The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[Kuruharan]

“How did that degenerate bum become Lord of the Breath of ‘Ard Liquor?” demanded Orogarn Two, a bit more loudly than might be considered prudent.

“Shhh,” hissed Merisuwyniel.

“I would think being degenerate might be of assistance,” mumbled Kuruharan in a much more subdued tone.

“Duuuude,” intoned Manuël Sàntana, “chill out!! I was chosen because, like, I was, like, the awsomest dude on the block!”

“Oh, very nice,” said Orogarn Two, clearly unimpressed. “And how do you figure that, eh?”

“By the Valleyfornia way, dude!” replied Sàntana. “By plebiscite!”

“What?” snapped Orogarn Two. “Are you proposing that you come from some sort of anarcho-syndicalist commune?”

“Like, totally, dude!” said Sàntana. “When my Old Man cooked up this new gig for us, we had, like, a competition to see who would rock out the most. I promised the peeps that if I was chosen I’d, like, keep running Muzak non-stop, the surf would always be up, and everyone could, like, lie around on the beach and drink strawberry margaritas day and night. Then everyone went and marked their super-secret decoder ring ballots. I won in a landslide, no hanging chads or nothing! So mellow out dude!”

“What?” cried Orogarn Two. “You weren’t crowned or anointed or…something?”

“Nope,” replied Manuël with a grin. “But I’m The Man, man!”

“Listen,” said Orogarn Two earnestly, “a bunch of people stuffing pieces of paper into a box is no basis for a system of government! Supreme executive power derives from the Mandate of Emu, not some farcical counting ceremony!”

“Chill out, man” said Sàntana.

Orogarn Two paid no attention. “You can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just because a bunch of misguided surfers with visions of utopian debaucheries dancing in their heads put checkmarks beside your name.”

“Duuude...” said Manuël.

“I mean,” continued Orogarn Two, completely unfazed, “if I went round saying I was premier just because I convinced a bunch of chumps to stand in line to shove some papers into a tin, they’d put me away!”

“Hey, man,” said Manuël Sàntana, becoming just ever so slightly flustered, “you’re, like, crimping my style, man! Just chill out, man!”

As if to emphasize his point, he raised TícTàc and played a mellow bit of Muzak.

“See, man,” said Manuël. “Just take it easy, man. Like, go with the flow!”

Orogarn Two turned to Merisuwyniel, “I begin to think our cause is hopeless!”

“I don’t think this conversation is being very constructive,” said Merisuwyniel.

[Rimbaud]

“I’ll show you constructive,” exclaimed Hal, unexpectedly, and with a grandiose flourish, produced a very small black leather case.

Oh no, thought Merisuwyniel, another ‘his guitar is very small’ type running joke. How tiresome.

Fortuitously, this was not the case, for with fingers defter than those of the be-pickled-peppered Peter Piper, Hal opened the case, and swiftly constructed from the items therein an ornate but serviceable guitar. He strummed the instrument, introduced as Wailur, as if experimentally, as Manuel watched sceptically, and although the sound was not the soaring joy his host’s fretwork, it was not unpleasant.

“Dude,” said Manuel appreciatively. “Let’s, like, jam.”

“I already do,” said Hal, suspiciously.

“Just play, and maybe we’ll get what we need,” hissed Pimpi, in what she had hoped would be an inaudible whisper to their hosts.

Prada smiled fashionably. “Get on with it.”
And so the quarter-elf and the legend played their instruments together, and the music of Wailur and TicTac rose to the ceiling in a minty-fresh cacophony.
Then the voice of the Wailur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, but all played by incontinent weasels, and like unto countless choirs of 80s hair-band singers singing with ‘words’, began to fashion the theme of Hal and Manuel to a great bloody din; and a sound arose of endless interchanging discords woven in some sort of musical purgatory that passed beyond hearing (oh hell, yes) into the depths and rarely troubling the heights, and the places of the ears of the so afflicted were filled to overflowing, and the ghastliness and the echo of the aural mayhem went out into the Void, and it was not void.

