The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Lush]

Leninia realized that something was wrong when she closed her eyes, opened them again, and realized she was standing in the middle of a desert. Predictably, the first thought that popped into her head was: "Did I take the wrong turn to Säks?"

Her confusion was doubled when she saw a figure on the horizon, a figure that eventually took the familiar shape of her late, great husband, John Lemmon.

"I hate to break this to you, John," she said irritably, "but you're dead."

"How do you know it's not the other way around?" He asked.

"Don't contradict me!" Leninia snarled as she used to during the good old days. The snarling, however, did not make the desired effect. John smiled.

"You're in quite the predicament, Linnie-poo," he said good-naturedly. "Your friends have abandoned you in the middle of the desert and you're going to shrivel up and die of dehydration."

"So?" Leninia sneered. "What do you care?"

"I'm here to offer you a way out," John smiled mysteriously.

"Since when do you have all the answers?" Leninia grumbled. The heat, however, was beginning to get to her; she sat down on the ground and tried to open up her back umbrella to get some shade. The umbrella was stuck, and the usually friendly poodle-head that adorned the handle let out a snarl.

"Great," Leninia snapped.

"It's your friends," John offered, with a look of tender concern in his eyes.

"What about them?"

"They broke your umbrella and left you here to die," he said, as sympathetically as possible.

"Did not."

"Did too."

A vulture landed a few feet away and let out an unpleasant sound. If vultures can ever be pleasant, that is. Leninia considered her options.

"Ok, John, what do you want?" She finally asked when she noticed the vulture eyeing her with a gleam with its eye that momentarily reminded her of Pimpi alone in a room with a large, juicy steak.

"It's not about what I want, dear, it's about what you want," he patted her arm gently. "And what you want is to turn those two rocks over there into a nice vat of Përriër and a huge tub of Esty Louder facial cream."

"I do?" Leninia asked.

"Well, how else are you going to survive out here without water and moisturizer? Prove to me that you are Leninia the Tiny and Terrible! The way you were before, before you launched on this ridiculous quest that is."

"What's the catch?"

"Oh, just a little bit of fine print my dear."

Leninia knew all about fine print. Fine print didn't scare her; she practically invented it, in her past life. But she was beginning to feel suspicious. Something wasn't right. And it wasn't just the fact that she was in the middle of a desert, talking to her dead husband, while a fat vulture eavesdropped.

"Like what?" She persisted.

"Oh you know...Prove that you are Leninia the Tiny and Terrible by using your dark arts to save yourself from this intolerable heat and, while you're at it, renounceyourfriendsandalltheirdeedsandneverseethem again," he finished off.

"You forgot that I have great ears, dear," Leninia snapped. "Please bugger off and stop telling me what to do. I'll find my own way out of this ugly, barren place (you'd think they'd hire a decorator)."

Leninia wandered through the desert, the vulture close behind. The vulture was rather obese, and she took comfort in knowing she was helping it aid those few extra pounds.

Finally, in the distance, she saw a diving board, poking out toward the cloudless climbs. A pool! She thought, with much excitement. Water! Maybe even a poolboy!. The idea of drinking chlorine didn't much bother her; it would do nicely mixed with the stuff she kept in her trusty hip flask.

The pool, however, proved to be quite empty and deserted. And kidney-shaped, SO unfashionable! Leninian thought in disdain.

She climbed up to the diving board, hoping to look out across the desert and spy civilization; a mall, or even a small boutique would do. Instead, she ran into John, rocking himself on the board with a grin on his face.

"This is beginning to creep me out," she snapped. "You keep appearing out of nowhere. Stay dead, please, you are much more agreeable that way."

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Linnie-poo," John said. "If you jump off this board, right now, you will land in deliciously cool, clean water, and a boy in a towel will be waiting for you at the edge, with a pitcher of lemonade and massage oil."

"If I jump off this board right now I'll smash my head!" Leninia screeched.

"No, Linnie, no. You have to believe. Believe in yourself, in us, and inthefactthatyourfriendsareabunchoflosersanywayand itwouldbeeasytoforgetthemandlivehappilyeverafter."

"That trick doesn't work on me, John!" Leninia snapped.

"Ok, fine, Linnie," John sighed. "But why won't you look out?" He pointed towards the horizon. Leninia felt a rush of happiness; a great, gleaming city towered in the distance.

