[Durelin]

Ever since he had stepped over the ‘threshold,’ Valde knew that his ‘hero’s journey’ would undoubtedly have more than three ‘trials and tribulations.’ And whoever determined that a hero only experienced one ‘abyss’ had no knowledge of a true tragic hero. Once his story was recorded in a diary even more heart-wrenching than any young girl could write; was adapted to the screen over thirteen times, inspiring both a tv show and hundreds of young emo teens to kill themselves; was translated into over thirty different languages; and made millions of dollars off an ‘adopt a tragic hero’ campaign, Valde would show the world.

He was now experiencing one long abyss. His tale had darkened just as the day did, for it was late evening when he fell right out of his leading role in Spamlet, and it grew dark, as the world is wont to do at night. The stars were no comfort to him, and indeed he only watched their brightness and yearned to be like them, a large ball of burning gas that no one could ignore the death of. He wandered in what he had been told was the general direction of ‘Edge-where,’ and stopped only once at a particular shop.

It was the sign out front that had intrigued him: Elenbucks. He spent several moments looking at a small Art of the Modern Orc exhibit, making an effort to seem like he knew how to appreciate art and trying not to see the shady looking hobbits in the corner smoking pipeweed, before he ordered a drink: A ‘Mírdain Mocha’ something, for 4 trolls. Taking his drink with him, he soon discovered some after effects of ingesting an Elenbucks drink. Sleep did not seem like such a good idea anymore. He felt full of energy, and indeed he found that his pace quickened and the depressing poetry in his head was playing pinball. “Is this the way to ‘Edge-where,’” he would ask every passer-by, pointing in a different direction every time. Some answered him, but most did not, seeing his dilated pupils and suspicious looking large black cloak and practically breaking into a run to escape being seen with him. The orcs in the dark alleys were normally nicer to him than anyone else.

Just after dawn, the Lead Tragic Actor did arrive in ‘Edge-where,’ in a very tragic state indeed. The effects of his Mírdain Mocha something were wearing off rapidly, and he was feeling the results of a sleepless night spent walking the streets of the city. It really doesn’t sleep…no wonder it looks the way it does, Valde thought upon inspecting himself quickly in the hazy reflection in a window before stumbling slowly up to where the rest of the Offending Party, looking much more rested and well-groomed, were hopping into ugly cars and turning into equally as ugly orcs. Valde hoped that whatever car he chose, the colour of his skin might match the interior, knowing how un-politically correct that sounded.

He was making a show of being as the injured bull, weak but still full of anger and pride, doing his best to hide his injury, and fueled by the rage of being brought down to the level of the maimed. Certainly his pride was maimed at being last, and he clutched his heart as the Anakron announced that he had only received seven points. Strange that it would be such a number, though. He considered the dramatic irony of it all, if it were a play. Everyone would know that seven would be his death number, as prophesized by… His thoughts were broken by Lûgnût handing him a pile of Trolls and his driver’s license. It seemed the orc was getting sick of administering the RET, as he only waited for Valde to show that he could see the bag of money being waved in his face to determine that the man was up for driving.

Hopping into a hideous yellow PT Cruiser, he groaned as a kamura was shoved in his face. He quickly checked himself in the rear view mirror to see that he did not match the interior, and that he had retained his large, brooding eyebrows. He was a little more than half displeased, much like a cup is more than half empty and not almost half full. He eyed the kamuraman suspiciously. After waiting several moments for the kamuraman to cue him, he slowly started the engine after several more hesitations, and swerved away from the curb, switching on what he believed to be some kind of GPS system. Still there was no cue. “What is the point of this…reality show?”

“To please the masses.”

“Then it is drama that you want! And that is what I can give you, my good kamuraman!” He began to recite his tale, and was happy to oblige in giving the kamuraman several handkerchiefs to blow his nose on which he carried solely as a sacrifice of tragedy. “And so, I am here now, struggling to come to amends with my tortured past, and find my true love in a strange new environment after I gamble away my family fortune and look for a way to redeem myself and my honour.”

“But what about the contest?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about the contest?’ Do you have so little insight that you cannot predict the outcome of a typically and superficially dramatic plot? I am going to redeem myself by winning the contest!”

“What about your true love?”

“Oh, yes, that… Well…”

“There have been rumours of Alumìne Umfuìl taking a certain interest in you…”

“Oh really? Well, then, I guess we might as well make it her. Is there a jealous lover involved, by any chance?”

“We could produce one for you, perhaps.”

“Please do.”

Valde then realized he was driving on the sidewalk again, and quickly picked a white line on the black pavement to follow. He heard a thud and a scream. “Did you get that on the kamura?!” he shouted at the kamuraman, conjuring up fake tears in order to better wallow in self pity upon injuring a helpless…child, cat, dog, whatever he felt like making it. He ignored the kamuraman when he said “It was the spare tire you were supposed to take with you, sir…”