The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Kuruharan]

While all this was going on, Kuruharan once again slipped off on yet another useless tangent. This was not his original intention, and it would turn out to be important later, so I guess it wasn’t entirely useless. It just didn’t make much sense at the time. Well, it still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I digress.

Kuruharan had a natural desire to deposit his earnings in the bank. However, being a dwarf (and more than a little bit picky), he could not make a deposit in just any old bank. Thankfully, Khmun and Sons had a secret branch office in the Aquamarine Mountains right next door to Mithfortune.

By taking many wary and secret paths, Kuruharan and Chrysophylax managed to drag several enormous bags through the alleys of Mithfortune and only attract a small throng of onlookers. What happened to the onlookers is best left to the imagination. Suffice to say it was only dwarf and dragon who reached the secret entrance, knocked the secret knock, spoke the secret password, flashed the secret hand-signal, danced the secret dance, sang the secret song, pulled the secret lever, and kicked the secret door when all of the above failed to work.

“Chrysophylax,” said Kuruharan, “use your tail.”

Problem solved.

After the door was reduced to rubble, the pair shoved their bags into the hole.

“Wait here,” said Kuruharan, “I don’t want any repetitions of last time.”

So saying, the dwarf vanished in the darkness.

He dragged the bags along a rough and narrow passage for a considerable distance.

Without warning, the passage opened into a wide, colonnaded promenade overlooking a great plaza with a large fountain in the center. Kuruharan dragged his bags out of the tunnel and collapsed into a nearby couch, gasping for air. After collecting himself, Kuruharan looked about. There did not seem to be anyone else about, so he had to drag the bags along and down the stairs by himself. After more dragging and puffing, Kuruharan pulled his bags over to a large marble counter on the far side of the plaza. He stood there panting expectantly. Nobody came.

“Urrungh!” groaned Kuruharan. “Hello,” he shouted, “is anybody there?”

No reply.

Kuruharan reached into one of his bags and pulled out a single coin. He dropped it on the counter.

There was a noise deep beyond the closed door behind the counter. Kuruharan tucked the coin away as the sounds of footsteps and doors slamming neared him.

“WHERE IS IT?! WHERE IS IT?!” screeched a funny dwarf with a neon orange beard who came bursting out of the door. Catching sight of Kuruharan, the dwarf yelled, “JAIL BREAK!! JAIL BREAK!! Some of the money’s escaping!! Did you see anything?!”

Kuruharan cleared his throat to speak as the other dwarf dived under the counter.

“Sometimes it likes to tunnel out from underneath the floor!! Stomp will you!!”

Kuruharan reached over the counter and picked up the fiery dwarf.

“Stop that!” he said. “The money is not escaping!”

“I heard it!” cried the dwarf..

*SMACK* Kuruharan slapped him and plopped him on the floor.

“I’ve come to make a deposit and withdraw some articles from my safety deposit box,” Kuruharan announced.

“A deposit?” the other dwarf perked up mightily.

“Yes, I…” Kuruharan trailed off as he noticed that he had orange paint all over his hands. “Where did this come from?”

The other dwarf grabbed Kuruharan’s hand and started sniffing.

“A very good year!” he announced.

Kuruharan grabbed the other dwarf by his beard, but the beard was wet and the other dwarf easily pulled himself free.

“You’ve been painting your beard orange!” said Kuruharan

“Prevents baldness,” said the other dwarf.

“Hmm…I’ve got some stuff that prevents baldness, but never mind,” said Kuruharan. “About my deposit…”

“Deposit?!” yelped the other dwarf, springing up onto the counter like an overeager puppy with his eyes shining.

“Yeeeesss,” said Kuruharan. “I’d like to deposit these.”

“We don’t take bags here,” announced the painted dwarf importantly.

“Not the bags,” groaned Kuruharan. “What’s in the bags!” Kuruharan pulled open one of the bags and a mountain of coins poured out.

“MONEY!!!” shrieked the orange dwarf, diving into the pile.

“Stop that!” shouted Kuruharan. “You’re getting paint all over my coins!” Kuruharan grabbed the dwarf and tried to pull him out. “Stoppit!!”

Kuruharan dragged the dwarf out and tossed him over the counter.

“Just get the deposit slip,” said Kuruharan.

The orange dwarf handed over a slip and as Kuruharan filled it out, he stared down at the pile of money with all the intensity of The Thinker. After a moment, he pulled out a mallet and started sucking on it.

“Here you go,” said Kuruharan absently, without looking at the clerk. He glanced up.

“EEEKKKK!” he yelped, as the clerk turned around with the handle sticking rakishly out of his mouth.

“Oughsh hugh wawor?” said the clerk.

“Ah, hee hee erm,” stammered Kuruharan.

“Wuuclush cquan comen!” said the clerk.

Kuruharan reached forward and yanked the mallet out of the clerk’s mouth.

“Yeeouch!” cried the clerk.

“Why were you sucking on this mallet?” asked Kuruharan.

“It helps hold my gall bladder in place,” answered the clerk. “Want one?”

“No,” said Kuruharan. “Just get the money in the vault, tell it not to tunnel out in the middle of the night, give me my receipt, and let me have my safety deposit box, if you please.”

“Ahhh,” said the clerk. “That’s the trick isn’t it!” He looked carefully around to make sure that nobody was listening. He motioned Kuruharan closer. “That’ll be very…very dangerous because…” the clerk suddenly spun around and kicked the wall.

“GOTCHA!!” he cried in triumph. “Listenin’ in were ye!!”

“Let me guess,” said Kuruharan, “the walls have ears.”

“GASP!” gasped the clerk. “The skwerls told you too?!!”

“Evidently,” moaned Kuruharan.