"Imagine, Linnie, all of that could be ours. You can do society lunches, have your hair done by Freederick Fekkie, ride a great metallic beast called a Bëntley and it will come in all of your favourite colours too...Justgiveupthisstupidquestandyourstupidbuddie sandcomewithme!!!"

"Not for all the silicôn in Californium," Leninia sighed. "And anyway. I figured out what's wrong with this picture. You're not my husband. My husband would never let me pick the colour of the Bëntley. We may have had a dysfunctional marriage, but I always let him pick his favourite colour; because...because...I was not as horrible of a wife that the tabloids made me out to be," she finished, her scarlet lips trembling.

John Lemmon went *poof* Or rather, he went *pooooof* as he got more transparent by the moment, until all that was left of him were the fingers of his right hand, flashing the peace sign. The vulture marveled at the peace sign, but Leninia just shrugged her tiny shoulders and climbed down. The vulture followed.

Leninia tried to kick it, it was beginning to get on her already damaged nerves. But as she attempted this, her feet slid out from underneath her, and she came crashing down hard onto her pretty head, her last thought being:

Did I break my heel?

[Thenamir]

Gateskeeper bravely stood in the back of the If-You-Can-Be-Bought-At-Any-Price-You-Will-Be-Ship, but could no longer avoid the eyes of the Dread Developer.

"Ah," rasped the true voice of Mogul inside his head, "dear Gatessssey. Long time no ssssseeee. You've been bussssy haven't you? But you haven't been reporting assss ordered. Helping the Shhhieldmaiden. Think what you could have had working for me." And as he watched the surrounding carnage of fragmented Oliphaunts and dead/resurrected orcs faded away, and he was...

...back on the shores of the Pea Sea, sitting at a simple table under a pavillion fashioned after the crest of his mighty armies, the multicolored four-panel window. He was enjoying a fine cigar as the petulant leader of the Eunuchs, his longtime enemies, sat opposite him signing terms of surrender. At his side, hanging from an onately-jeweled strap was the Entish bow, who had become his confidante and close friend in the battles that conlcuded the war. Now it was saying things like, "I knew you would win in the end, mighty Gateskeeper. Who needs that miserable shieldmaiden anyway?"

"Peace, my bow," replied the Gateskeeper, "you are speaking of my wife." His thoughts returned to his beautiful suburban home near Dorktank, and to his new wife, the gloriously beautiful Merisuwyiniel. She would be waiting patiently for him to return from the battlefront so she could fawn over him and serve him. He knew that she missed him terribly, and occasionally whe he was on long journeys such as this, her normally perfect composure would crack just a little, and she would begin to cry softly for her husband and lover. Just thinking of that flawless porcelain heaving bosom...

He shook his head in the vision and was transported to his vast office suite on the top floor of Dorktank, where he was now Chairman, CEO, and chief programmer for the International Brotherhood of Magicians. Between ordering his minions to add meaningless revisions and unused bells and whistles to his soft wares, he was reviewing the latest reports tell him how far his O-mails were reaching, the vast percentage of Muddled-Mirth households into which his influence had penetrated, and how much his bank accounts overflowed. Let those dwarvish fools keep their casinos, and the elves their dairylands. They still had to run their operations using his software, and paying him for the khopy-wight to use them. He was well on his way to having them bound to his monopoly, and then the prices would only go up. Pretty soon even Mogul and his followers would be bound up with the onerous costs of using his works. And his own Loyers would draw the contract noose around Mogul's neck until...

"Tssssk tsssk tsssk. Sssuch delusionsss. You've been a naughty, naughty wizzzzard," came the interruption that was about as welcome as a case of athlete's foot. "Ssssso disssappointing. Ssstill, it will be fun for awhile, watching my bessst Korprat-Loyers have their way with you." And while the rest stood around still glassy-eyed with visions of their own private versions of heaven, the bespectacled Maia was well and truly in hell.

For now he was transported to the fell Dungeons of Default in Moredough. Cold iron manacles chained hand and foot to the slimy stone walls. Gateskeeper faced no less than a half-dozen immense dark forms from the darkest nightmares of the most depraved. They pelted him with vile injunctions, stabbed him with disgusting writs of habeus corpus, and shoved restraining orders under his fingernails with insane glee. In addition, they wove the foulest, most torturous spells with their chanting, words of ill-omen passed down even unto this day,


Leo Dicaprio,
Brittany Spears,
Jessica Simpson,
Watch them for years!

Visiting Mom-in-law,
Internal Revenue,
Washington politics,
Cleaning the loo!

