disappeared in a cloudy of misty, foggy, cloudy steam.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed the thunderous tumult of the thrilling Wetwang Water Plunge, the only ride still functioning in the park until recently, when, most unfortunately, our last elven pontoon was stolen. We’ve tried it with other less-flimsy watercraft, but the ride has proven less than safe since their introduction. I don’t recommend anyone buy a ticket. If you’ll turn to page five, please.”

Again the adventures went to the correct page.

“Since all of the rides are either utterly treacherous or completely out of order, I recommend visitors concentrate instead on the wondrous and historical Big Heads of Grundor. Yes, you heard what I said! Right here in these very woods are the stupendously large stone busts of each and every one of my most esteemed ancestors, plus a few of people we have no clue to the identity of. Starting with my great grandfather Orogarn Jr and working al the way back to the great Kitzeldoor the Astronaut, you will find a big ole hunk o rock carved to look just like their Noodleorean noggins.”

“I see one now,” shouted Pimpiowyn excitedly, pointing to the edge of the forest where a dark, stony mound protruded from the earth. “It looks just like you, Orogarn Two!”

“That’s just a boulder,” said the Grundorian. “The Big Heads are works of art designed to maintain the stately visage of their subjects for countless centuries.”

Vogonwe moved closer to the object and looked back, commenting, “It really does remind me of you. The pointy chin and sunken eyes are unmistakable.”

“How can a normal, dirty boulder look anything like me?” asked Orogarn Two. “And I have neither a pointy chin nor sunken eyes.”

“Have you seen yourself lately?” asked Kuruharan, searching in his bags for a mirror.

“I’ll never understand you people!” shouted Orogarn Two. “Here I am, giving you a free tour of the premier entertainment attraction in the Eminem Mule, and you are likening me to a cracked hunk of rock sticking out of a hillside. What do I have to do to get some respect?”

“Do you have any food,” asked Pimpi, hopefully.

“A drink, perhaps?” suggested Lord Etceteron.

“Something better than a lame ripoff of a classic Billy Joel song,” muttered Vogonwe.

“The secret to your big, big hair,” Gravy would have lisped if he was still there and The Barrow-Wight hadn’t missed that he had been written out of the story.

“Obsequious attention to my charm,” purred Merisuwyniel.

“A bite to eat,” hoped Pimpi, again.

“End this post,” demanded an annoyed reader.