The valorous Velour were dolorous.

“Alan McGee’s on the phone,” said Polli-Esther fibrously, as she pocked her plastic-enhanced features around the door.

“Seriously, no one will get that,” said Hal, ceasing and desisting, “but I’m guessing you’re going to leave it in anyway.”

Damn right.

In the sickening silence that followed the last shocking twang of the Wailur, Merisuwyniel adjusted her superbly crafted hair, and asked Prada what she used on her hair, to make it so sleek, soft and shiny.

“In fact,” said Merisuwyniel, “I could even say it was three times as shiny as hair with other products.”

“How on earth could you quantify that?” butted in Orogarn Two. The Gateskeeper whipped out an odd pocket instrument, with many buttons and runes scribed upon it.

“It’s a P’Ann-Tene,” said Prada, softly.

“Pound ten?” screamed Manuel querulously. “And you so totally like, complain, about my board wax?”

“Your board wanes, dude-dear,” replied Prada airily.

“Oooh, good one,” said Pimpi.

At this point a particularly well-built fellow entered, without knocking and looked slowly at each person in the room. The room was far from empty and this took some considerable time and there was much shuffling of feet. Still, the imposing bulk of the man, allied to one glowing red eye and a Mr Valleyum belt, quietened any potential rebellions, like an SUV through a pack of baby seals.

“The Reunitership?” he asked in a deep Teutonic voice.

“What the Muddled-Mirth is a Teuton?” asked Vogonwe quietly.

“Um, yes,” answered Merisuwyniel firmly, turning to face the dramatic entrance.

“I am the Governator,” said her interlocutor equally firmly, with the same rich accent. “My word is law here.”

“Um,” said Manuel tentatively. “Du-ude…”

“Do not dude me,” ordered the Governator, terminating Manuel’s sentence callously. “I am the law. Democratically.”

“Sweet,” subsided Santana.

“Now,” said the Governator turning his baleful red-eyed glare back to the fair Elven princess. “You wish the power to reunite the mighty bow? Such unions are not possible throughout the rest of Muddled-Mirth, but here in Valleyum anything can be reunited.”

“Good,” said Merisuwyniel. “I’m all for things being, er, reunited.” She felt like she had only the most tenuous grasp of the conversation by this point.

Hal had completed the repackaging of Wailur, and now addressed himself to their formidable challenger.
“So you’re the boss? Or they are? And who has the power? And will you be able to fix it, and moreover, will you actually do so? And will any of us die? And what’s the fastest land mammal?”

“Yes, no, me, yes, possibly, probably and the cheetah,” answered the Governator reasonably, before turning sharply on his heel.

“Come and see me up in Cleverly Bills, my mansion,” he said over his shoulder. “Ignore these cretins, we only use them for tourism. Their lies are true lies, and I feel like some sort of nursery policeman…”

“Kindergarten…” began Hal.

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Merisuwyniel, before the Governator spoke over her.

“…and basically until the end of days I am stuck here, unable to terminate their contracts.”

“Du-ude…”, said Manuel, looking irate. “We only accept you here on sufferance. This goes too far.” And he lifted Tictac and struck such a chord that lightning flew from the head of the guitar, blue and wild, and struck the Governator who crumpled twitching to the floor, acrid smoke seeping from his huge frame. The red-eye fixed on the great wound on his back, in a highly improbable manoeuvre. Liquid bubbled from the cut, which was small but producing a considerable amount of steam.

“Oozing nine millimetres,” said the Governator. “But, I’ll be back.”

“Never thought he’d say that,” said Hal, turning away from the corpse. “Now can we get on with the reuniting stuff?”

“Come, sit,” beckoned Prada, and they fashioned themselves in a semi-circle facing their fairest hosts.

Manuel had remained standing, and now he spoke again. “Few have ever come hither through greater tenuousness or on an errand more absurd. We must discuss this at length.”