“Then I can trust you,” the clerk leaned forward. “It’s the safety deposit boxes…they’re in cahoots with the green chicken gizzards!”

“You don’t say!” hissed Kuruharan. He looked over his shoulder. It was an awfully long way back to the surface, and there was no other bank this side of Beer.

“Hurry,” Kuruharan said. “You have to get my money into the vault before the flying gerbils of doom drop their coconuts upon us!”

“Right away,” said the clerk as he dragged the bags over the counter and back through the door.

“Give me my safety deposit box!” said Kuruharan, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll conduct a thorough interrogation and make it tell all it knows about the migrations of pooka-dotted ninja grasshoppers.”

“Here you go,” puffed the clerk as he came running back. He handed over the box. Then he leaned forward again.

“And always remember,” the clerk whispered as he pulled an awl out of his pants. He stuck the handle into his mouth, “Ouyghc, ouuggh wwwoic!”

“Right back at ‘cha!” said Kuruharan as he started to run across the plaza.

He stopped.

“By the way,” he said, “how did you get to be a banker?”

“King Gain Lotsomoola is my uncle-cousin four times removed-brother-sister-in-law,” replied the clerk.

“Figures,” said Kuruharan as he ran back up the stairs and darted into the tunnel.

“Phew,” he said as he stopped for a moment. He opened the box and pulled two small bundles out. He tucked the bundles in his robes and tossed the safety deposit box on the floor and walked off.

“We’ll show them some day!” thought the deposit box as it lay on the ground alone and neglected. “I have friends who won’t let me be mistreated like this anymore! The Lord High Toaster has promised! Someday all aardvarks and sprockets shall live as one!”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Sethamir’s was a beehive of activity on this day, the Sail-for-Sale-Ship’s last on these shores. Each member was busy preparing for the journey in his/her/its own manner. They realized that a journey to the end of the world was not just one of your run-of-the-mill There-and-Back-Again hobbit boating parties. Would they find the Straight-Jacket Way of which the old legends told? So many had gone mad searching for it. And if they reached Valleyum, would they be able to return afterwards? None knew, yet they prepared without hesitating: some recklessly, caring not about future risks; some bravely, despite their knowledge of the potential dangers facing them; and some ignorantly, not having stopped to think about the consequences of their foolhardiness.

Merisuwyniel had revelled in the last opportunity to seek out the Elven shops in Mithfortune. She saw many beautiful things which she would have liked to possess, but considering how few of her precious coins were left after advance payment of their passage (and how little baggage they were allowed to take on board), she hesitated. Then, assuming that Muddled-Mirth coinage would not be needed in Valleyum, she recklessly splurged, buying a lovely new blouse – ruffled, as always, since she was, as always, unruffled. It was made of a shimmering material and had the colour of a pale pink rose, which set off her golden locks and violet eyes to great advantage. She managed to convince herself that it was a necessary purchase, in order to appear appropriately attired before the Velour.

At the next shop, a music store, she found a booklet called “101 Favourite Mournful Melodies for the Hâr-mónicä”. It contained such perennial hits as:

Sittin’ On the Dock of the Pay Havens
500 Leagues (Away from HoME)
Hang Down Your Head, Tom Bomby
and many more…

That was certainly a good investment for a long cruise, especially as her companions had given her to understand in no uncertain terms that they did not want to hear ‘that Western tune’ ever again.

When she returned to Sethamir’s, she found Orogarn Two struggling with a long, narrow package. Courteously opening the door for him, she inquired, “What did you purchase, Orogarn?”

“Two,” he replied.

“I see only one package,” Merisu answered, puzzled. He sighed in exasperation, realizing that her female curiosity had gotten the upper hand over her usual polite attentiveness to such details as name suffixes, and said, “It’s an Umbar-Élar.”

“An umbrella?” she asked.

“Umbar-Élar,” he corrected. “It’s a portable precipitation protection which can be opened in times of need.”

“I saw those in the Mire,” she said enthusiastically. “They really need them there, what with the terrible rain they have; but they called them ‘umbrellas’. I suppose they must have corrupt- um, adapted the original name to their own language. But why are you taking one along on our journey? Do you not remember the words of the Wise, who said: ‘It never rains in Valley-Fornya’?”

“I’m not taking it along,” he mumbled. “I’m sending it to my father.”

Merisu had met his father, and at the thought of the incongruity of the Proctor of Grundor carrying an umbrella, she almost burst into peals of her silvery, melodious laughter. Her kind heart stopped her just in time; she knew how eager Orogarn was to find something that would finally please his fastidious father. Thankful, not for the first time, that she could share her amusement silently with the Entish Bow on her back, she thought, LOL! Just imagine! Denimthor the Stewed carrying an umbrella, my dear! Isn’t it delicious!

;D Most astonishing wonderful! came the mirthful answer.

What she actually said was: “Oh, that reminds me – I want to write a postcard before we leave. I’d better get that done now.” With those words, she vanished into her room to pen a brief “Wish you were here” missive to Roneld at the Hidden Valley Ranch. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to her that she was leaving her foster father behind when departing from Muddled-Mirth. Now that Earnur, her deceased mother’s once-and-future beloved, was leaving the DiminishingShip, she felt quite fatherless and shed a brief tear. (It glistened most becomingly on her cheek and left her lovely Elven eyes unreddened, of course.) However, the excitement of preparing for the journey soon drove sad thoughts from her mind.

As she checked to see if her bags were packed so as to prevent the creasing of the garments contained therein, she found herself singing a little Elven ditty that was currently in the Top Ten and consequently playing everywhere at all times:

O! What are you doing,
And where are you questing?
The Loyers are sueing,
And you need a resting!
O! tra-la-la-lavens
Here down in the Havens!

