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Old 05-02-2004, 08:42 PM   #6
Fordim Hedgethistle
Gibbering Gibbet
 
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Join Date: Feb 2004
Location: Beyond cloud nine
Posts: 1,844
Fordim Hedgethistle has been trapped in the Barrow!
Fordim Hedgethistle was so happy to see Roa that he flapped his wings…or spread out his vast shadowy form in the shape of wings…or loomed about as a great shape…in joy. His encounter earlier with the…person…who had mistaken him for a lowly Orc had left him in a particularly foul mood, and it was only with the greatest of diplomacy that Kransha had been able to prevent him from blasting the insolent being from the face of Middle-earth. (As a matter of fact, Kransha had not really done much at all to prevent his friend from going into a full Thangbadorian fury. On the contrary, the fellow’s Orcish nature had seemed to relish the prospect of a bit of a toss-up, but the darned rules that Pio had put in place prevented them from having any real fun.)

The three friends moved off to find a quiet place for a chat, pausing only long enough to listen to Saucepan Man’s song, but as good a tune as it was, it only served to deepen Fordim’s abiding existential crisis, for throughout the duration of the performance all he could think was, “Do Balrog’s even like music?”

For a while he was able to make some small talk with his friends, but as Roa asked him more and more questions about his life to which he did not know the answers he finally broke down and began to cry. Huge tears rolled down the smoke and shadow where his face should be, turning to things of slime by the time they hit the grass where they smoked and emitted a foul odour. Covering her nose delicately, Roa cried out “Why, Fordim, whatever is wrong?” Kransha merely busied himself inspecting the slime (and did Fordim actually see him taste a bit of it?!)

Through his great blubbering tears Fordim gabbled out his woes. “Oh Roa! Oh Kransha –stop eating my slime! – I can’t tell you how miserable I am. I have so many questions about my life! About my self!! Whether these are even wings or not” and he shrugged the vast shadows “is the least of my concerns. I spend most of my days with Orcs, and I don’t even know if they are descended of Elves, or Men or some other race entirely! And my fate – what of my fate!? Sometimes, you see, I think it might be nice to go back to Valinor. You know, apologise to the Big Chiefs and settle down in a nice little house near Aule – he was always so much fun to go out hunting with! But can I even go back? Do I have the option to repent? Sometimes, I try to figure these sorts of things out and I’m lead to remember the very earliest days…but even then I get confused. Were the heavens made when Eru hung lamps from the dome of the sky, or did they alight when He sang? And is Eru in charge of my decisions, or is there something else going on?? And, and, and…” here his words came in huge rasping gurgles of agony, “what does it all mean anyway? And does it mean anything to me, or only to the people in the stories I remember? Or is it all meaningless? Or, or, or…” He broke down and wept like a pitiable babe.

At that moment a helpful hobbit ran up to them bearing in his hands a large volume with “The Red Book of Westmarch” written in gold leaf on the cover. “Here,” he said, “read this, it has all the answers!” But then another hobbit ran up with another book that said “The Lord of the Rings” on the cover. “No no” this hobbit said, “read this book!” Then another person arrived with something called “The Silmarillion,” claiming that it had the truth, but soon there were three others who claimed that this book had been badly edited and they were compiling a truly definitive edition of the book, which they were also calling “The Silmarillion”. The next to arrive, with a clank and a bang, was that nice Saucepan Man but rather than resolving the issue he flung a book called “The Letters” atop the increasingly disorderly pile and said that it had some interesting nuggets.

From here, things got steadily worse. Some people suggested that he did not need to bother reading any of the books, but some of those suggested they did not really matter, while others said he could write his own book with his own answers. Then there was a small but determined group who argued that he shouldn’t really be bothering with asking the questions at all. “Just sit back,” they said soothingly. “Relax, enjoy the stories for what they are.” But then someone said, “But how can we know what they are intended to be?” and this set off a new round of questions and answers.

Fordim turned to his friends once more. He was well beyond tears now, having settled into a profound resignation to his fate. “You know,” he said in his loudest voice possible – and all those about him fell silent. “I think I just want to have some fun for the moment. This place is really quite wonderful. THANK YOU MR WIGHT!” he bellowed. He looked down at the people about him, and the stared up at him in shocked silence.

But then they all began to talk once more, and Fordim smiled, and listened, and learned.
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