Thus was the Council of Valleyum Entertaining New Travellers Requesting Insight (COVENTRI) begun, and shortly thereafter they all felt like they had been sent there. They were interrupted only by a small flat-faced dog, which waddled in and spoke to them. “Wot, no puns?” he said, pugnaciously.

[The Saucepan Man]

Throughout the audience with the Velour, Soregum had kept his cloak and cowl tightly wrapped around him. Given his previous employment history, he couldn’t afford to take any risks. And so he lurked silently behind his companions, trying to find a convenient shadow to conceal himself in. Unfortunately, in the Blessed Realm of the Light-Fittings, shadows were in short supply.

“Hey, who’s the dude in the black cloak?” said Mantoes.

“You should like know, man,” quipped Tickle-Me Ulmo.

“Du-ude!” they chimed together as they gave each other a high five.

Meanwhile, all eyes in the Uh-oh-ship turned nervously to the prone figure of Grrralph.

“Er …” began Merisuwyniel.

“No, the other dude in the black cloak,” interrupted Mantoes, taking out a small white paper tube and setting light to the end of it. An aromatic scent filled the air as he puffed on it.

The Non-black-cloaked-ship began studiously to examine each other’s apparel in confusion.

“No, that dude in the black cloak. Like, the little guy hiding at the back,” continued Mantoes, pointing at Soregum and passing the white tube to T-M Ulmo.

“Who? Oh him. That’s just Soregum,” said Merisu, as the poor Halfling began to back towards the door to the chamber.

“Hey little fella. Why don‘t you like introduce yourself,” said Manuël Sántana languidly.

With a nod from Manuël, the Nîlon twins manoeuvred Soregum forward towards the front of the group until he stood quaking before the mightily bronzed Lords and Ladies of the West Coast.

“I dig the black threads, dude. But why don’t you like lose them so we can see you like for real.” said Prada, her voice rising at the end of the sentence as if she were asking a question.

Slowly, Soregum removed his cloak and hood. The Velour stared. Soregum’s cheeks flushed red. The Velour carried on staring. Soregum cheeks carried on flushing red. The Velour still stared. Soregum’s cheeks were by now a bright shade of crimson and dangerously approaching meltdown. The white tube, which had been slowly making its way round the Round Table had reached Manuël. As he took a drag on it, he started to chuckle.

“Man, what is that!” he giggled.

One by one, each of the Velour began to snigger, until the whole Chamber was filled with the melodious, if rather cruel, sound of their mirth. Most of the Titter-ship joined in too and Orogarn Two was soon on the floor, convulsed with fits of laughter.

“I am a H-h-h-obbit, s-sir!” stammered Soregum as his cheeks engaged shutdown mode and he turned a shade whiter than Leninia‘s palest foundation. Hoots of merriment rang out

“A Huhuhuhobbit?” guffawed Manuël, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Awesome!” sniggered Mantoes.

“Rad!” giggled Nír-Vana.

“Cool!” chortled T-M Ulmo.

“Far out!“ laughed Prada.

“Cowabunga!” roared Tulk Hogan.

Immediately, the laughter stopped and the Velour all turned to him disdainfully.

“Ew. That’s like so Second Age, Tulk.” said Prada. “You can be such a retard!”

“So amigo, like what’s a Huhuhuhobbit got to do with my Council?” asked Manuël, starting to chuckle once more.

“He’s a Hobbit, and so am I.” said Pimpiowyn, stepping forward defiantly. “Well half of me is anyway.”

She would not stand by while her mother’s race was held up to ridicule. And she felt rather sorry for Soregum too. Vogonwë fumed silently.

“Oh, so that’s what a Hobbit like looks like,” said Mantoes. “ Way cool!”

“Yea, I think that I like sang about them,” added Nír-Vana, the Maiden of Grûnge.

“No wonder they live in a place called the Mire”, quipped T-M Ulmo.