Rush-hour traffic,
Nuclear strife,
Michael Moore flicks,
A nagging wife!

Country Music
Killing sprees
Gangsta Rap
and MTV!

Such was Gateskeeper's torment in his vision that he fell to his knees with a bloodcurdlng shriek of sheer terror mixed in equal measure with excruciating pain, with just a pinch of salt, a teaspoon of tabasco sauce, and baked at 350 degrees until crispy. Gathering all his strength (from where it lay in pieces all over the dungeon floor) he threw himself at his tormentors. The manacle holding his right wrist sliced deeply through skin and bone, there was a moment of blinding pain in his arm...

<the soundtrack rises to a crescendo, the picture goes to a brilliant white for a moment>

...and then he was free -- free of the torture, free of the vision, free of the Cloz'd Dheal mark on his hand. Indeed, he was free of his marked hand altogether, which lay on the ground in a small pool of blood. His arm ended in a badly-cauterized stump. But the throbbing pain of the mark was gone (replaced by the only slightly less intense pain of an amateur amputation job). Mogul had made the vision too real and, as is normal for overreaching evil dictators and overconfident dark lords, the instrument of his power became the vehicle of his intended victim's freedom. It was the deus ex machina he had been waiting for ever since post 141 (which we now visit in flashback form via the miracle of the 3-second cross-dissolve)

While sitting in the food courts of the GAP of Soreham, he began to wish that he had not made that deal with Mogul, but even as the thought crossed his mind the burn mark of the Cloz'd Dheal throbbed under his one glove. Then he remembered the one thing that might turn the trick for him. In lore ancient beyond all reckoning there was a whisper of something more powerful yet than Mogul, something yet more powerful than even the beauty of Merisuwyniel herself, as improbable as that might be. The power of the deus ex machina, called by some the Plôt Twĩŝt. But invoking that power would involve suffering in the extreme.

The day had finally come, and the battle which had raged within him finally ended: goodness had triumphed over the evil in his soul, and the alternate personality fell into the void with a mournful wail of "precious!" and was gone. Light flooded Gateskeeper's entire being. Virtue emboldened him, righteousness strengthened him, courage drove him. Leveling a gaze at Mogul that would melt the very rocks he strode forward, staff wielded in his unmaimed hand, filled with the confidence of the just.

Mogul dismissed his advance with a casual wave of his hand. But it did ever-so-slightly weaken his grasp on the others for a moment.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel stood her ground, both repulsed by and strangely attracted to the handsome face she saw before her. Yet she was still aware enough of her own self to realize that this so seductive person was not bringing out the best in her. While she fought to regain her normally cool, poised demeanour, she heard a voice echoing in her mind.

“He looks fair and feels foul,” it said. It was the familiar voice of the Entish Bow, now fighting to save its own life after so valiantly defending hers. “All that is rhinestone does not glitter, not all those who disco are king,” it continued. “Remember the Alamo, remember your mother, remember Gravlox, remember anything else, but forget about him!”

At those words another face appeared before her mind’s eye, a face that looked foul, but felt inexpressively fair to her. She gasped; so real did it seem that she reached out to caress the cheeks, strangely more cleanly shaven than she remembered them. Those eyes, so tenderly loving their gaze… That gorgeous hair, softly waving in the breeze… Those manly hands, now well-manicured, so adept to touch her in more ways than she had time to recall now… And a soft, smooth voice spoke to her of everlasting love, never-ending passion, and the advantages of joint tax returns.

The two voices strove within her. For a moment, perfectly balanced between their piercing sounds, she writhed, tormented. Suddenly she was aware of herself again. Merisuwyniel, neither the wooden voice nor the smooth-talking one: free to choose, and with one remaining instant in which to do so.

The musical voice was not that of her deceased beloved. Flattering as its tones were, they jarred with the voice indelibly etched into her memory, and the spell was broken. She raised her lovely golden head, her beautiful eyes gazed with great clarity and strength into Môgul’s, and her melodious voice called out, “The words of this Velour stand on their heads! In the language of Môgul, help means ruin, and saving means slaying, that is plain. Do not offer what is not yours to give, Bildur! If Emu wills, I may see my beloved again someday. If not, still I will not forsake the Quest that has been entrusted to me. Begone, foul Dwimmerlaik! Go now and never come back!”

