[Diamond18]

As they left the Elven Farm, the singing of the Elf-children faded away, and it was silent except for the tweeting of the birds and the sound of bugs buzzing. Vogonwë sighed as he thought of his cat and mouse, who had to be left behind. He hoped they would be all right. He was sure they would be. After all, they had each other. They would be fine.

Seated on the back of Pasdedeux, Pimpiowyn had a good view of the fletching on Vogonwë’s arrows. She felt a surge of pride as she thought about how her love was the deadliest aim with hand thrown arrows in all of Middle-earth. His arrows always hit their mark, even if he closed his eyes and tossed them over his shoulder. And not only that, but he could throw them at the unparalleled rate of sixty arrows per minute. He had been named the Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud one hundred years in a row.

She glanced around at the others of the company, and smiled with satisfaction. The Orcs would have no chance in the face of such fearsome heroes and heroines. Merisuwyniel was stunningly beautiful, and very well dressed, with the Entish Bow across her back. The Wizard lent a studious air to the gathering, with his great drooping mustaches and long green beard. Orogarn Two’s hair was looking particularly impressive today, as he jogged along next to the horses. Lord Gormlessar was, well, the same as always. Lord Etceteron was looking manly as he rode upon Baklava, beside her and Vogonwë on Pasdedeux. He was manfully drinking from a very manly looking flask, and Baklava was trotting gallantly onward, hoping that Pasdedeux was noticing him. Even the mercenary Dwarf looked dwarfly and heroic as he strode beside the big, honkin’ dragon.

Vogonwë broke the silence by clearing his throat a couple times. He took a few sips from his bottle, and then said, “I have composed a poem in honor of this setting forth. Would you like to hear it?”

“No, indeed,” Lord Gormlessar replied shortly. The others waited for a moment, fearing a pun, but none was forthcoming.

“Now, now,” Merisuwyniel said, as she was feeling especially generous, “such an occasion as this merits the recitation of a poem. We are setting out on a grand adventure, and we must do it in style. You may proceed, Master Brownbark.”

Etceteron swallowed down whatever manly substance he was imbibing and said, “Ah, poetry, the very song of the human, or, er, elven soul.” Eh, yer a bleedin’ sap’s wot you are, Wylkynsion grumbled from its sheath. Ah’ll tell you wot sinks to th’ sahl uv a swahd, Ah will. A luvly shahp— But Etceteron ignored it with a manful swig of liquid.

Pimpi closed her eyes and steeled herself for the ordeal, giving Vogonwë a reassuring pat on the back. Then she wrapped her fingers around the Head of Lopitoff, and retreated to a happy place.

Vogonwë again cleared his throat and took a taste of his own medicine, and then he intoned grandiosely: “I will sing for you the The Lay of the Entish Bow and the Hunting of the Orcs, Fit the First: The Council/BBQ of Roneld. Ahem, hroom, harrum. Yes...

Lord McDoneld had a Farm,
And in that Farm he had a Gazebo,
A Gaze-i-e-i-ebo.
And in that Gazebo he had a Council,
The Council of Roneld McDoneld.

Roneld was there, with receding hair,
And many other creatures sat in other chairs,
Elves and Men and then some, and all were very handsome.
And then there were two others who were very winsome;
The fairest maids in all the land, fair of face and pale of hand,
Merisuwyniel ornaments her seat like a finial,
And Pimpiowyn’s eyes are as blue as the skies.
And then there was a Dwarf with his Dragon, and that makes everyone.

The Elven-maid brought forth and laid,
A Bow upon the table, and she did this very able.
The Bow was made of an Ent, that was bent and broken,
And then words were spoken that chilled the bones,
As they were uttered in mimsiest tones.
The words came from the Ent that was bent,
And they were terrible to hear, and filled the people with fear,
To hear them spoken so near.

“The bow is gone bad or mad, and something must be done,
Yet it may not be fun,” said Lord Roneld as the Bow they beheld.
“We shall have to either destroy it, then, or put it back together again.
Yet all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put an Ent back together again.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” said the Dwarf with a roar,
As he hopped to the floor, his ax ready for the chore.
Up leapt Gormlessar, and stopped the aggressor,
With a word of command he drew his sword in his hand.
“Get thee hence, and be nice to Ents!” he ordered.
There was a moment of suspense, and the air was tense,
And then the Dwarf left.

Roneld turned his bespectacled eyes upon Gormlessar,
And looked on him with the gaze of an oppressor.
A contest of wills then provided some thrills,
But the moment was soon past, and then things happened fast.

The Dwarf brought poultry into the mix,
And provided a comic fix,
And it seemed like all seriousness was nixed.
But then the situation was fixed.

“What’ll we do, when our options are few?” Roneld returned to the subject at hand.
“For a resolution there is a demand.”

The discussion went on, and on, and on, and on.
The matter of Orcs came on strong,
And Roneld said they would kill them, anon.
And Pimpiowyn sang out in song,
“I shall kill Orcs till they’re gone!”

A then thus spoke Vogonwë, “If Pimpiowyn is to go that perilous way,
I shall go too, or you’ll have to tie me up in a knapsack of hay to keep my away,
So try if you may, but still I won’t stay, and I’ll come anyway. See if I don’t!”

Roneld rejoiced at the things that were voiced,
And then suddenly the Council was hoist,
By an invader of strange bodily form,
A decapitated chicken, the plot did thicken,
As the heroes chased it around the Gazebo.
The Gaze-i-e-i-ebo.
With a squawk squawk here and a thwack thwack there,
Here a squawk, there a thawk, everywhere a squawk thwack,
The heroes attacked the flurrying fowl with a hack and a smack,
While the others with laughter did howl.

Gormlessar’s sword became lesser in size,
And as he fell to the floor, Etceteron did arise,
He took the debonair sword Wylkynsion in his hand,
And struck the chair Roneld was kindly sitting on, oh man.

After the bird was caught, and the Council was naught,
They retired for a repast of chicken gizzards.
When arrived Pettygast the Green Wizard.
He spoke to them riddles, of cup, plates, and fiddles,
And the Fruit-giver was mentioned in there somewhere.

Then Earnur the Fair, of manly black hair,
Drew his sword from the chair, with a manly air,
And laid it upon the table, and this he did very able.
“This sword I will share,” he sought to declare,
“With everyone around this table.”

“Jolly good!” said the brood, while around the table they stood,
Eating their food, and they found it was good,
And eat all day, they would, if they could.

But Roneld had a better idea,
And Merisuwyniel sang an aria.
“Get to a flet,” Roneld said, “and there, I’ll bet, you’ll find help yet.”
And so out they set, to face the threat, after they’d et.

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]