“Du-ude!” he and Mantoes sang out together as they high fived again.

“Ew. It’s so like short!” sneered Estë-Lynn.

“Omigod, and so fat!” added Chanessa contemptuously.

“Like gross. Just look at those teeth,” chipped in Vairsacë, screwing up her pretty Velour nose.

Soregum earnestly scanned the floor of the Chamber for any hint that it might swallow him up. Then, his hands trembling, he reached for his pipe and tried to fire it up.

“Hey, hobbit dude,” Prada said sharply and pointed at a no smoking sign on the wall. Soregum stared speechlessly from the sign to Prada to the smoking white tube, which had now reached Tulk Hogan.

“Man, Yawanna. That’s like great gear you grow in your garden,” said Tulk, as he puffed on it. “Like totally tubular, man.”

“Hey, where is Yawanna?” said Manuël, belatedly noticing her absence.

“Search me,” answered Prada. “Nír-Vana?”

“How should I know?” replied the Maiden of Grûnge. “I’m not my sister’s keeper.”

“Hey, like the Breadhead’s missing too, man,” said Mantoes.

“Yea, where’s Häulié?” added T-M Ulmo.

“The Dweeb’s probably in his workshop, trying to make some more of those little dudes with the beards,” replied Mantoes. “He’s so like lame.”

“Oh man, you mean Dwarfs. Remember them? Man, they were like hardcore,” said T-M Ulmo. “But so gross. He sure made them with the ugly-stick, man.”

“Dwarves!” Kuruharan muttered angrily under his breath, his beard bristling, as the Velour duo once more high fived with a resounding “Du-ude!”

[Mithadan]

At that moment, the door swung open with a sonorous groan. A tall, mighty thewed, figure trudged in, pausing only for a moment to oil the hinges of the door, which closed silently behind him. He wore a black leather apron which was soiled from his great and momentous toils, and a great belt swung on his hips in which were hung tools inumerable. Hammers, he carried, and wrenches great and small. Spanners and screwdrivers, tape measures, awls, drills, saws and many others besides, and about each of his mighty wrists were great rolls of silver, glowing duct tape. Over his eyes was a visor made of some magical clear material. Before him ran two odd little persons, each of whom carried what appeared to be a golden plate hanging from a string.

"I thought they were mithical..." whispered Merisu in awe.

"What manner of beings are these?" asked Orogarn.

"They are..." began Merisu. But before she could finish, each of the little persons drew forth from their belts a metal hammer which they used to strike the plates.

GONG

The room shook with the noise. As the tone faded, the figures bowed and retreated to the door.

"They are Gongs," answered Merisu. "Or Gongers, some call them. Long ago, it is said they were Elves who dedicated themselves to serving their master. They are now bent with their labors and..."

"Strange..." interjected Kuruharan.

"Yes," finished Merisu. "They are strange. And deaf."

The tall figure approached the table at which the Velour were seated. Mantoes grinned and cried out, "Woot, woot! Geek alert!" The great one, for clearly he was one of the Velour scowled, but did not reply. Instead, he nodded to Manuël. "Haulië..." muttered Manuël by way of greeting.

"I am sorry I am late," said Haulië. "I was working on my punchlist. Item number 4,678,242, in fact. I was fixing the plumbing of the great waterfall of the Holy Mountain..."

"You fixed the shower, how sweet of you!" piped Prada.

"... which you broke while snowboarding down the glacier," continued Haulië. "Next I will begin work on the great fjord whose walls you crumbled while sailboarding."

"Cool," replied Manuël as he examined his fingernails. They were all there.

"I came as quickly as I could once I received the summons," continued the legendary carpenter of the Velour. "What is happening?"

Tickle-me-Ulmo rose and gestured at the Itship. "These," he said with a sniff. "Were washed up on our shores. Which reminds me, add removal of the wreckage of their ship to your punchlist." Haulië pulled a voluminous scroll from under his apron and unwound it, which took the better part of a half hour. Then he scribbled some runes on it before rolling it back up. "I'll get to it in about 27 years," he replied. "Go on waterboy."