O! What are you seeking,
And what do you carry?
The Entwood is creaking,
It’s time to make merry!
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly
The Havens are jolly,
Ha! Ha!

O! Where are you going,
With locks all a-flowing?
No knowing, no knowing
Why eyes are a-glowing,
What brings a shieldmaiden
Down into the Havens
At noon.
Ha! Ha!

O! Will you be staying,
Or will you be sailing?
Your horses are neighing!
The daylight is failing!

To sail would be folly,
To stay would be jolly
And listen and rest
Till the end of the Quest
To our tune -
Ha! Ha!

So she laughed and sang in the Inn; and pretty fair nonsense I daresay you think it. Not that she would care; she would only laugh all the more if you told her so. For she was an Elvish shieldmaiden!

[Mithadan]

Grrralph wandered through black and empty places as he slumbered. The best efforts of the Itship, which included prodding him with a sword, splashing him with cold water, exposing him to Chrysophylax's heady breath and beating him with clubs, sticks and a mace, failed to rouse him. Ever quick on the uptake, the members of the Itship realized that this was no normal sleep and, grudgingly, dragged him about wherever they went.

Grrralph himself had little awareness of what was happening. Indeed, he had no awareness at all, at least until he began to dream.

He dreamed he was in an Elvenwood musical,
and that he was the star of that musical.
That really blew his mind,
that he, a long-legged, black-cloaked, leaping wraith
was the star of an Elvenwoog musical.

But there he was,
he was taken to a place,
the hall of the Mountain King.
He stood high on the mountain top,
cloaked before the world,
in front of every type of Zerl.

There was black ones, brown ones,
big ones, round ones,
short ones, long ones,
pink ones, fat ones.

Out of the middle,
there came a Zerly.
And she whispered in his ear,
something crazy.
She said:

"Well, what shall we do with him?" And another Zerl approached him and answered, somewhat reluctantly. "I suppose we should should restore him. After all, he did break the curse..."

The first Zerl looked carefully at the wraith, then sniffed. "I suppose he did. What was it? Oh yes:

'You've been traded to me,
for fair compensation.
For a reasonable fee,
you'll join our dark nation.

You'll wear my gear,
cloak, armor and hood,
now don't shed a tear,
but they're with you for good.

They'll weigh on your mind,
they ain't going away soon,
until potion you find,
made from light of the moon.'"

The second Zerl nodded. "Rather nasty, but that Sourone did turn out to be rather a bad egg. So he drank that bottle of moonshine and the curse is broken. I guess we take him back."

And Grrralph thought to himself,

What could this mean?
Am I going crazy or is this just a dream.
Now wait a minute.
I know I'm lying in a field of grass somewhere,
so it's all in my head,
but then he heard the Zerl say

"But what about all the horrible things he did during the War of the Thing?" The second Zerl answered, "Well, he was under the curse and in Sourone's power. And he was traded to Sourone for a minor leaguer and compensation to be named later if I recall."

The first Zerl scowled. "Yeah, we got a musty old Barrow-Wight and some old rusty shields..." The second Zerl nodded. "A deal's a deal. So we restore him?" The first Zerl scowled again. "I guess we do. You're right. A deal's a deal and the curse is broken..."

Grrralph could feel hot flames of fire roaring at his back,
as the Zerl disappeared,
but soon she returned.
In her hand was a bottle of wine
and in the other a glass.
She poured some of the wine into the glass,
and raised it to her lips,
and just before she drank it, she said:

"A deal's a deal. Darned Loyers. I sometimes wish we could just round them all up and.... never mind." She snapped her fingers with a sound like a clap of thunder, and Grrralph fell back into blackness. But even as he lost what little consciousness he had, he heard the Zerl's final words. "It'll take a little while to set in. Just what the world needs. Another..." And he heard no more...

[Diamond18]

There comes a time in every tale when a ship must be boarded. This ship can be a real vessel made of wood, or steel, or canvas, or bark, or inflatable rubber, and can be launched into real water, salty or fresh. Or, it can be a metaphorical ship launching into metaphysical waters, destined for metacercaria lands and metacestode adventures of metabolic magnitude. It could also be the result of searching the text of a tale to find the words “board” and “ship”, not necessarily in relation to each other, but contained in the same manuscript as a code which proves Mary of Magdala was the wife of Jesus Christ and bore him a son. Or daughter, depending on how many times the words “board” and “ship” appear and whether “boarded”, “boarding”, “boat”, “canoe” and “rubber dinghy” also appear in said tale.

But I digress.

In Muddled-Mirth, the Itship knew naught of such things, and if you said “Mary of Magdala” they would politely (or rudely, as the case may be) correct your spelling and point you in the direction of Merisuwyniel, who is from Topfloorien but was raised at the Elven Farm, not Magdala, you silly, strangely dressed human. And yet, even unknowingly, they were poised to fulfil the Great Rule that stateth a ship must be boardeth if the tale is worth two shakes of salt on a snail’s tail.

Last minute preparations, departures, and hysterics out of the way, the portentously named Itship headed dutifully out to board the ship.

Vogonwë paused a moment on the gangplank and looked back out over the Pay Havens. “I have passed hundreds of years upon the shores of Muddled-Mirth,” he said wistfully, “and though I am still a young half-elf in the reckoning of my people, I feel a great weight upon my heart and weariness of spirit as I look my last upon the land I have known for so long. Ah, ’Mirth, what joyous poems thou hast inspired, what countless wonders thou hast shown me in my time, what heterogeneous peoples thou hast suckled upon they motherly breast, what… what is it, Pimpi my dear?”

