[the guy who be short]

Fléin had left the circle, desirous of solitude. He had found a small clearing not too deep in the nearby forest, and sat himself upon a stump. It was a pleasant space, next to a small but clear stream, and grass was growing here. The situation was just too confusing.

Panakeia stuck to her beliefs about the situation not being real. And Fléin couldn't help but concur - though he didn't think it was a collective hallucination. And there was something soft about that Panakeia, despite her razorlike exterior. She underestimated all of them. He was certain that Mardil could kill without a second thought. No, actually, the lad was smart. With a second thought, but without much remorse. He knew that he could kill. And if Anakron was too soft to kill, then he was a possum.

But there was something surreal going on. The hints were there - no wolves. And how could they kill so many fangirls anyway? Panakeia had a point there. No, Anakron was up to something. But he didn't know what. And what would happen if nobody voted?

And on top of all this, there was his love life, if such it could be called. Wilhelmina... sigh. It was too confusing, just too confusing.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the small beaver that had climbed up the nearest bank until it nudged his foot.

He looked down at it. It looked up at him. And then, to his amazement, it talked.

"Athtlam iththun thvoob" it hissed up at him, or so it seemed. He looked down in puzzlement.

"Sorry?"

Once more, a similar reply. Fléin frowned. "A man is on the roof? What man? There is no roof here. Do you mean the village?"

The beaver hit its forehead with its paw, clearly exasperated. He had apparently misunderstood.

"Thath Sllam ith inn a roove!"

"That SPaM is in a groove? No, you're mistaken there, he's not quite buried yet."

The beaver attempted to get the message across once more, this time accompanied with frantic waving of the forelimbs.

"A flan is never good? Of course it is, you idiot. Oh, I don't have time for this, I need to think." He stood up and unbuckled his axe from his back. The beaver backed away, spittling all the while.

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Perhaps only thirty seconds after he had sat down, Alli rushed into the clearing at the opposite end.

"Fléin!" she panted. "Urgent... message... from Illamatar... says... trust the beaver!" By now she was opposite him, and catching her breath. "Urgent message. Trust the beaver."

She looked down, puzzled at the apparently squishy consistency of the ground, to find her foot in half of a perfectly sliced beaver. "Oh, buggrit!" she swore. "Eww," she added as an afterthought, cleaning her foot on the grass nearby.

Fléin watched the act, emotionless. "Did you say the message was from Illamatar?" he demanded.

Alli mumbled, Fléin thought in response at first, before realising she was talking to thin air. He caught odd phrases such as "Don't think it wise to tell him" and "Might think I'm" and "Idiot thought I was a lesbian."

Once this was done, she swivelled around to face him. "Yes, the message is from Illamatar. He... speaks to me," she sighed. "I'm an oracle of sorts, I guess."

Fléin snorted. "Ha! And why would the Great Llama choose to speak through a lesbian?

Alli snorted in response. "I'm not actually a lesbian, you idiot. I just said that to see the look on your face. What's so wrong with lesbianism anyway?"

"It's unnatural," he replied immediately.

She sidled next to him on the stump. "Fléin," she said softly. "Is it natural for alter egos to jump out of one's body and start talking. Is it natural for monsters to turn into fish?"

"No," he admitted.

"You're in Mordor, Fléin. Even if you can't accept the unnatural, learn to tolerate it. Is it natural for Dwarves to puke up cats?"

"No."

"There you go. By that logic, you're unnatural too."

She paused for Fléin to absorb this. He had to admit, she had him there.

"Anyway, who are you to judge what's natural and what isn't?" she continued.

Fléin sighed. "You have a point, I guess. Wilhelmina said something odd to me, by the way," he attempted to shift the subject.

"Oh? What was that then?"

"Well, I asked if she thought you and Sai were lesbians. And she said... what did she say? Ah, yes. 'If you've been sitting here imagining those nice young girls doing naughty things, then you can take your fantasies elsewhere, mister.' What's that about? Why would I imagine you two being naughty together? Are lesbians notorious for playing practical jokes? And why's it so wrong to think about it?"

Alli didn't reply for a while, trying to shape her response as well as possible. "Well... that's not quite what she meant by naughty things. You see, she meant... well..." She made a sign that it would be wholly inappropriate to describe.

Fléin's eyes widened. "But why would I imagine such a thing?"

Alli shrugged. "It's a male thing, at least for humans. They think it's hot."

Fléin frowned. "Why would it be so? Surely two lesbians together would maintain their temperature of thirty-seven degrees?"

"They think it's attractive. Hot means attractive."

"Oh. Stupid homophones. Why is it attractive?"

Alli shrugged. "Well, would you prefer one cake or two?"

"But women aren't cakes! And they would be lesbians. It would be like a cake entirely for show, one that you could not eat."

Alli shrugged once more. "To be honest, I don't really get it myself."

"Do human women not feel like this about their menfolk?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

They both sat in silence for at least five minutes, each one pursuing their own thoughts.

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"Is that another beaver? I completely forgot about the beavers!" Alli cried, pointing to the bank. Fléin hastily stood up, gathered the two beaver halves, and shoved them out of sight behind a tree.

The new beaver sidled up to them. They both stared intently, keen to hear what it had to say.

It spoke.

Fléin heard "A man is in a groove." Alli heard "A span wide as the moon." They both sighed. This was going to be difficult.

"Beaver!" Fléin said. "Do you understand me? If so, nuzzle Alli."

The beaver rubbed its head across Alli's calf.

"Okay. For each syllable we get right, rub your head against her left leg - that's the one you're on. If we get it wrong, rub yourself against her right. Got it?"

The beaver nodded.

Eventually, they had got the message out of the beaver. A Slan is on the move. But what was a slan? According to the dictionary Fléin had on his body (he had bought it at the doors of Mordor to learn English before realising that, in Mordor, he automatically knew the language and had been conned) it meant "without place, year, or name of publication." So a mysterious... thing was on the move.

The beaver, meanwhile, was pulling at their legs to go back to the village. They followed blindly.

They rushed on, through the clearing, to the edge of the forest. Emerging from the treeline they found - Anakron, waiting for them. The rest of the village was out of sight behind some huts.

Anakron smiled. "So. A spy," he said simply. Alli and Fléin looked at one another, confused. The beaver, meanwhile, had turned tail and was running at full speed back to the forest. But before it could make it - Anakron aimed his staff at it. The cat yowled. Flash! Blue light. And the beaver was turned to stone.

Anakron turned to face the two members of the offending party. "Forget everything that beaver told you. She is a liar." He turned, and stalked off back to the group, leaving Alli and Fléin gawping.