"They requested an audience which we oh so graciously have granted them," continued the dripping wet Lord. "They request that we fix some tree or other."

"I don't do trees," answered Haulië. "That's my wife's gig. So if there's nothing more..." He turned and made as if to go.

"Not a tree," piped up Pimpiowyn. "An Ent. We have come to ask you... great... wonderous... dudes..." Prada cleared her throat. "...and dudettes to re-unify a broken Ent."

"Well, that's still not my job," replied Haulië. "After I made the Dwarves we amended our Charter to clarify that I am not to mess around with making or fixing living things. An Ent would be within Yawanna's jurisdiction. Where is she anyway?"

"Like, last I saw her, she was communing with a tree, dude," said Tulk Hogan. "Why don't you throw her a vine?"

Haulië sighed. "Very well." He reached under his apron again and withdrew the thinnest, lightest, shiniest Cell-antir the Itship had ever seen. Gateskeeper's eyes bulged. "A T-2000!" he whispered. "Full color screen, messaging, net access, video, speakers with woofers, tweeters, sub-woofers..." Kuruharan kicked him and Gateskeeper fell silent as Haulië dialed.

A beep was heard, then a voice spoke. "This is Yawanna," it said. "I can't answer your osanwë right now. I'm busy... (tee hee, stop it) ... I'm occupied... (Shhh I'm recording)... I'm... uh, negotiating with Melvin about my new role as Queen of Muddled Mirth. Please leave a message and maybe I'll call." A second beep was heard, then a moment's silence which was broken by a few snickers.

"Duuude," laughed Manuël. "You've been dissed. Yawanna's dumped you like dirty laundry and hooked up with Mel again."

The Cell-antir fell from Haulië's nerveless hands. Kuruharan leapt forward and attempted to pick it up, but a miniature bolt of lightning shot from its screen and burned his hand. "Ow!" cried the Dwarf. "I was only going to pick it up for him..." Vogonwë and Orogarn exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. But then, Haulië's face turned bright red and he roared in anger. Seizing a huge hammer from his belt, he swung it about his head and brought it down on the floor before the council table with a mighty crash. Cracks appeared, then a portion of the floor fell in with a rush like the imaginary wings of a Balfrog. Flames leapt up from the newly opened fissure.

"Dude," Manuel intoned with a serious look on his face. "You better add that to your punchlist too." But Haulië ignored him.

"Mogul has gone too far!" he shouted. "He has come even unto Valleyum and soiled the sands of this shore. We must hunt him down and rescue Yawanna!"

"We agreed not to mess around with Muddled Mirth," Mantoes replied. "And next week is our annual clambake and beer-fest! Besides, I'm not sure Yawanna wants to be rescued."

"Of course she wants to be rescued," cried Haulië. "She loves me! Besides, who would want to hang with Mogul? I will go to Muddled Mirth myself if none will aid me."

This pronouncement threw the council into chaos, with some crying that Mogul must be stopped and others saying that the surf was up and who cares about a few trees, Elves, Men and Dwarves anyway. It may be that this debate would have gone on for some time, but the council was once again interrupted. Two Elves rushed in with wide eyes and impeccably coiffed hair.

"My Lords and Ladies," cried the first Elf as he raced forward. "There is... AUUUGGGHHHH!..." He screamed for a long time as he fell into the fissure that had opened on the floor.

"Pity," murmured Prada. "We really should put up a 'wet floor' or 'caution' sign or something."

The second Elf stopped just before the fissure. "My Lords and Ladies," he cried. "There is a great army or Orcs, Trolls, Elephants and Loyers encamped upon the plain before the Hill of Fish. They carry banners bearing the mark of the Red Nostril. They have sent this message." He tossed a scroll over the fissure to Manuël.