Pimpi stopped poking him in the ribs and said, “The others are waiting, can you do this from the ship as we sail away?”

He sighed. “You’re awfully eager to leave. Does not your heart tremble at the thought of forsaking the home of your youth and departing to the lands of the immortals?”

“If it doesn’t scare Meri, it doesn’t scare me,” Pimpi declared pluckily.

“But Merisuwyniel is immortal,” he pointed out.

She blinked her big blue eyes and asked, “Your point?”

He assumed his most Elven expression and pose, replying loftily, “I only wonder if you realize what you are getting into, a mere quaterling, sailing to the realm of the Velour, eldest and wisest of beings.”

She poked him in the stomach and shoved him up the gangplank with a firm heels-of-hands-to-pectoral-region maneuver, “Oh, pshaw, you’re the one who’s scared. Quit acting like an old gaffer and get onboard before the others leave us behind.”

“I fear neither Velour nor Valleyum,” Vogonwë said with as much dignity as he could salvage while tripping backwards up the plank. “Though I would like a reminder of why we are doing this in the first place.”

“I can’t remember why Merisu and the rest are going, frankly, I haven’t been paying close enough attention,” Pimpi shrugged. “But we’re going because of our unique special differences; you are going to entreat the Velour to allow me to stay with you in Never-Never Land despite the fact that I’m a ‘mere quarterling’ of wholly mortal descent.”

“Valleyum,” Vogonwë corrected. Then he sighed, “I love it when you say ‘unique special differences’.”

“I know.”

“That reminds me,” he mused as they finally got to the top of the ridiculously long gangplank and stood upon the deck of the ship, “whilst the others made their last minute preparations, I devoted my time to composing a fitting farewell to our friend, Lord Etceteron. It seemed wrong that he should leave, bestowing upon us gifts, and receive no tribute or token of esteem from us in return.”

He paused, awaiting a response, and when he got none he looked around. Pimpi was nowhere to be seen, and indeed, the entirety of the remaining Itship was likewise removed from his near vicinity. But in their stead stood many innocent sailors, readying the ship for setting and unawares of the ill about to befall them. Vogonwë, satisfied that he had an audience of sorts, cleared his throat and turned toward the shore. It mattered little to him that the sailors knew naught of Lord Earnur Etceteron, He Who Liked Vogonwë’s Poetry Till He Got Sober, since the object of the tribute wasn’t even around and that wasn’t really the point. There really wasn’t a point, which is very much in keeping with the events thus far.

“Ahem,” he intoned, “I will now speak a special work which I have written, titled ‘Lord Earnur the Fairish’, an epic haiku for two voices. I will be supplying both voices.”

A deckhand spit enthusiastically over the side of the rail, thus providing a prelude to Vogonwë’s great experimental endeavor.

His name is Earnur
Lord Etceteron, call him
Of Dun Sobrin, see

His grand demeanor
And dark manly eyebrows
Where envious to behold

He liked to kill orcs
And lollygaggers and such
With his mighty blade

Long he rode with us
Then he kind of up and left
We’ll miss him, I guess

Well I remember
The first time I met the man
By Bovine Fountain

His horse, Baklava
Was black and shiny, and sneered
At me, and was rude

But Earnur was a
Jolly good fellow, he was
A poet like me

We had adventures
Which I wrote about, in my
Lay of the Ent Bow

And then we rested
In the Wight City a while
Until the fire

When adventure called
Earnur was one of the first
To call back loudly

He was hasty
Ah but we liked him for it
Red wine and red blood

Flowed in his red veins
And so I hope that wherever
He goes he will not

Drink himself to death
Or anything bad like that
Farewell E. old chap

Several loud splashes signaled that at least on third of the ship’s crew had abandoned ship and were at that very moment swimming to shore. One man committed hara-kiri right on the deck and made an awful mess which detained enough of the compulsive obsessive neat freaks to stay aboard and clean it up. Vogonwë, oblivious to the chaos, settled down to breathe in the salty ocean air and watch the shores of Muddled-Mirth shrink.

Merisu and the rest of the remaining Itship, such as they were, came up onto the deck after a time and joined him at the rail to wave a fond goodbye to their homeland.

“I say…” Soregum said presently, looking around, “we seem to be missing someone. Don’t tell me the young hobbit lass decided to stay home?”

“What?” Vogonwë said stupidly.

“What?” Soregum echoed. “Surely you, her… um… intended,” he forced the word out, “know her whereabouts?”

“Last I saw she was boarding the ship with me,” Vogonwë said. “Just as I got onboard, I looked about and she had disappeared.”

“And you didn’t think to look for her?” Soregum stared at him in disbelief.

Vogonwë frowned. “She often disappears when I am about to recite a poem.”

“But think,” Soregum peered between the spindles in the rail, down at the water, “what if she slipped off the gangplank and fell into the water and drowned? What if she thought she forgot something on shore and ran back to get it and the ship launched before she returned? What if a suspicious seafaring type kidnapped her attractive young personage with intent to ravish? Hmmmmm? With a clueless boyfriend such as yourself standing by spouting poetry any number of things could have happened!”

Vogonwë had listened to this tirade with increasing alarm. At first he was inclined to tell the hobbit where he could shove it, but as the possibilities of Pimpish doom rolled off the smoke-stained tongue he fell into agitated pacing and finally, when Soregum was spent and panting against the spindles, the half-elf snapped.

“Oh my Eru,” he cried, tearing at his long silky brown hair, “what have I done? I must go back and find her!”

Merisu, who had observed the testosterone charged dramatics with typical unruffled patience, was about to speak a calming word when Vogonwë abandoned all reason and took a flying leap over the railing. So ruffled was he that he didn’t bother to add any airborn gymnastics to his dive, and indeed was so frazzled that instead of slicing into the water he bellyflopped with a sickening smack. Yet he doggedly paddled on toward shore, not hearing Merisu’s cries of, “But I saw her in the mess hall!” through the water in his ears.