[The Saucepan Man]

At Merisuwyniel’s words, a wistful expression passed across Môgul’s stunningly handsome features and his face fleetingly took on a noble, even kindly, aspect. In that moment, the onlookers saw him as he once had been: Melvin Bluenote, mightiest and firstborn of the Velour and damn fine guitarist. But the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived and the Dread Developer stood before them once more in all his villainy. Then he threw back his head and laughed. And his laughter was terrible, laden with malice, dripping with scorn and garnished with spite.

“How misguided of you to put your faith in Him,” he said. “For I am His firstborn and know His mind better than any here. You think that you will be saved by His will? He cares less for your pitiful lives than my sist/breth-ren. No, you will find no succour in Him.”

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade,” declaimed Merisu. “And when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it?” chuckled Môgul. “You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

He paused, staring intently at the Defiant-ship. His baleful gaze fell on each one of them, and they felt it pierce their very souls. Their resolve once more began to falter. Even Merisu’s heart fell on hearing that Yawanna’s aid now seemed lost.

“But your defiance is touching,” Môgul continued. “And shall be rewarded. You shall have your wish, Merisuwyniel.”

And with that, he promptly dissolved into a black cloud, which drifted lazily back towards the vast army still arrayed before the What-happens-next-ship.

“So that was Môgul Bildûr,” Orogarn Two commented to Kuruharan. “I always thought that he was just a red nostril.”

“The nostril is symbolic,” sighed the Dwarf wearily.

The Cornered-ship steeled themselves again for their final stand. But then the massed ranks began to part once more and from within came an embassy of Môgul.

At its head rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a sleek black Warg. The rider was suited all in black, with pinstripes of white, and red with blue polka-dots was his natty tie. The Solicitor-General of the Dark Tower Block of Barát-Höm he was, and his name was Greedhog. With him came only a small company of Korprat Loyery, and a single banner, black but bearing on it in red the Nasty Nostril. Now halting a few paces before the Questors of the West he looked them up and down and laughed.

“Isss there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me?” he asked. “Or indeed with wit to undersstand my tortuoussly archaic phraseology? Not thou at leassst!” he mocked, turning to Orogarn Two with scorn. “It needss more to make a King than a ssseriously underused magical crystal, or a full head of feathered hair. Why, any sspandex clad rocker can show as good a follicling.”

Orogarn said naught in answer, but made to pick up his great sword which lay still on the ground where he had dropped it only moments before. Greedhog laughed once more.

“I am a herald and ambassssador and may not be assssailed,” he hissed. “And moreover,” he added as a reminder of a previously laid plotline. “No Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, may hinder me.”

“Then tell us of your errand,“ spoke up Merisuwyniel. “Yet I fear that you have troubled yourself in vain, for we shall never yield the Entish parts unless they be prised from our cold lifeless hands.”

“Speak for yourself dear,” whispered Leninia out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, steady on old girl,” added Orogarn Two. “This fellow seems to be offering us a way out of this predicament.”

“Quite,” observed Kuruharan. “Never say never when a deal’s on the table.”

“Ouch,” commented the Gateskeeper, attempting to stem the flow of blood from the startlingly real wound occasioned by his decidedly unreal vision.

“Ssso!” sneered Greedhog, addressing Merisu. “Then thou art the sspokesman - er - perssson for this rabble. Have we not heard of thee at whilesss, and of thy Quesssting, ever bringing chaoss and misssery to all who crossss thy path? I have a token that I was bidden to show thee - to thee in essspecial, if thou shouldsst care to look.”

He signed to two of the Loyers, and they came forward dragging behind them a figure, tethered and shrouded in black.

“I am telling you,” countered Merisu adamantly. “There is nothing that you could possibly offer me that could persuade me to offer up the Ent that was broken.”

The Loyers pulled the shroud off the figure with a flourish, revealing an Elf chained and manacled. His blonde locks flowed gloriously over his shoulders and his aquiline nose and delicate cheek-bones shone in the light of the Messéd Realm. And yet, there was something not entirely Elvish about him. Something subtly, yet perceptibly, Orcish.

“Then again …” said Merisu, gaping in astonishment.

“Who’s that?” enquired Soregum.

“That’s Gravlox, little one,” answered Orogarn Two. Then, taking a deep breath, he continued, “Merisu’s lost love who was a Captain of the Uruk-Hai in the service of Lord Sourone, but who turned out to be good in the end - something to do with his father - and who fought valiantly for us, but who died in the final battle at Minus Moreghoul, and who we all thought was dead, but who quite obviously is not, yet who now seems to have turned almost entirely into an Elf, and who …”. He stopped, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Well, it looks like we shall be going home now then, after all,” piped up Pimpi, secretly rather relieved.