He read it aloud. "Greetings my boring brethren. Melvin Bluenote, also known as Mogul Bildur, sends his regards. I would like to offer Valleyum a covenant of peace and future trade with my realm in Muddled Mirth. In exchange, I ask only for a trifle that has caught my fancy. A little token of your friendship. I would like something returned to me that was stolen by a certain Elf, known as Merisuwyniel. Just some shards, pieces, fragments of wood that once were an Ent. In exchange you shall have my gratitude and friendship. If not, well I've come to party!"

Manuël slumped back into his chair. He pronounced a single word of great power and portent: "Bummer!"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

And lo, all eyes turned to Merisuwyniel, both of the Velour and of the WeHaveNoIdeaWhatThisIsAllAboutShip. She stood tall and straight, her cheeks flushed most becomingly with righteous anger, dramatically clasping the Entish Bow to her heaving bosom. [Truth be told, though the Bow feared for its once and future life, it relished those moments, as my cherished readers can well imagine!]

“Never!” she cried out, and repeated it for emphasis, “Never!”

“What did she say?” Chanessa stage-whispered.

“Dunno,” Estë-Lynn replied. “Sounded to me like ‘Verily I come, I come to you’.”

Merisu was getting into the spirit of the occasion and raised the arm that held the Bow, shaking it defiantly. “Mogûl, if you want it, come and claim it!”

“Ummm, isn’t that what he just did?” Vairsacë commented pragmatically.

Taken aback ever so slightly, the Elven maiden tried again. “By Vinaigrettiel my deceased evil but repentant mother and Gravlox the Fair-Enough-In-My-Eyes, you shall have neither the Bow nor me!” With these words, she fled from the Lofty Halls of the Velour and was seen there never again.

[Rimbaud]

Which left the Flounderingship, well, floundering. Feet shuffled, fingernails were inspected, and some took the chance to enjoy the fine art that adorned the walls. Seemingly, the favoured style was a splurge of paint and colour, perfected by – Hal peered to read the scrawl on the nearest – Jak’s Son, Pillock.

“I suppose,” he ventured, “That we should, um, be supportive and walk out, you know?”

“Nay,” said Manuël, sounding rather grand for once, although it didn’t last. “We should, you know, like, find a solution and appease Mogul.”

“Appeasement, eh?” said Hauliê. “Don’t much like the sound of that.”

And like a childhood failure on the hopscotch board, they were back to square one.

“Let me get this straight,” said Soregum. “Merisu has the bow, Mogûl wants it and we face certain annihilation if we demur from producing it. Seems clear to me.”

“We can’t abandon Merisu,” said Orogarn Two. “This mission ain't over until Pimpi sings.”

"Hey!" exclaimed a short sort-of-hobbity-human.

Hal’s mind cast itself back to memories of Merisu’s heaving bosom and concurred. “We must provide support,” he muttered.

“It’s us that, like, will get it in the neck, if you all leave!” exclaimed Vairsacë, somewhat plaintively. “If you hightail it outta here now, we’ll have to come after you for our own sakes.”

“Can’t you mount a valiant but ultimately fruitless defence?” asked Hal. “It would be jolly spiffing if you did.”

“Fruitless defence is the last resort of the valiant,” countered Haulië.

“And it ain’t got nothing like that in our contracts,” cried Mantoes.

“There’s, um, some small print,” murmured the Gateskeeper. “In a microdot hidden in the ‘V’ of Velour. We tendered the software package.”

“Word,” said Vairsacë.

“That’s it,” said Gateskeeper.

“No, I mean, just, you know, ‘word’,” said Vairsacë hurriedly. “Like, ‘word up, we’re in a jam’.”

“Ah.”

“We have two options,” said Hal, pompously. “Either we decide to support Merisu’s bounceless, er, boundless, um, problems…or we muck in with these chaps and fight a brave fight.”

The door slammed behind them, as the LikeWhatevership departed in a flurry of a hurry, leaving some seriously un-chilled out Velour in their wake.