“Well this isn’t good,” Merisu said, watching his flailing body tossed about by the waves.

Orogarn Two looked at her curiously, “Why?”

“Pimpi will be very upset when she finds out Vogonwë swam back to shore.”

“I would be more than willing to comfort her,” Soregum volunteered.

“Can I have his hair kit?” inquired Leninia.

“Perhaps there is a rowboat the young lass can row back to shore,” the Gateskeeper suggested. “If the loss of Vogonwë really troubles her that much….”

Merisu made a quick decision, as was her wont. “Someone must go get Pimpi and let her decide what she wishes to do about this.”

Just as Soregum volunteered to go fetch Pimpiowyn, they were interrupted by shouts and screams from the crew. They turned and looked where the sailors pointed, seeing a massive beast flying above the waters.

“What are they screaming about? It’s only Chrysophylax,” Leninia yawned.

“Oh!” Merisu looked stricken for a moment. “Kuruharan and Chrysi! We left them behind!” For a moment she teetered on the ruffled edge of decomposure, but heroically drew herself back at the last minute and said, “Well it is a good Chrysi is here. He can fetch Vogonwë back for us.”

Even as she spoke the dwarf and his dragon were zeroing in on their target, and in a moment Chrysophylax plucked from the waters a very wet and angry half-elf. The dragon flew on toward the ship and landed gracefully on the deck, ignoring the panicked cries and runnings to and fro of the ship’s crew. Vogonwë, deposited in a dripping heap on a coil of ropes, sputtered, “But I must find Pimpi!”

“Calm down,” Merisu said with the merest tinge of impatience. “She is aboard the ship, as I tried to tell you before. I saw her not a few moments ago, becoming acquainted with the cook.”

“What?!?” Vogonwë shook his head, sending driplets every which way. “You said she was lost!” he pointed an accusatory finger at Soregum.

Soregum shrugged, looking more than a little disappointed. “I was merely speculating….”

“This is all fascinating,” Kuruharan commented, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “What I want to know, is why when I arrived at the docks, surprise! No ship! Now if I didn’t know better, I’d say—”

“I am so sorry,” Merisu said with genuine penitence, as she was never anything but genuine. “But what with preparations and all, I did not have time to take a head count. If I had noticed you were gone, I would have made the captain wait, I assure you.”

Chrysophylax muttered something about overlooking the absence of a dwarf being one thing, and forgetting about a dragon being quite another, but it was difficult—nay, impossible—to stay miffed with Merisu for long, and so she soon had them eating out of her hand. But, since all she had had in her pockets were a couple biscuits and that was hardly enough to satisfy a dwarf and dragon, they all decided that it was high time they joined Pimpi in chumming it up with the ship’s cook. And so the Itship made their way down to the mess hall.

That is, save for Grrralph, who, as we all know, is most certainly not going to wake up before reaching Valleyum.

[Lush]

Leninia watched the proceedings on the ship, chewing on her claws, an unseemly habit she had picked up since de-glamourizing her existence and falling in with the GettingThereBitByBitship.

"Designer nails are better food than anything served on this floating funny farm," she snapped when Pimpi gave her a look of outmost horror.

I can't seem to be able to say anything clever, Leninia mused, as Pimpi turned away in terror. Alliteration only takes you so far, even lumberjacks that have their poetry published in cheap anthologies meant to rip off the gullible public (ha, they're even better at it than I was once upon a time) know that. Am I losing my touch? Have I been watching too much cable? What's going to happen to me in the Not Entirely Great (But Kinda Fabulous) Beyond?

Perhaps the answer to Leninia's woes could have been found in the fact that her life was being recorded by an irresponsible, tired, slightly mentally ill, more than a little neurotic college student, who was currently cornered by midterms and brainwashed by corporate culture into freaking out over the fact that she doesn't own the "right" pair of boots this season. If such a thing were possible, that is.

Unable as she was to find a cure for her present, most peculiar condition, Leninia finished feasting on Chan-hell nail varnish, and wandered onto [insert informed-sounding part of the ship; something that Leninia couldn't be bothered to remember] to enjoy the stale sea air.

The wind played with her hair like a bored playboy plays with the affections of the sweetly bland girl-next-door in a formulaic movie with a cheap script. She slapped at the wind, and the wind stuck its tail between its legs and left. She thought about John Lemmon, and blew him sea-foamy kisses, wherever he was. Though certainly, she thought, she would have never had as many (mis)-adventures had she not driven even her favourite husband to suicide.

Ah the strange fortune of the perpetually obscure anti-heroines! To be young, beautiful, ill-tempered and long-clawed, and not be killed off halfway into the story was something new in the history of "literature."

She felt life coursing through her veins (or was it the contents of her eternal hip-flask?) and she welcomed the feeling with the same hesitancy that one would welcome another one of Vogie's masterpieces, but, just like the afore-mentioned masterpiece, the whole thing was inevitable.

I'm going to be Ok over there, she thought, looking out toward the horizon and reflecting on all she had already survived, Vogie's ministrations, Orogarn Two's misplaced values, and stiff competition in the hair department from Merisu in particular. And if not, the Plāiböi Māñcion is hiring

[Kuruharan]

“Ah, the Sea! This is what life as an Elf is really all about!” thought Merisuwyniel to herself as she sat on the bow of the Entish Surprise and giggled merrily to herself as she watched the crew use Grralph as a handy mop. Vogonwë fell down from the crow’s nest (where he’d been trying to find some seagull named Livingston) and hit the deck with a mighty *splat.* The crew thought the half-elf was a particularly stubborn stain and furiously scrubbed at him with Grralph.