“Ai! Just my luck!” wailed Vogonwë, recalling his central role in the demise of Harvey the rabbit.

Merisu’s magnificent eyes welled up with tears, flashing gorgeously but momentarily blurring her vision of her true love. And in that moment her head was filled with pain and fear and doubt and confusion.

“Gravlox …!” she blurted out, her voice a shrill mournful cry.

“Merisu, don‘t …!” cried Gravlox.

But it was too late.

“I thank thee, Mistressss Elf,” gloated Greedhog triumphantly. “It isss plain from your reaction that thiss traitorousss oaf meanss sssomething to you, and it would be vain for you to deny it now.”

“I do not wish to deny it,” said Merisuwyniel, her composure recovered. “I know him and I love him. Truly, madly, deeply. I know true love, and despite your scorn, foul Advocate of Môgul, you cannot say as much.”

Merisu’s brave words hit home and Greedhog was quite clearly stung. The only love that the old Loyer had known had been back in Slangbad, many aeons ago. She had been a bit of a Dragon, but he hadn’t been choosy. But she had left to pursue a lucrative career in treasure hoarding and he had never seen her again …

“Enough of thisss banter,” he said suddenly, shaking his monstrous head clear of such thoughts. “You would be advised to take sswift counsssel with what little wit is left to you. For Lord Môgul does not take kindly to traitorsss, and what his fate sshall be dependss now on your choice. Hand over the fragmentsss of Rent Ent or sssay thine farewells to this primped up pssseudo-Elf.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A blackness came before Merisuwyniel’s eyes, and it seemed to her in a moment of silence that the world stood still, time stood still, her heart was dead and her last hope gone. No matter which choice she made, she was doomed to lose. She answered him not, but Greedhog saw her face grey with fear and the horror in her eyes, and he laughed. “Now he shall endure the slow torment of years,” he taunted, “as long and slow as our legal arts department in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed beyond recognition and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done.”

Merisu faltered. Her comrades saw the anguish in her face; now she seemed crushed, defeated at the last. She stretched out her hands to touch her beloved, and so powerful was the love and sorrow mirrored in her face that Greedhog and his minions dared not restrain her. The lovers clasped each others’ hands and said not a word, yet Gravlox had used his time in Mantoes’ halls wisely, learning the art of O-sanity. The two did not move or speak with mouth, looking from mind to mind; and only their eyes, shining with love and unshed tears, stirred and kindled as their thoughts went to and fro.

“Do not give in to the wicked ones,” Gravlox said to her. “For it is your task to complete the Quest entrusted to you. If you do not find a way, no one will. You might have chosen otherwise, but you have forsaken neither the Entish Parts nor your companions. Your faithful love, which moved the heart of Mantoes on my behalf, shall be rewarded someday.

“Weep not, my beloved,” he continued, “for ‘tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Rubbish,” she answered with unwonted directness. “Memory is not what my heart desires; that is only a mirror - cold and flat. I have taken my worst wound in this renewed parting. Such is the way of it: to find and lose. May there be a final finding some day. Fare thee well, my love!” Reluctantly and in slow motion, she released his hands.

“You demand that I be faithless to my Sacred Quest for the release of this noble servant?” she called out, standing tall and straight.

Greedhog nodded eagerly. “That’s the general idea,” he gloated.

“What surety have I that Mogûl the Base Bildur of Treachery will keep his part?” she asked.

“Do not bandy words in your insolence with the Loyer of Mogûl,” he cried, enraged. “Surety you crave! Mogûl gives none. If you sue for his clemency, you must first do his bidding.”

“Dark is the Shadow,” she declaimed dramatically, “and yet my heart rejoices; for he, Gravlox, shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it. Alas! I cannot foresee it, and how it may come to pass is hidden from me. Yet with his hope I will hope. And the Shadow I utterly reject. Begone!”

Then the Messenger of Mogûl laughed no more. His face was twisted with amazement and anger to the likeness of some wild beast that, as it crouches on its prey, is smitten on the muzzle with a stinging rod. Rage filled him and his mouth slavered, and shapeless sounds of fury came strangling from his throat. He looked at the fell faces of the United-We-Stand-Ship and their deadly eyes, and fear overcame his wrath. He gave a great cry, and turned, leaped upon his Warg, and with his company colleagues galloped madly back to wherever it was that Mogûl had gone.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Meanwhile, back in the Great Hall, the Velour sat, still stunned into immobility by the events of the past moments and hours. Not that immobility was unusual for them, unless they were pursuing recreational activities…

“So what do we do now?” Manuël asked. “Everything is so confusing – Yawanna allying herself with Melvin, that bunch of newcomers leaving an audience without so much as a “by your leave”, and Melvin’s demand for the firewood that they are towing with them. There’s an army out there to enforce his message – should we do something about them?”