[Kuruharan]

The Gallowship fled down the escalator, past the plot hole, and out the Mall. They continued fleeing pell mell until they reached an indefinite point and flopped down.

Chrysopylax pointed toward a hill looming in the distance. “Excuse me,” he said. “I believe that is the enemy right over there.”

"DOH!!!"

There were thousands of them spread all about the base of the hill.

“Verily,” muttered Orogarn Two. “When my people tried this stunt the earth was changéd from a plane into a sphere. Is it not time for the earth to be changéd into a banana shape or something?”

“Eucatastrophes can never happen the same way twice,” opined Kuruharan.

“It wouldn’t be exactly the same way,” retorted Orogarn Two.

“It would be the same principle,” rejoined Kuruharan.

“Pipe down,” snarled Merisuwyneil. “Look in the center of the camp! It looks like there is some sort of prisoner being tortured there!”

The distance was too great to see clearly, but it appeared that some figure with shockingly blonde hair was bound and surrounded by other figures who seemed to be going over his body with ostrich feathers and hitting him with wet noodles.

“My darling…” murmured Merisuwyniel.

“What?” said Orogarn Two.

“err…Nothing,” said Merisuwyniel.

“Milady,” shrilled a voice. “There is nothing else for it but to launch a desperate frontal assault to rescue yon prisoner and avenge the honor of this pathetic land!”

“B-b-but, that might get us killed!” whined Pimpi.

“Almost certainly,” agreed Reaperneep ecstatically.

“But then,” mused Merisuwyniel, “the Ent-that-was-Broken would fall into the clutches of Môgul Bildûr, dooming Muddled Mirth for all eternity.”

“So?” said Reaperneep. “We’ll have met with a glorious death in battle!”

“If Môgul conquers the world, the Halls of Mantoes would be his as well,” replied Merisuwyniel. “Even in death we could not escape him.”

“Well, actually, I think that would be more of a problem for you,” said Orogarn Two with a certain smugness.

“What about me?” asked Kuruharan.

“Uhhh…” said Orogarn Two.

Suddenly the air was shattered by the savage battle cries of the orcs.

“LOL! u R lAMeERZ11!!! WE ROoLZzE!1!”

A regiment of the savage creatures sprang into view.

“U iZ giViN Uz EnT (sP?) or loL11 u r gIon dy!!111”

Merisuwyniel blinked uncomprehendingly at their attackers. “What?”

“ALl YouR bASE r BELong tO uZ LOL11!!!!11”

“Oh dear,” sighed Vogonwë. “I suppose this probably means that somebody set up us the bomb.”

A little to the side, Chrysophylax muttered something to Kuruharan. “I think it might be about time to use the Whistle. It would lend some meaning to post number 215.”

“What about post number 243?” asked Kuruharan.

“I think all hoped is lost,” answered Chrysophylax.

Without further ado, Kuruharan pulled out one small bundle he had acquired in post 215. Out of the bundle he pulled a little whistle. He set the whistle to his lips and blew a mighty blast. There was no sound and nothing happened. “Are you sure it worked?” asked the dragon. “No,” answered Kuruharan. “Quick, lemme up! We may need to make a quick exit from the story!” Just as the dwarf was climbing to his accustomed position, a dull rumble was heard in the distance.

Then came the horn.

“Oh, wait…” muttered Kuruharan. “I should have thought of this sooner…what if he’s been banned here too?”

“Too late,” hissed the dragon as an earthshaking barking erupted from somewhere nearby. The orcs stopped dead in their tracks.

“WhAz DaT!!!///?”

The orcs abruptly discovered that “DaT” was the sound of a pack of monstrously oversized, vicious, and bloodthirsty hounds who pounced upon them from above and went charging on toward the enemy camp, leaving a trail of gore and shattered limbs in their wake.