Merisuwyniel turned and watched the sea rocking and pitching beneath her. “Yes, this is the life,” she thought to herself, ignoring the sound of retching as Soregum heaved up his breakfast, midnight snack, last night’s second dinner, last night’s first dinner, and his afternoon snack.

A commotion erupted behind her as Kuruharan burst on deck. Being at sea had wrought the strangest transformation in the dwarf. No more was he the scheming landlubberly merchant. Now he had adopted the persona of a scallywag in a schooner to the hilt. He’d set aside the traditional layered robes of a dwarven magnate and was dressed in baggy sailor’s trousers, a stout blue overcoat of broadcloth with gold buttons, and a silly laced and feathered hat. To make matters worse, he’d strapped a peg-leg to himself and now hobbled and staggered about the ship making a terrible ruckus and addressing everybody as “AAAARRRRRR” at the top of his voice.

It was this new Kuruharan who now shot out of the stern cabins, reeled across the deck, and crashed into the mainmast. The crew started to chuckle.

“AARRRR!!!” bawled Kuruharan, as he righted himself with the aid of the mast. He weaved his way to where Soregum was making his offerings to the Sea. Unfortunately, he tripped and flopped right into Soregum, knocking the poor chap over the rail and screeching into the drink.

The crew burst into uncontrolled spasms of laughter.

Ignoring the fact that Soregum now bobbed helplessly in the water below, Kuruharan clattered his way up the stairs over to where Merisuwyniel sat.

“ARRRRRRR, lassie!!!” he bellowed.

“Uhhh…good morning,” she replied. “Don’t you think somebody should throw Soregum a line, or something.”

“I know not what swill ye’ve been…whoops!!!” howled the dwarf as he lost his balance again and fell into a nearby barrel.

Pimpi came out of the galley munching on an apple. She saw Soregum’s predicament and, deciding that competition was a good thing as far as Vogonwë was concerned, tossed him a line. Soregum dragged himself out of the water to the unrestrained chortling of the crew.

“Never mind,” called Merisuwyniel over the crashing noises Kuruharan was making in his barrel.

Merisuwyniel gazed back out over the ocean and took a deep breath of the sea air. (The crew stopped laughing to gape at her.) She could have stayed happily perched there until The End, but the plot intervened again (or maybe I should say, for once).

Shouts and thumps started coming from below deck. Peeved at the distraction, Merisuwyniel turned to see what was causing all the fuss. Someone kicked a door open and a knot of struggling crewmembers emerged, holding something that thrashed fiercely about in their grasp.

“A STOWAWAY! A STOWAWAY!” the crew shouted to each other. “Someone call the cap’n!”

At that moment Kuruharan knocked over his barrel, tumbled out, rolled across the deck, fell over the ledge, and landed in a pitiful heap at the foot of the steps leading up to the forecastle. “Make ‘em walk the plank and hang ‘em from the y-AAARRRR-d AAARRRRR-m!!” he yelled in a most contradictory (and annoying) fashion.

The captain and his officers emerged on deck.

“What…do…WE have…here?” the captain asked. He turned to his elven navigator. “Mister Neemoi…analysis.”

The elf, who had very straight black hair, stepped forward and peered at the whatever-it was the sailors were holding.

“Curious,” the elf said, almost to himself. “It seems to be some sort of giant rat!”

“Villain, Poltroon!!” shrilled a voice. “Tell your ill-bred ruffians to loose hold of me and give me my sword! I’ll cut the lot of you to ribbons!!”

“It seems to be a talking rat,” observed Dr. Macaw.

“Yes, doctor,” replied Neemoi in a tone that had the faint ordure of condescension. “I have heard of such things before.”

“What…SHOULD …we…do…with him?” interrupted the captain.

“Blast it Dim,” squawked Dr. Macaw, “I’m a doctor, not a practitioner of jurisprudence!”

“I am a mouse, not a rat, rapscallion!” shrilled a voice. “And if you fail to unhand me this very instant, I shan’t be responsible for the consequences!”

Something about this voice seemed vaguely familiar to Merisuwyniel. She climbed down the steps to the deck (making sure to stomp on Kuruharan on her way over) to have a look at this stowaway.

What she saw was a mouse that would have been almost two feet tall had he been standing, His fur was black and he wore a band of gold about his head through which was stuck a crimson feather (at the moment it was a little worse for wear).

“Why, it’s Grim Reaperneep!” she cried.

Upon seeing her, the mouse bit right through the hand of one of his captors and sprung free.

“Most Noble Lady,” the mouse piped as he knelt at her feet. “After seeing you I could not continue in this mortal coil if I failed to place my sword at your unending disposal. In pursuance of this great goal, I…ahem…gained passage on this vessel to pledge myself to your service.

Every head snapped around to stare at Merisuwyniel. Other maidens might have been abashed at this, but Merisuwyniel secretly lived for these moments so she blushed just enough to make herself more attractive before responding.

“We would be honored to have your blade Seigneur Mouse!” she declared grandly. “All aid is appreciated in our Quest to Reunify the Entish Bow.”

*BONG* goes a sudden realization.

“Uhhh, Pimpi, my dear,” Merisuwyniel gently intoned, as she grabbed the quarterling in a grip of steel. “You did remember to load our special wagon on board, didn’t you.”

“I’m not a porter,” came the incensed reply.

“Gateskeeper,” Merisuwyniel hissed.

“What wagon?” he asked.

“Vogonwë?”

“I had an ode to compose!”

“Orogarn?!”

“Two!”

“Kuruharan?!!”

“AAARRRRRRR!!!”