“I say we fight,” shouted Tulk Hogan. “We haven’t had a good battle in ages. Let’s get ready to rumble!”

“But fighting is so messy,” Prada objected.

“Yes, so hard on the nail polish,” Chanessa agreed.

“Besides, I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear to a battle,” Vairsacë complained.

“Did you see what that Elven dudette was wearing?” Estë-Lynn asked. “It looked feminine yet practical – I wonder if that’s the style this age in Muddled-Mirth?”

“We haven’t had any new styles here for such a long age,” Nír-Vana sighed. “It would have been fun to, like, ask her who makes her clothes.”

“Why did all this have to happen now, just when the waves are perfect?” TM Ulmo grumbled.

“But a battle would finally get some action into our lives, dudes,” Mantoes protested. “Since the Loyers took so many of my clients, it’s boring at my place.”

And so they sat in the Great Hall, talking without acting, a veritable Committee for Matters of Muddled-Mirth; and the AllOnOurOwnShip stood at the front alone.

[Thenamir]

Kneeling upon the grassy knoll Gateskeeper watched the defiance of Merisu and the gloating of Mogul and his minions. Pimpiowyn, putting her recent shieldmaiden training to use, tended to his wounded arm as best she could. When he was sure no one was looking Gateskeeper leaned in closer to Pimpi (too close for Vogonwe, had he been looking) and whispered, "Shhhh...don't attract attention to yourself...keep working on my arm but listen carefully, we may only have one chance to get this right." Pimpi started, looking up at the face of Gateskeeper, but then obeyed, pretending to be intent on stopping the flow of wizardly lifeblood from the handless arm while actually trying very hard not to be sick. That is until she thought what a waste of food that would be, which settled her stomach immediately.

Gateskeeper continued in a voice strained both by blood loss and dramatic emphasis, "my staff...must restart..." Pimpi nodded surrpetitiously, wondering privately if perhaps Gatesey had been taking lessons in diction from Kirkdan. "take it...and speak...words of the Great Rheeboot...after me." Pimpi feigned looking in her pack for a wound-salve or balm, simultaneously grasping the staff with her other hand. Slowly she repeated the words whispered to her by the bespectacled wizard, "klaatu barada nikto, kontrole alt deleet!" (Of course, everyone knows how hard it is to kontrole alt deleet with only one hand.) Immediately, Pimpi's staff hand began to tingle as the staff was restored to power.

"Now," he went on, "place...staff in my hand...and keep your head down." Pimpi did as she was asked and bent over the severed wrist intent on completing her work. Gateskeeper began manipulating the staff in his one hand, calling up the sound-khaard insert he'd used back at Marrow-Bones. Good, he thought to himself, the recording is still intact. With all the speed he could muster, he began composing an O-mail message.

Dear Yawanna,

Mogul is leading you on. Please listen to the attached em-pethree. And please accept my sincere apologies for that incident at the last Velour Annual Charity Auction and Bazaar. I do hope your hair grew back out OK.

"Andy" Andotiruves

cc: Emu the Flightless

Gateskeeper then edited the recording down to the relevant parts:

"If Emu wills, I may see my beloved again someday. If not, still I will not forsake the Quest that has been entrusted to me. Begone, foul Dwimmerlaik! Go now and never come back!"

“How misguided of you to put your faith in Him, for I am His firstborn and know His mind better than any here. You think that you will be saved by His will? He cares less for your pitiful lives than my sist/breth-ren. No, you will find no succour in Him.”

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade, and when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it? You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

He attached the recording to the O-mail message, withdrew his injured arm from Pimpi and whispered to her the words of omen, "duck and cover." He rose shakily to his feet, summoned up all his wizardly power, and bellowed a single word-of-command, "SEND!!". There was a blinding flash of light and a wave of power blasted out in all directions from the center which was the Gateskeeper. All who stood nearby were knocked to the ground. There followed a moment of terrible silence, broken only when Gateskeeper fell, unconscious. Followed shortly by the sound of Pimpi asking help to get out from under him.