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Old 03-31-2020, 10:08 PM   #32
Curmudgeonly Wordwraith
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Join Date: Jun 2007
Location: Ensconced in curmudgeonly pursuits
Posts: 2,398
Morthoron is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Morthoron is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Morthoron is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Morthoron is lost in the dark paths of Moria.
All this time it had become quite plain to the Dark Elf that these were some rather queer folk assembled herein. Not that there was anything wrong with queer folk, of course, particularly not if one eschewed the more modern pejorative sense of the word. And it wasn't a matter of looking fairer and feeling fouler, just the innate queerness of a group of introverted folk who seemingly had been imprisoned at a Renaissance Faire for several years and now suffered from some malingering form of Dernhelm Syndrome.

"Or Cosplay Dismay," Morthoron chuckled to himself, as he kindly accepted the glass from Lady Estelyn with a nod and an approximation of a grin he hoped didn't appear sinister....or downright creepy.

He sighed as he sat back in his anachronistic Edwardian leather club chair, coming to the sad realization that he had become, in fact, the very caricature of a stock grim Dark Elf. All he needed was some ebonized galvorn to be the epitome of grouchy old Eöl, grousing about the smithy, graceless and grumpy. Bah, humbug!

But Morthoron had a dark epiphany as the group of idiosyncratic Dungeon & Dragon characters toasted the Professor. With the sudden recall of a drowning man (drowning elf, damn it, why do I think in terms of mortals!), a rush of reminiscence filled him with dread as the last couple decades flashed before him like an amusement arcade mutoscope that flicked cards in sequence to give the appearance of an actual moving picture (as he was sitting in an Edwardian chair, this analogy seemed to fit, even if it was totally nonsensical for the Third Age). And he suddenly realized the reason for his morbid melancholy.

"Peter Jackson!"

There was a sudden stillness in the room, and all eyes turned his way. The Dark Elf cursed under his breathe: he had uttered the sacrilegious name out loud! Eventually the thrum of buzzing discussions returned and the frivolity that is the handmaiden of inebriation settled back on the crowd, and the Dark Elf was left alone with his murky musing.

"Yes," he thought to himself, "it was Peter Jackson that did this to me!" Morthoron shifted with the discomfiture of an insomniac in the chair. "Sandworms from Arakeen! Aragorn frenching his horse! Xenarwen, warrior princess! GAH!!!!"

The Dark Elf slammed down the expensive and exquisite Dorwinion as if it were cheap bathtub gin, savoring none of its richness. Now more miserable than ever, the malignant memories washed over him like an insidious black tide. Three films instead of two. Del Toro! psychedelicized wizards with bird droppings and hedgehogs named Sebastian (O, the arrows of irony!)! Sam leaving Frodo! Goblin Chutes and Ladders, and a Great Goblin with a globulous goiter as ridiculously over-sized as the WitchKing's monstrously massive mace! Thranduil riding a moose! An each and every and all and sundry an extended edition to maximize canonical misery!

The Dark Elf threw up in his mouth a little.
And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulders of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision.
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