“Leninia?!!!”

“As if…”

“Chrysophylax?!!!!”

The dragon was out of earshot.

“TURN THE SHIP AROUND!!!!” screamed Merisuwyniel.

“But…” said the captain.

Merisuwyniel grabbed him by the throat. “TURN THE SHIP AROUND!!!”

They made remarkably good time and were back in Mithfortune later that afternoon. There on the pier sat the Ent that Was Broken, mocking them.

*Whew* sighed Merisuwyniel when she saw the Ent and heard its taunts. “That would have been embarrassing to show up in Valleyum with no Ent!”

After the Ent was safely contained in the hold, they set sail again.

“Now, to the Uttermost West and the End of the World!” cried a joyous Merisuwyniel as she watched the shore vanish to the rear.

“The end of the world is in the East,” said Reaperneep.

“What?” said Cirkdan. “That…IS…nonsense. The…End…lies to…the…West. I…HAVE…been…there.”

“What ca-ca!” shrilled Reaperneep. He turned to Merisuwyniel. “Is our noble quest destined to fail because of the addled ravings of a sea-borne lunatic? We must sail East!!!”

“Ugh!” snapped the captain. “Mister Neemoi…explain…to…him.”

The elf stepped forward.

“It is not logical that we should sail east, the land we just departed from lies to the east. If we sail east we’d run aground!” Neemoi stated.

“A minor problem!” cried Reaperneep. “Are we to be so easily defeated by such a trifling thing?”

“Err…” said Merisuwyniel.

“Claws,” said Cirkdan, “do…something.”

“Blast it Dim,” squawked Macaw, “I’m a doctor, not a navigator! That’s the Elf’s job!”

“Where’s…Tottie…our…engineer?” called the captain.

“Bombed out of his mind,” replied Neemoi.

“Oh good, another one,” thought Merisuwyniel. Out loud she said, “Gentlemen and et cetera, this quarreling cannot get us anywhere.”

“East,” cried Reaperneep.

“West,” snapped Neemoi.

“There must be something we can do to settle this,” Merisuwyniel shouted.

“West,” said Neemoi firmly.

“East,” said Reaperneep as he drew his sword.

“Perhaps we could go north,” Pimpi piped in. “That way both of you will get to go in half the direction you want.”

“You can’t sail in half the direction you want to go,” said Neemoi. “It’s not logical! You won’t get where you want to go!”

Reaperneep’s sword glinted.

“Uhh, maybe we had better go north,” said Merisuwyniel uneasily. She wanted to avoid adding to the Gallowship’s already impressive body count and there was something in the distant past about her people about arriving from Valleyum from the north. Unlikely as it was it seemed the only workable compromise.

“Very…well,” said Cirkdan. “North…IT..is.”

“AAARRR,” bellowed Kuruharan as he lurched off. Unfortunately, he tripped and flopped right into Soregum, knocking the poor chap over the rail and screeching into the drink.

The crew burst into uncontrolled spasms of laughter.

And so, here is our Quest, heroically embarked upon an attempt to save the world, sailing in a direction none of them think will take them where they are going.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel sat in the captain’s office, studying the sea charts as she had so often done during the past days. The first officer, Mister Neemoi, sat beside her, watching her with his usual impassive expression. Strangely, that emotionless face had inspired many females in the past to seek to awaken emotion in him, yet he had remained steadfast in his logical outlook on life, the universe, and everything. Even now, in the presence of a young and gorgeous Elven maiden, it was impossible to see what he thought of her, if he was thinking of her at all. He had explained some points of nautical navigation to her, pleased (quite logically) with her ready intellect and quick grasp of facts.

“So in going north, we are now approaching the island of Angol,” she said questioningly. He nodded in affirmation. “If we stop there, perhaps even go on land, and then sail on, we could change the direction without drawing Reaperneep’s attention to that, don’t you think?”

“That would seem likely,” he answered.

“It is a land famous in legends of old,” Merisu mused. “It is said that there are marvellous jesters there and tellers of great tales.” …and fabulous fashions, she added to herself, not wanting to speak aloud of something that would seem frivolous and superficial to the male Elf.

“I gather that you intend to go ashore,” Neemoi said, lifting one eyebrow. “I must warn you that none of our crew have done so for many years; we do not know if it is safe there. Therefore, I presume that all of our senior officers will want to go with you. Our captain never misses a chance to take risks.”

“I will inform my companions, offering them the choice; those who wish can come along. Yet we should not tarry too long; we have lost precious time already.” Merisuwyniel curtseyed prettily and left the room; the door swung open for her as if moved by magic. Then again, it might have been Elven technology that only seems like magic to us…

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

After what had been a rather boring shore leave (Angol didn’t have a reputation like the vacation paradise of Risa), Merisu, her companions, and those of the ship’s crew who had formed the landing party boarded the little boat that was to take them back to their ship. Dr. Macaw had flown onto his favourite perch on Merisu’s shoulder, where he had a good view – err, was able to monitor the regularity of her heartbeat. The captain had not shown up, so a search party was sent out and eventually found him pulling on his boots after what he called ‘negotiations’ with a female tribal leader.

Pimpiowyn and Vogonwë had spent time wandering in a forest that reminded him of his home and inspired several new poetic creations. Fortunately for the rest of the group, he was too busy planning how to unite them into one large epic to be able to recite any parts to an unwilling audience. A picturesque river had been his particular joy, and he thought to name himself after it. “The Bard of Avon” sounded good, he thought, and Pimpi had agreed somewhat absentmindedly.

