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Old 09-05-2003, 04:38 PM   #61
Mister Underhill
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Join Date: Sep 2000
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Mister Underhill has been trapped in the Barrow!
Shield

It is perhaps not so strange a thing that nights which are filled with the imbibing of large quantities of mead, the singing of raucous songs, and competitions of manly virtue are good to spend, but difficult to remember afterwards and generally not much to listen to in any case; the jokes and shenanigans which seem best in the throes of a drunken stupor are usually less entertaining in the cold grim light of sobriety. Nevertheless, more events of that eventful evening are here recorded.

Dêthderrydol the Innkeeper made a game attempt to minimize irrelevant side chatter and guide the evening’s activities, which consisted mostly of long sets of music from the House of Band (various Men of the Mike sitting in to jam as the opportunity and desire arose), interspersed with bouts of such testosterone-laden games as “Pin the Tail on the (Living) Horse”, “Pin the Man on Your Left”, and, as the evening drew on, “Pin Yourself to Yourself”. These competitions were accompanied by the running commentary of Ale Mikells and Jøn Maddâun, two of the Sorethighhim who were particularly skilled in the art, and by a rousing soundtrack which made the games more entertaining and emotionally involving than they had any right to be. Dêthderrydol, finding her efforts misunderstood, misconstrued, or just plain ignored, finally gave up and shuffled off to a back room, muttering something suitably half-enigmatic about having to “answer her PMs”.

Pimpiowyn had of course been raised by a Man of the Mike and eagerly joined in the fun, making an especially good showing in a sausage eating contest early in the evening, but Merisuwyniel eventually convinced her that it was unseemly for an aspiring Shieldmaiden to wrestle with sweaty men unless she was either throwing herself at a hunk of a future King or else properly disguised as a man herself. They both retired early to their rooms, though Pimpi lay long awake as thoughts of baked beans, sauerkraut, mashed taters, ribeye steaks, cornbread, and other traditional foods of the Mike danced through her head. The large mass of undigested sausage turning over restlessly in her stomach may also have contributed to her sleeplessness.

The men of the Itship, being naturally heroic and eminently skilled in all manner of manly arts (including but not limited to cleaving orcs in twain, the general hewing of limbs, the guzzling of vast quantities of spirits, and the melting of average and above average females) soon won the respect and admiration of their new friends the Sorethighhim. The Itship quickly perceived that each of the Men of the Mike nurtured a passion for some particular performing art, and dreamed of one day becoming famed as the greatest in all the land in the practice of his chosen discipline. Though he never spoke of it aloud, it was clear that Yoman yearned to be the prima donna of a dancing chorus line. Some Riders had memorized monologues or worked out comedy routines between them, others had perfected complex but queerly expressive gymnastic routines, and all were eager for news of the latest fashions in armor and leather harness in distant lands.

Vogonwë was easily swept up in the spirit of performance and machismo and took advantage of one of the breaks of the House of Band to grab a mikestand from a drunken Rider and recite an impromptu bit of verse:

I think that I shall never see
anyone as good as me
at slayíng foes and cracking heads
or taking maidens to their beds.


This prompted first stunned silence, then much hooting and cheering and many a congratulatory slap on the half-elf’s heroically taut rump. Vogonwë was at first much dismayed by this strange ritual of the Sorethighhim, but then took to the practice with such enthusiasm that before the night was done he was given the honorary name “Hándanurâz” by the Men of the Mike and officially adopted into the Yoyurded commanded by Érry.

Érry encouraged the men of the Itship to join with him in disciplining other Riders as the need arose (which it did with alarming frequency). When it was discovered after one such unfortunate incident that Chrysophylax could breathe fire, the party moved outside for a spell, where the ancient wyrm was asked to set ablaze all manner of objects: a park bench, a wagon wheel, an armoire scavenged from a carpenter’s shop, a scarecrow “liberated” from the fields of Hámmerhed (a local farmer), even a stray dog. The pained shrieks of this last as it burned threatened to spoil the fun of the evening, but Chrysophylax saved the day by swallowing the crisped hound whole, and the party moved back inside by general unspoken agreement. Kuruharan, beard and eyebrows singed and smoking, had managed to do a brisk business in “beer helms” – steel helmets designed to hold six mugs of ale which could be drunk simultaneously through a tube by the wearer, novelty hand mitts holding up a giant index finger in a “We’re #1” gesture, hastily done up “Riders Rool, Orcs Drool” doublets, and skewers and marshmallows.

In short a good time was had by all – all save the Gateskeeper, who drank only sodâpaup and peered through his spectacles with unblinking eyes at all that passed, quietly noting demographic patterns and absently formulating marketing schemes. Though there was much to observe, he did not fear missing anything important: he knew that he could later review his magic log, which recorded all that occurred down to the smallest detail, if he needed to refresh his memory or fill in any gaps in his knowledge.

The Gateskeeper in his detachment noted many strange things. One was quite obvious to anyone with eyes in his head: that these Riders, as dedicated as they were to the Arts, were even by the low standards of Muddled-Mirth raging chauvinists. Women of the Mike ran the inn and worked in the kitchen, but participated in none of the entertainments performed by the Riders. This was painfully apparent during the performance by two Riders of a passionate scene from Rummyo and Havewemet, a play by Shakesbeere, a local poet of some repute.

But the Gateskeeper also noted a subtle subtext of fear amongst the Men of the Mike early in the evening when the impromptu performances began. It was communicated in worried looks and tense faces, but the Riders seemed unwilling to acknowledge it openly in front of their guests.

“Grimy Hasbéen won’t be happy—” one Rider finally started to say, but he was silenced by a flying check from Érry, who straddled him, yelling, “I don’t wanna hear no jibber-jabber about Hamstrung, son! I’m built for this, G! It’s gonna be a long night, a long night if you come up in here talkin’ ‘bout Hamstrung said this or that! You’re auditioning for a lead role in Érry’s Musical Pain Comedy, and you will get the part!”

And that was the last mention of the mysterious Hamstrung that evening. Later, as the copious amounts of liquor and the thrill of performance began to take hold, the subtext of fear gradually disappeared.

Lastly, and most interestingly, the Gateskeeper noticed many an oath sworn by the “Thighs of the Sorethighhim”, or the “Wood of the Thighs”, or the “Shanks That Do Not Grow Weary”, or, in the tongue of the Mike, “Those Mean **********ing Legs”. At first he thought these phrases a peculiar idiom of the Mike, a metaphorical reference only, but he eventually surmised that the Riders referred to actual thighs, apparently housed in the Goldlamé Hall, which were considered the spiritual backbone of the Sorethighhim.

The evening ended abruptly when Etceteron smashed a gëetar to top off a rousing rendition of “She’s an Orc, Baby”. The instrument was dropped next door at Sethamir’s for repair. The Riders who had passed out stayed where they lay; those who could still walk bid their new friends farewell with many a pat on the behind and the traditional Sorethighhim valediction, “Good night! You’ve been a great audience!”, and staggered off to their homes. Yet even as the inn settled in for the evening, the Gateskeeper continued to observe – he had noticed Grrralph slip away after the last of the Riders had gone, and later noted when Kuruharan left his room and opened a port in a serving wall for Chrysophylax when they thought the rest of the Itship were all abed. The Gateskeeper saw it all, and filed it all away, wondering how he might use it to his advantage later.

[ September 10, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]
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