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Old 03-28-2004, 03:35 PM   #160
Diamond18
Eidolon of a Took
 
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Backstage, Pimpi did not find the dismal score that Grrralph received very encouraging. She knew she was next – she had been counting down the contestants before her. Merisu was to be last, the cherry on the top of their dessert, the cap to their success, and the straw that was to break Leninia’s back. But, truth be told, there wasn’t any dessert to top or success to cap, and if Vogonwë was any indication after exerting himself so on his dance moves, it was to be their collective back that would be broken. Pimpi realized, shakily, that she alone was left to set up Merisu’s coup d’état. Her knees began to wobble. She had not felt so unsure of her limbs since that first day she had eaten the magic beans and sprouted all her extra height.

Vogonwë’s voice broke dimly on her consciousness. She heard him clearly, but thought that what he was saying was rather dim. He was prompting her to remember the lines to her song – lines he himself had written.

There used to be an Elven-maid,
Her name was Nimord-Elly;
She was like a star, yes really.
Her mantle white, like a light,
Glowed gold around the edges,
And she trimmed the hedges,
With shears of silver-grey.


“Now repeat that back to me.”

“What?” Pimpi paused from chewing on her fingernails.

“The first verse. What I just said,” Vogonwë said, refraining from waving a hand in front of her absent blue eyes.

“A-alright,” Pimpi took a breath, then endeavored:

An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:—


“No, no, no. That’s all wrong,” Vogonwë stood up and began to pace. “It’s ‘There used to be an Elven-maid, her name was Nimrod-Elly, she was like a star, yes really’.”

Pimpi sighed, and gamely repeated the lines, then soldiered ahead:

Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.


Vogonwë threw up his hands. “No! You have it all wrong again!”

Pimpi’s lips trembled, and, having bitten her nails down as far as they would go, she began to nibble on her fingertips. Vogonwë noticed her distress and tried to calm himself. He gently and lovingly peeled her hands away from her face, and said, “Pimpi-sweets, I don’t want you to be nervous, so just remember, the fate of our souls may rest upon this performance. Now, you promised me that you could memorize this song.”

“I know, and I can,” Pimpi said. “Let’s try the second verse.”

A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs—


“No!” Vogonwë interrupted again. “It goes:

She had a star tied around her head,
Her hair glowed with light of red,
Like sunshine on a red thing.
In Loréal in Spring.


“I was going to say ’In Loréal the fair’,” said Pimpi. “I like the way that sounds.”

Vogonwë smiled affectionately. “Trust me, darling, my way scans better. I’m a poet, I know.”

Merisuwyniel popped her well-coifed, perfectly shaped head around the corner. “The wights are getting restless!” she admonished gently.

Pimpi’s eyes went wide (well, wider than usual) and she gasped. She had a sudden, terrible vision of herself standing on stage, butchering the lyrics (when she could get her voice to work, and remember how to speak Westestosterone at all) as the souls of each Vapidshipper were sucked from whichever bodily cavity their souls happened to reside in, one by one.

“I can’t do it!” she blurted, burying her face in her skirts.

“But… you were supposed to be on five minutes ago,” Mersiu said, blinking with what on any other Elf would be called a helpless expression.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pimps,” Vogonwë said. “You’ll do great! Listen, here, forget about getting the words right. Just look pretty and hum and you’ll have them eating out of your hand.”

But it was too late. Pimpi was in a frazzle, which could only be cured by lots and lots of comfort food. Merisu stood in indecision while Vogonwë tried to bolster Pimpi’s spirits with sweet talk and flattery, while the other members of the Upsetstomachship retched in what could be either revulsion or nervousness. Kuruharan began to mutter, “We’re doomed,” and Chrysophylax started to whistle an ancient Wyrmish lamentation, “Tâps”. Earnur began to fantasize about being intoxicated on a desert island with twin Vinegrettial clones, Gateskeeper cursed the day spiked tea had been invented, and Grrralph cried silently into his bile spattered robes. Orogarn Two wiped the spittle from his lips and observed everyone with a stormy yet indifferent glare, which was outdone in surliness only by Singéd’s equine disdain. (Pinkjin came a close third, while Tweedledee and Tweedledum won the prize for sheer indifference.)

“All right!” Merisu finally exclaimed. Out there, in that big scary auditorium, Leninia, Soregum and those other things were getting impatient. “We’ll skip your turn. There is still hope yet – we already have six points, and the most Leninia can get is twelve, so if I get seven points we’ll win!”

“Joy,” muttered Vogonwë, who had been hoping against hope that all Merisu had to get was two points.

“Right,” Merisu said gamely, and went back out on stage.

Last edited by Diamond18; 03-30-2004 at 12:19 AM.
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