The horn sounded again, very near, and it shook the Don’tknowwhatthey’vestartedship to the ground. A figure of glittering scarlet and white flashed past at blinding speed, blasting deafening (but merry) notes on his horn. A few seconds later a group of stout fellows in pigtails and short red jackets went running past, wheezing and gasping like they were having a collective coronary.

“What in the name of my gem-encrusted toenail clippers was that?” demanded Leninia.

“Hornme the Foxhunter and his Magnificent Steed Har-har,” answered Kuruharan. He has hunted every thing from the Swine of Aha to the Bingos of Down Below.”

“But has he chased Electrons to and fro?” asked Pimpi.

“But I thought the Velour would not aid us,” said Merisuwyniel.

“He’s…different,” said Kuruharan. “Let’s go watch.”

The trail of shredded internal organs provided them with ample guidance to their destination. On a little knoll, a short distance from the appalling carnage (that I could not possibly describe on a family site) sat Hornme and Har-har themselves. Har-har was an incomparably dazzling specimen of cream-colored horseflesh (Merisuwyniel instantly wanted to go give him a good rubdown, the lucky stallion…). Seen at close range, the Messyship discovered that Hornme wore a funny little black cap, a gloriously scarlet jacket, shining white trousers, and impeccably shined jackboots. Under one arm he held a vicious looking riding crop and with his other hand he held a pair of golden field glasses. One could tell by looking at him that he contained all the haughtiness befitting his rank and station. He would speak with such noble disdain to every one, carry his nose so high (that the field glasses could more accurately be described as a periscope), strain his voice to such a pitch, assume so imperious an air, and gallop about with so much loftiness and pride (to say nothing of lack of regard for anybody else’s life or limb) that anyone who had the honor of addressing him would be seized by an irresistible urge to thrash him. His native power and his dogs invariably prevented such an outcome. He was also outrageously handsome so that most women were immoderately desirous to get their hands on him (at least until he opened his mouth). In his own eyes, he appeared to be the paragon of beauty. As can easily be imagined, his fellow Velour found him to be beyond insufferable and they’d packed him off to Muddled Mirth at the earliest available opportunity. Alas, those in Muddled Mirth had taken an ill view of his devastation of the land and wildlife and had recently sent him packing back to Valleyfornia. His attendants lay strewn about the feet of Har-har, all gasping fit to burst.

“Good show!!” he squawked at the top of his voice. “Rip out that large intestine!!”

The Gallowship looked upon the slaughter.

“I say, fellow,” bawled Hornme, rapping Orogarn Two on the top of his head with the riding crop. “Be a good chap and keep hold of Har-har while I go to inspect the damage!” With one final whack to the noggin punctuate the point, Hornme bounded out of the saddle and strode off into the mess. Har-har remained with a most disdainful air about his new handler. In the midst of the rout, the forces of Môgul finally remembered they had aerophants that would take them out of the range of these demented dogs and their deranged keeper. The ponderous pachyderms were packed with a polyglot parcel of pugnacious Dumbarians, orcs, and Loyers, all eager to escape the dogs and wreck ruin upon their assailants from on high. The surviving aerophants took to the sky and sped with winged speed upon the Gallowship.

“NOW WHAT?!!!” cried Merisuwyneil.

“Here,” yelled Kuruharan. “I picked these up in the Seventh Age.” He pulled a pair of long metal tubes and large stands out from the back of the wagon carrying the Ent-that-was-Broken. He set them up so that the tubes pointed toward the sky. He grabbed Vogonwë and shoved a smaller tube-shaped thing into the half-elf’s hands. “Jam these into the back end of the guns!” commanded Kuruharan.

“What’s a gun?” said Vogonwë.

“Just do it!” yelled Kuruharan, pulling out a funny looking helmet and goggles from his robes and putting them on his head. The ill-sorted pair readied their unbelievably anachronistic devices. Finally, they both grabbed a length of cord from the back of their respective thingies.

“READY!” cried Kuruharan. “FIRE!!”