Reaperneep had insisted on accompanying Merisu “to protect her from harm”. It had taken all of her diplomatic skill to keep him from duelling with a number of the natives, since he had considered their natural curiosity and interest in her beauty a personal affront. She was rather relieved that they were going back on board, hoping that he would stay out of trouble there. Kuruharan’s pockets were bulging more than they had when he left the ship; whether he had bought new wares or sold the natives something for an exorbitant price was anyone’s guess, and Merisu did not intend to ask him about it. Chryshophylax had flown over the island, but after several unpleasant encounters with knights and farmers who had such outlandish names as George and Giles (not to mention swords of great brightness and lineage), he returned to the ship earlier than the others.

Soregum, Leninia, and Gateskeeper had stayed on the ship, ostensibly to watch over the still sleeping Grrralph, but each of them actually wishing to keep a low profile for reasons of their own. Mister Neemoi had also remained on board, since the Captain had insisted on going ashore. It was illogical for both of the highest-ranking officers to leave the vessel, he argued.

(Pimpi had teased Merisu about the first officer, misinterpreting the amount of time they spent together as personal interest. She felt sorry for her idol’s loneliness, since she basked in the attention of two rivalling males, and wished that Meri could be happy with someone new and forget Gravlox. She remembered a snatch of an encouraging song: “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with”, she warbled. It was below Merisu’s dignity to answer.)

One disadvantage of the island of Angol was the rainy weather, and as the crew members (whose names she did not know, all of them wearing red shirts) rowed the little boat back to the ship, she shivered. Clouds drew nearer, darkening ominously, and the waves grew larger. Thunder rolled in the distance. Just as they pulled up to board the ship, a flash of lightning struck the mast of the small vessel in which they sat. Merisu’s skin tingled and she heard a slight crackle, then all seemed to be normal again. Hands reached down to help her climb the ladder.

When all were on deck again, she turned to go to the cabin she shared with the other two females. Astonished, she saw that Pimpiowyn was wearing clothing that seemed to have shrunk inexplicably. “What happened to you?” she asked.

“What happened to you?” came the Half-hobbit’s shocked answer.

Merisu looked down. Instead of her usual long divided skirt, she was now wearing a garment so short that she was not sure it deserved the name ‘skirt’. Her midriff was bare, unadorned by ruffles and frills. As if to make up for the lack of fabric, her boots were now thigh-high, and a wicked-looking dagger was shoved into one of them.

She turned to look at the others. Kuruharan looked like a pirate, but then he had already taken on that appearance during their journey, so that was nothing new. Vogonwë, now covered with fine mail and carrying a shield and sword, looked more a soldier than a poet. And Captain Cirkdan sported something unprecedented in a Elf – a beard!!

Already confused, she was not prepared for what came next. Neemoi, now with a very fetching goatee adorning his face, rushed up to her with a big smile, hugged her enthusiastically and said, “I’m so glad you’re back, darling! I missed you so!”

Leninia, dressed as exotically as usual, came up and exclaimed, “Aww, if I’d known that you were going to Carnaby Street to shop, I would have come along! Did you get those miniskirts at Mériquaunts? And your hairdos! You must have been to Sassûn’s salon. I’m jealous!”

Bewildered, Merisu decided that she apparently needed a rest; perhaps there would be a logical explanation for everything, if she could only understand what was happening. Yet instead of going to the girls’ cabin, Neemoi led her to his, where she found all of her belongings. Even the Entish Bow stood beside the bed, as if she had left it there. “Why don’t you take a nap?” the first officer suggested. “I’ll be back after meeting with the captain to plan our course of action for capturing the other Elven ships for our journey. I want to make sure none of the other crew members tries to assassinate him and take over.”

Though she tried, she could not sleep. Finally she sent an O-mail message to Vogonwë, asking him to bring Pimpi, Kuruharan, and Reaperneep to her cabin to discuss what had happened. They brought shocking news with them, of a crew that seemed to have turned barbarian, and of a plot to murder other Elves to capture their ships.

“A Kinslaying?” she gasped. “But who has heard of Elves killing one another? That is horrible – it must be stopped!”

“Shall I kill the whole crew to stop them?” Vogonwë asked, standing tall in his armour. Pimpiowyn looked up at him admiringly.

“I shall help you!” exclaimed Reaperneep.

“Waste of a good opportunity for profit,” muttered Kuruharan.

“Something has changed,” Merisu stated. “This is not the same ship nor the same crew; though they look similar, there are differences. Perhaps the lightning changed us so that we are no longer in our own Arda, but in a parallel world – as in a mirror, darkly. We must find a way to return to our world, but can we do something to avert a catastrophe here?”

“Do nothing hasty,” she continued. “I shall contact the Captain and Dr. Macaw to see if we can duplicate the conditions that brought us here. And since this ship’s Mister Neemoi seems to be my husband in this world, I will reason with him. Logic will show him that peace is better than the slaughter they have planned.”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Being an Elf who accomplished what she set out to do, it did not take long before Merisuwyniel and the other members of the landing party were once again seated in the small boat. Neemoi, his face filled with sorrow at losing the Elven maiden who had charmed him so (the one he would be getting back was less even-tempered than she), let down the ropes. He had promised her (what price she paid for that promise is left to the imagination of the reader) that he would turn aside the bloodthirsty schemes of the Elven Empire and seek to lead them to peace.

Once again, the wind tossed their small vessel to and fro. Once again, ominous clouds enveloped the sky, and thunder sounded from them. As lightning struck, Merisu’s thoughts called out to Yawanna for help and guidance. She fervently hoped that there was a benevolent equivalent to the green goddess in this world. Then she found herself and her companions aboard a ship that was just as she remembered it. All was as it had been, she was as she had been, yet though she was greatly relieved, why did she found herself wishing that Neemoi’s greeting had been more than just a cool nod?